#I have been meaning to make this for a while | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lonerslug · 2 days ago

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34+35+??

a/n: if ariana said "can you stay up all night? fuck me ‘til the daylight?" then i had no choice but to write 5 fics that left me dehydrated, limping, and spiritually transformed, bruh this fic took way too long. this post contains nothing but sickening smut, filthy filth, and hot women ruining me six different ways, every pairing is its own little porno novella. i made sure nobody goes home unsatisfied, so please hydrate, stretch, and turn your notifications off this is 10,000+ words of certified coochie combustion. yall have been warned ➤ MINORS DO 👏 NOT 👏 INTERACT ➤ scroll carefully, some of y’all can’t handle the grayson section ➤ reblogs and likes pls, i worked my clit off enjoy sluts 💌 —mama mila

pairings [SEPARATE]: sevika x reader, ambessa x reader, grayson x reader, vi x reader, caitlyn x reader

warnings... mdni ;; 18+ ;; nsfw ;; rough sex ;; dom/sub dynamics ;; oral ;; toys ;; overstimulation ;; degration ;; praise ;; body worship ;; size kink ;; straps ;; mommy kink ;; mirrors ;; cigarettes ;; orgasm control ;; fingering ;; marking ;; choking ;; hair pulling ;; slapping ;; gagging ;; titty sucking ;; age gaps (all legal) ;; spit play ;; possesiveness.

꒰ Sevika - baby, you might need a seatbelt when i ride it…

You wake up to her mouth already between your thighs.

It’s the softest kind of sinful. Blankets pushed down to your hips, sunrise sneaking through the blinds, and Sevika’s massive hands gripping your thighs like handles as she eats like she’s starving. Like this is breakfast. Like you’re hers.

You twitch when her tongue circles your clit again, sleep barely clinging to your body as she works you open. She's deliberate, slow, heavy licks, her nose brushing your mound as she hums against you. Your legs twitch once, twice.

"Morning, sweetheart," she rasps, lips slick and chin shiny as she peers up over your stomach. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You just looked too good.”

She kisses the inside of your thigh. Then bites it.

Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "Sevika!"

“Shh.” Her eyes are dark. “Back to sleep, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”

You’re already soaking, but she drags it out. Makes out with your pussy like it's your mouth —slow, tongue heavy, teasing your hole and sucking your clit between her lips until your hips buck off the bed. She laughs, low and smug.

“Already squirming?” she murmurs. “Barely been ten minutes. Thought you liked it slow in the mornings.”

"You're insane,” you hiss, fisting the sheets.

She shrugs, voice full of that cocky rasp. “You say that like it’s new.”

You whimper when her fingers join her tongue. Two thick digits, slow but deep, curling up with practiced precision. You swear she knows your body better than you do. She sets a rhythm that makes your thighs shake, tongue flattening over your clit while her fingers drag across your sweet spot like a perfect key.

The orgasm hits you so hard, your vision blurs.

She keeps going.

Doesn’t even let you come down. Licks through it like she lives for your overstimulation, like every whimper you let out is worth waking up for. She only pulls back when you tug her hair and sob out her name.

Your breath stutters. “ohh I can’t! ”

“You will,” she growls, eyes dark and gentle all at once. “One more, baby. Just one.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re folded in her lap in front of the mirror.

She’s got her strap inside you, big, thick, and black with a low curve that rubs perfectly. Her thighs are spread wide, muscles flexing beneath you as she makes you grind down on her cock slow and sloppy. The mirror reflects everything: your flushed cheeks, your soaked thighs, the way she grabs your ass and helps you bounce, your teary, fucked-out eyes blinking up at your own reflection.

“Look at that,” she purrs, one hand grabbing your jaw and turning it to the glass. “Takin’ it so good. So deep.”

"Too much," you pant. Your hips are trembling, thighs burning, and her strap is buried so deep. You’re full in a way that makes your stomach ache, the angle hitting all the right spots as your slick makes a mess across both your legs.

“Nah, you got room,” she rasps. "This pussy always knows how to make space for me."

Her arm wraps around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach to press you down. She grinds her hips up, feeding you more of the strap, and you nearly collapse when the tip bumps your cervix.

“Thought you said you wanted a seatbelt?” she teases, breath hot against your ear. “Where’s all that bratty energy now, huh?”

Your hands scramble against her thighs, fingers digging into her thick, muscled skin. She’s wearing nothing but a wife beater, sweatpants half-down her thighs, strap cinched so tight around her hips it creaks when she moves.

And she moves.

Bucks her hips up into you, holds your waist down and grinds until you’re gasping, legs shaking, nails leaving crescent marks on her skin. You can feel your orgasm building again, too fast and too deep, your stomach's already tight, eyes already glassy,

“Go ahead,” she murmurs. “Cream on it. You're doing soo well, baby.”

You wail as you come, whole body tensing in her arms as she fucks you through it.

꒰ Ambessa - show me can you keep it up? Cause then I'll have to keep you up,

You asked to be on top.

Ambessa laughed.

And now you're here, legs trembling, face flushed, mouth locked around her tit, while your soaked pussy grinds down onto her strap like your life depends on it.

Her hand spreads across your ass, massive and hot, guiding your movements as you try to ride her in rhythm. But you’re falling apart. Every bounce makes her cock grind deeper inside you, her pelvis pressing into your clit just enough to keep you constantly on the edge.

“You wanted to be in control,” she growls, tilting your chin. “Show me, baby. Show me you can keep it up.”

You moan around her nipple, lips wrapped tight, tongue flicking it in desperation. Her tit is heavy in your mouth, sweat-slick and perfect, and she groans when you suck harder, needier.

“Such a greedy little mouth,” she purrs, flexing her hips up. You whine as the strap hits deeper.

“mmh too big...”

“I know,” she smirks. “you begged for it.”

Her arms flex, muscles rippling beneath her skin, and suddenly she’s lifting you, not off the dick, but just enough to bounce you down harder. She does it like it’s nothing. Like you weigh less than the glass of wine she drank earlier.

Your thighs burn. Your hands grip her shoulders. You can't stop moaning into her chest, sucking her tit like it’s air, while she takes your hips and drives you down on her cock over and over again.

“Fuck, Ambessa m-mommy”

“Mmm. That’s more like it, little girl.”

She slaps your ass, not hard, commanding. “Such a sweet little mess. Look at you. Crying already, and we’ve barely started.”

“I can’t,”

“oh you will.”

you’re bent backwards on her gold-trimmed bed, throat dry, legs shaking, while she fucks you into the kind of submission that leaves your soul floating.

“Open your legs for mommy.”

You obey instantly. Her voice doesn’t allow disobedience. Ambessa kneels between your thighs, strap glistening from the last round, her lips glistening even more.

She goes slow this time.

Not because she’s being gentle, but because she enjoys watching you unravel. Her hands keep your legs spread wide, and her mouth... god, her mouth moves like she’s tasting the finest fruit in the empire. She hums, deep and low, like she owns your body and wants the world to hear it.

You writhe.

"Stay still," she warns. "or I’ll tie you down."

The threat makes you clench.

She chuckles. Then she spits on your pussy and dives back in.

You cum with a scream, thighs trembling so hard you nearly kick her in the face, but she holds you still, licking until you’re sobbing, too sensitive, too full,

She loves it.

“Poor thing,” she croons, rubbing your stomach. “so small. So easy to ruin.”

Eventually, you pass out.

For like... six minutes.

꒰ Grayson - you might think i’m crazy, the way i’ve been craving…

You’re in her lap. Her big, warm hands are resting on your thighs, just under your skirt, her mouth brushing the corner of your jaw.

She whispers against your skin. “You gonna tell me why you came here at midnight in something so short?”

You shift in her lap. It’s already hot between your legs. Her thigh is thick and firm beneath you, and you can feel her muscles move through her slacks when she shifts. Her hand glides to your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You gasp when she slips her thumb into your mouth.

“There,” she murmurs. “just like that, relax. You’re safe here.”

She kisses you. Full lips, gentle pressure, firm hold. You moan into her mouth, and she just drinks it in, one hand cupping your ass, the other sliding up your back beneath your shirt. Her fingers are calloused. Warm. She slides them up until they find your bra clasp and unhooks it like she’s done it a thousand times.

"Is this what you wanted, darling?" she whispers against your lips.

You nod frantically. “Please, I need —”

“I know,” she says softly, like she's soothing a fire. “Let me take care of you.”

Grayson sets you on her desk.

Pushes the reports aside, the polished nameplate, the pen you’d been chewing on earlier. Her hands go to your knees and part them like it’s nothing. Like you belong to her.

She sinks to her knees.

Your heart skips. You’ve seen this woman command entire divisions. She’s terrifying in a court, powerful in every room, and she’s kneeling in front of you like worship.

Your panties are already soaked.

She doesn’t even pull them down at first. She just presses her face into the damp fabric, nuzzling, inhaling. Her breath is hot through the cotton.

“So sweet,” she murmurs. “You’ve been wet since I called you ‘darling' earlier, haven’t you?”

You whimper. "mhmm yes ma'am."

She doesn’t make you beg long.

Her tongue is slow at first. Gentle. She kisses your inner thigh. Then licks you through your panties, long, slow, messy licks until you’re squirming and your hands are in her hair.

She slips your underwear down your legs and hums when she finally gets her mouth on you.

Her tongue moves like she’s memorising you. Circling your clit, pressing into your folds, curling up into your entrance just to tease. Her hands are on your hips, holding you still.

You start to cry when she moans into you.

It’s too much, too intimate, and when you sob out her name, she finally looks up. Her mouth is slick. Her eyes are kind.

"That's it. Let go. I've got you."

When she slides two fingers inside, it’s perfect.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just deep, slow, and careful. She watches your face the whole time. You can’t look away. She’s so beautiful like this, face flushed, sleeves rolled up, blue jacket still buttoned, hair mussed from where you gripped it.

She curls her fingers, presses her palm against your mound and drags her touch across that perfect spot inside you. You cry out, back arching. She doesn’t stop.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she murmurs. “I want to see your face when you come.”

And you do.

You fall apart on her fingers, thighs shaking, body quaking as her mouth claims your clit again and she keeps working you through it, gentle but relentless, dragging the orgasm out until your nails leave marks on her desk.

You don’t even realise she’s lifted you until you’re in her lap again, back against her chest.

Her fingers are still inside you, lazily fucking you as you twitch from overstimulation. Her other hand is on your chest, cupping your breast.

“Such a good girl,” she murmurs against your neck. “So good for me. You did so well.”

꒰ Vi - Got the neighbors yellin earthquake, 4.5 when I make the bed shake,

"Strip. Now."

You’re naked and on your knees in seconds, thighs already shaking in anticipation.

Vi pulls out the toy bag like it’s a ritual. Unzips it, slow and smug, and holds up the strap first —black, thick, and buzzing lowly in her palm. Your mouth drops.

"Remember this one, baby?" she grins. “The one that made you cry and drool last time?”

She climbs on the bed, already strapping in. The curve is perfect, the base buzzing quietly while she fastens it to her hips like a fucking weapon. She's not even undressed yet, just in that damn hoodie and those godforsaken gray sweats, letting her strap do the talking.

“You know the rules,” she says, licking her lips. “Color?”

“r-red,” you breathe, already throbbing.

She nods. “Good. You’re gonna need it.”

First, she ties your wrists.

Not tight, but enough to keep you still. Arms above your head, ankles spread by her hands as she crawls between your thighs, eyes burning.

“Missed this pussy,” she whispers. “Missed the way you taste when you’re desperate.”

Her mouth hits your cunt and you scream.

No teasing. No warm-up. She eats you like she’s starving, fast, messy, spit and tongue everywhere, her nose grinding your clit as she groans into you like she’s trying to leave a mark. You writhe, sobbing into the pillows, already close because she knows you. Knows how to lick, suck, fuck with her tongue and make your brain go blank.

You come in like 90 seconds. She doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

She just slides two fingers in, curling, rough, and holds you there while you writhe, overstimulated and crying into the mattress.

“Already?” she laughs. “You’re falling apart and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

When she flips you over, your thighs are trembling.

You’re on your back now, wrists tied above your head, legs open, and Vi between them with that strap angled just right. She holds a vibrator in one hand, silver, sleek, vicious.

She clicks it on. Presses it to your clit. You scream.

She smiles.

Then lines up the strap and slides in.

You didn’t know you could feel this full.

The dildo is thick and long, already vibrating inside you as she fucks in deep and slow. Your body arches off the bed, muscles tightening as she grinds her hips down, rolling the toy against every sweet spot inside you. The vibrator is still on your clit, held tight between you.

She’s fucking you into the mattress. Literally.

The bed frame bangs against the wall, once, twice, loud enough that the neighbor knocks from the other side.

“Vi, oh!” you gasp.

She laughs. "Let ‘em hear," she grunts. “Let ‘em know who fucks you this good.”

Your orgasm hits like a truck. You go stiff, back bowing, a cry ripping from your throat as you clench around the vibrating strap and the toy makes your clit throb. Vi watches the whole thing, smirking, sweating, thrusting through your release like she’s on a mission.

Then she turns the vibrator up. Another level.

You sob. “No no no I can’t Vi, please!”

She leans over you, breath hot, one hand wrapping lightly around your throat as she slows the thrusts to deep, grinding pushes.

“You can,” she purrs. “You’ll give me one more. I know you will. You’re my good little mess, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, tears falling, thighs twitching as she forces another orgasm from your wrung-out body.

You scream again when you come. She kisses your open mouth, still fucking deep and slow, like she wants you ruined for anyone else.

꒰ Caitlyn - You such a dream come true, true. make a bitch wanna hit snooze, ooh

Her accent is worse than the teasing. Worse than the lingerie she bought you, white lace, half-off, thin and already soaked. Worse than the mirror showing every inch of your shame, flushed cheeks, trembling thighs, the way your cunt clenches nothing when she so much as grazes your skin.

"Eyes up," she commands softly. "I want you to watch yourself fall apart."

She touches you like it’s a lesson in patience.

No rush. Just long strokes over your stomach. A kiss behind your ear. Her hand sliding between your thighs and resting there. Not rubbing. Not moving.

“Desperate already?” she muses. “So needy for my fingers. Or is it just the sound of my voice?”

You nod, frantic. “n-need you”

She hums. “Manners.”

“Please, Miss Kiramman.”

She smiles. That smile. Dangerous. Rich. Full of pride and ownership.

“Good girl.”

The first touch is electric.

Her fingers press against your clit, slow circles that drag a whimper from your throat. Your legs twitch. She holds you still with one hand at your lower back, the other teasing your entrance without giving you what you want.

"So responsive," she murmurs. “I could do this all night.”

And she does.

She edges you. Brings you close, then pulls away. Toys with your nipples, mouth warm and wet, tongue swirling slowly as her fingers sink inside you, just enough to make your thighs shake. Not enough to let you come.

Over and over. You sob. You beg. Your knees give out.

Caitlyn just tilts your face up to the mirror again.

"See that? That’s what I do to you.”

You finally break when she pulls out the vibrator.

Small. Silver. Discreet. She turns it on and presses it to your clit with precision, holding it just right while two fingers slide back in. Your whole body convulses.

"oh Cait, please I can’t!"

She clicks her tongue. “You’ll come when I say, not before.”

You’re sobbing.

She kisses your cheek. “You’re like a dream come true, darling.”

Your orgasm hits when she lets it.

She leans down, voice velvet against your ear. “Now, my love.”

Your body shatters. You scream, legs twitching, tears streaking your cheeks as she works you through it, vibrator still on, fingers slow and loving, her lips murmuring praise into your neck.

"That’s it. That’s my girl. So perfect for me."

reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @georgiahs-stuff @shanesevikasfuckdoll @illbecanon @sevikas-whore @barelykiramman @sapphicstrawcore @sevikaswinkinghole @riotstemple29 @amri0ram @yuripilledfemme @mommyissuesismypersonality @butchpuppyy @shxdy0ariia @kousanosgf @lucidfairies

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innorality · 21 hours ago

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cw// unprotected

it felt so good.

it really did—the way clark was fucking into you with all he had, the way you could feel his cock twitch inside you everytime it hit that deep spot inside, the way he transferred his warmth to you... it felt really, really fucking good.

but it wasn't enough.

you could barely feel it, but you knew it was there, and it was unbearable.

you had been off the pill for a few weeks, and the both of you had agreed on wearing a condom because the responsibility of having a child is not something either of you wanted to worry about right now. and, truth be told, he was right! but you guys had done it raw before. you had felt his cum filling your womb up before, felt its warmth inside you.

you've had it before and you were craving it.

so back to right now, with him fucking you like there was no tomorrow. he was particularly needy today, something about league frustrating or something—you didn't really have the time to understand his explanation before he pounced on you.

"fuh... sweetie you– you feel so good I... I'm so happy you're here... so fucking happy." he babbled endlessly while you couldn't even focus on what he was saying, the snap of his hips knocking the thoughts out of you.

but still, something was missing.

and of course, clark noticed it. "you're not... you're not like usual, is– shit, is something wrong, sweetie?" you looked away from him for a moment, before biting your lip. "pull out." you instructed simply and he immediately stopped.

his eyes studied your face for any pain or discomfort, and he even used his x-ray vision to look inside your cunt, worried he might have hurt you. "pull out," you repeated, less stern this time, and he obeyed. he looked so distressed, his hands immediately rubbing at your sides to ease whatever was wrong.

"d-did I do something wrong? I'm so sorry, baby, I didn't mean to, i swear– i—" and his apology was cut extremely short when you reached out, wrapping your hand around his base (that made him hiss a bit) and slowly rolling the condom off.

"what are you..." he seemed puzzled, his eyes following your hand when you threw the condom away and the looking back at you with the most confused look he could've ever given you.

he's so cute, you thought.

"c'mon, clark," you wiggled your hips impatiently, "fuck me." and his eyes almost rolled out of their sockets. "but the–" "don't think about the condom. c'mon, farm boy, fuck me raw."

and he knew it wasn't the first time you guys had done it raw. he knew it didn't make that much of a difference. he knew he was supposed to last.

but when he bottomed out again, knowing that the both of you were actually bare, actually melted together—knowing the actual intimacy of it all—he couldn't help himself.

he came.

his entire body clenched and his jaw went slack, calling out your name like it would be the only thing to bring him back to reality. but his reality felt distant, shattered. the only thing that mattered was the sensation of your warm gummy walls around him, and the sound of his cum spilling inside of you, almost sneaking into your womb.

at the sight of him finishing, at the sensation of his bare skin inside you, you couldn't help but finish too. your cunt spasmed and clenched around his dick as an attempt to milk even more cum from him, your abs tightening suddenly. you threw your head back and you body twitched as if it wanted to escape from the pleasure, but there was no escaping.

when poor clark felt you orgasm around him, his own orgasm intensified—his mouth opened wider and his moans turned into whimpers, body shaking completely and his chest muscles flexing. his body needed more release, it needed to cool down...

that was something you wished you knew when you saw his heat vision activate because of the intense feeling, his eyes lasering through the ceiling.

it didn't last very long, not long enough for him to notice anyways, and when everything stopped—became too much to bear—he collapsed on top of you, his cock slipping out of you softly.

the both of you panted against eachother, sharing breaths.

"I thought... I thought superman would be able to last a little longer..." you teased and he playfully pinched your side. "I wasn't... mentally prepared for that, thank you very much." you giggled as he slid off you, flopping on his back next to you. he squints, "what's that on the ceiling?" "oh yeah, you gotta explain something to me, clark."

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sosa2imagines · 3 days ago

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We are in this together...

Warning- Angst, martial problems, assault at workplace, mean boss, miscommunication.

You never imagined that love could feel like this.

Raw, tender, and yet so fleetingly out of reach. The first six months of your relationship with Bucky had been nothing short of magical. He was sweet, attentive, and utterly devoted. When he proposed, it felt like your heart had found its forever home. Marriage only strengthened that bond, and for the first year, life together was a dream.

After every mission, Bucky would come straight home, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips as he saw you waiting for him. He’d sweep you into his arms, murmuring how much he missed you. The nights would be filled with whispered stories of his day, and the mornings with lazy kisses.

But then, something changed.

At first, it was subtle. One night, instead of coming home after a mission, Bucky texted, “Gonna hang with the team for a bit. See you tomorrow, doll.”

You smiled at the message, reminding yourself that he’d had a rough few weeks. Surely, he deserved some time with the team. When he came home the next day, you greeted him with open arms, brushing aside the faint sting of his absence.

But it didn’t stop there.

Every mission began to follow the same pattern, a quick text, a brief explanation, and days spent waiting for his return. He’d still come back eventually, wrapping you in his familiar warmth, but the rhythm of your lives had shifted.

The bed felt colder without him. Dinners grew quieter. You found yourself pacing the living room, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for an update.

When you finally gathered the courage to ask him about it gently and carefully, he dismissed your concern with a frustrated sigh.

“I just need some time to unwind with the team, alright? You’re making this into a bigger deal than it is!”

The sharpness in his tone cut deeper than you expected.

So, you stopped asking.

You told yourself it was okay, that this was just a phase. He needed space, and you wanted to respect that. But the loneliness crept in like a cold draft, and you couldn’t ignore it.

The worst part was that no one else seemed to notice. At the compound, the team talked about how happy and in love you both were. Natasha teased Bucky about how eager he always seemed to get home to you.

You wanted to laugh at the irony.

You didn’t tell them the truth. Not because you didn’t trust them, but because you didn’t know how to put it into words. How could you explain that the man who once couldn’t wait to be by your side now seemed so distant?

One night, after waiting for hours, you curled up on the couch, his favorite blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The television buzzed faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching.

You stared at your phone, willing it to light up with a message. Anything. But the silence stretched on.

When Bucky finally walked through the door the next day, you greeted him with a soft smile, hiding the hurt deep within your chest. You didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to push him further away.

“Hey doll…” he said, dropping his bag by the door.

“Hey…” you replied, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart.

And so the cycle continued.

The cracks in your marriage weren’t gaping fissures, they were small, subtle fractures that had begun to quietly chip away at everything you’d built together.

Bucky had been so adamant about having a home, just the two of you. You’d offered to live in the compound, even reassured him that you didn’t mind being surrounded by the team. You loved them like family, and the energy of the compound had always made you feel safe.

But he’d been resolute, “I want a place that’s ours, doll. Somewhere quiet, away from the chaos.”

You’d smiled at his determination, thinking it was sweet. You didn’t need the white picket fence or the quaint suburban dream, but if it made him happy, it made you happy.

For a while, it did.

But now, it felt like you were living in a shell of a dream.

Bucky didn’t realize how hollow the house felt when he wasn’t there. How the silence pressed down on you like a weight. You spent your days going through the motions, trying to fill the void he left behind after every mission.

And it wasn’t just his absence, it was the loneliness that followed you everywhere, even when he was home. He didn’t ask about your day anymore, didn’t notice the way your shoulders slumped or how you fidgeted with your hands when you were nervous.

The one person you’d always relied on was slowly slipping away from you.

You thought about bringing it up again, about telling him how you felt. But the memory of his irritation the last time held you back. You didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to seem needy or clingy. So, you buried your feelings, telling yourself that this was just a rough patch.

Meanwhile, work was becoming a nightmare.

Your boss had started making comments. Offhand, seemingly harmless, but enough to make your skin crawl. A hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment too long. Compliments that felt less like appreciation and more like something sinister.

You wanted to tell Bucky. You wanted to see the fire in his eyes, the way his protective instinct would flare up whenever he thought someone was mistreating you.

But he wasn’t there.

When he did come home, his mind was elsewhere. You’d try to start a conversation, but his replies were curt, distracted. He’d drop into bed with a heavy sigh, barely sparing you a glance before falling asleep.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, you knew he did. But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten how to show it.

And you couldn’t blame him entirely.

You saw the way his face lit up when he talked about the team, about the camaraderie they shared after a successful mission. It was the kind of joy that used to fill your home, too.

You wondered if he missed his bachelorhood, those carefree days of laughter and bonding with his friends. Maybe he didn’t realize how much he’d given up when he chose this life with you. Maybe he regretted it.

The thought clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask him.

So, you stayed quiet.

You carried the weight of your days alone, retreating further into yourself. You told yourself you didn’t want to burden him, that he had enough on his plate. But deep down, you were terrified of what his answer might be if you asked him outright.

“Are you happy with me? With us?”

The house was no longer a home. It was a waiting room, a place where you counted the hours and days until he came back, only to feel lonelier when he did.

You stood in the kitchen one evening, staring at the untouched plate of food on the table. Your appetite had long since disappeared, replaced by a gnawing ache that no amount of distraction could soothe.

The sound of the front door opening startled you. Bucky walked in, his hair damp from the rain, his expression tired.

“Hey.” he said, barely glancing your way. He dropped his bag by the door and headed to the bedroom without another word.

You didn’t follow him.

Instead, you sank into the nearest chair, your head in your hands. The weight of everything you’d been holding inside finally broke through, tears spilling silently down your cheeks.

The worst part wasn’t that he didn’t see you crying.

The worst part was that he didn’t even notice.

The compound buzzed with life, laughter echoing through the halls as the team celebrated yet another successful mission. For Bucky, this had become his sanctuary, a place where he could unwind, shed the weight of his past, and lose himself in the camaraderie of his friends.

Natasha sat across from him, swirling a glass of wine, her sharp eyes trained on him. She noticed the way he laughed at Sam’s jokes, how relaxed he seemed, but something felt off.

“Where’s Y/n?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the chatter.

Bucky blinked, momentarily caught off guard, “She’s fine. At home.” He shrugged.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, “Alone?”

He waved her off, “She’s okay. She likes her space.”

Natasha didn’t buy it, “You’ve been here more than usual, Barnes. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze, “It’s fine, Nat. Don’t make it a thing.”

She narrowed her eyes but let it drop for now.

Meanwhile, at your workplace, everything fell apart.

Your boss’s behavior had been escalating, his comments growing bolder, his touches more invasive. You’d tried to ignore it, to handle it on your own, but today he crossed the line.

He cornered you in the break room, his hands gripping your arms as he leaned in too close, his breath hot and disgusting against your skin.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

Panic surged through you, but you fought back. Your hand found the edge of your laptop, and without thinking, you swung it at him, the sharp crack of plastic and metal connecting with his head echoing in the room.

He stumbled back, cursing, calling you slut and many other things but you ran.

Your feet carried you to the one place you thought you’d be safe.

The compound.

The drive was a blur, your heart pounding in your chest as tears blurred your vision. All you wanted was your husband, his arms around you, his voice telling you it was going to be okay.

But when you arrived, your world shattered all over again.

Through the large windows of the common room, you saw them. Bucky, relaxed and laughing, a drink in his hand. He was surrounded by the team, but your eyes locked on the young trainee leaning too close to him, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed at something he said.

Your breath hitched.

You’d never doubted Bucky’s loyalty, but seeing him like this, so carefree, so oblivious to the storm inside you, broke something in you.

You froze, rooted to the spot as the trainee leaned in, clearly flirting, her hand lingering on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t push her away, though he didn’t encourage her either. He just let it happen, a small smile tugging at his lips as he sipped his drink.

Your chest tightened, the air around you feeling suffocating. This wasn’t the man who used to race home to you after every mission, who couldn’t wait to tell you how much he missed you.

You turned and ran.

Back home, the silence welcomed you like an old friend. You stumbled into the bathroom, your clothes still clinging to you as you sank to the shower floor. The cold tiles bit into your skin, but you didn’t care. You turned the water on, letting it cascade over you, freezing and unrelenting.

The tears came in waves, the events of the day crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Your boss’s vile hands, the fear that gripped you, the look on Bucky’s face as he laughed with his team, it was too much.

You wrapped your arms around your knees, your sobs lost in the rush of water.

Back at the compound, Natasha had had enough. She watched the trainee closely, her sharp instincts picking up on every calculated move she made toward Bucky.

When the girl leaned in again, Natasha’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “That’s enough!”

The trainee blinked, startled, “What? I wasn’t…”

“Out!” Natasha ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The trainee stammered something, but Natasha’s glare silenced her.

“You’re done here. Pack your things and leave the compound by tomorrow.”

Steve watched the exchange, his brows furrowed. Once the trainee scurried off, he turned to Bucky, “What the hell, Buck? You didn’t think that was inappropriate?”

Bucky shrugged, clearly annoyed, “It’s not a big deal. I wasn’t flirting back.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, “It is a big deal. You’re married. What the hell is going on with you?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “I’d never cheat on her, Steve. You know that. She knows that.”

But Steve wasn’t convinced, “Does she? Because from where I’m standing, you’re barely around to remind her.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t respond.

Neither Steve nor Natasha knew just how deep the damage had already gone.

The days blurred into a haze of hollow routines and sleepless nights. You’d managed to get through the aftermath of your boss’s attack in one piece, but the scars it left on your mind and heart were harder to ignore.

It was Tony who first noticed something was wrong. You hadn’t intended to tell him, but when he called to check in on you, his usual playful tone laced with genuine concern and you broke.

Between sobs, you told him everything.

The line went silent for a moment, and then his voice came through, steady but seething with anger, “Pack your things. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Tony, no. I can’t…”

“Sweetheart…” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “You’re family. Do you hear me? Family. And no one gets to treat my family like that.”

The next day, Tony and Pepper arrived at your doorstep. You were still raw, trembling as you recounted the incident in more detail. Pepper wrapped you in a warm hug, her soft words of comfort threatening to break down the walls you’d built around yourself.

“We’ll get you out of there.” she promised, her hand stroking your hair, “You don’t have to go back.”

Tony, true to his word, handled everything. He contacted your company’s HR department, made sure your resignation was swift and final, and ensured your former boss faced the consequences of his actions.

Pepper offered you a job at Stark Industries, something she said would align perfectly with your skills. But you hesitated.

“I can’t… I don’t want to burden you…” you said, wringing your hands.

Tony rolled his eyes, though his expression softened, “Burden? You’re like my sister, Y/n. You don’t ‘burden’ me. Now, take the damn job, or I’ll be forced to invent one just to keep you around.”

His words tugged at your heart, but you made them promise one thing, “Don’t tell Bucky. Please.”

Tony’s jaw tightened at your request, but he nodded reluctantly, “Fine. But only because you asked. He doesn’t deserve you keeping this from him, though.”

Unbeknownst to you, Tony confided in Natasha, unable to shake the worry gnawing at him. The moment she heard what had happened, her eyes flashed with fury.

“She doesn’t want him to know?” Natasha asked, pacing Tony’s workshop.

“Apparently not.” Tony replied, leaning against his desk, “And judging by the way Barnes has been acting lately, I can’t blame her.”

Natasha’s lips thinned. She vowed to keep your secret but decided to keep an even closer eye on Bucky.

Meanwhile, you tried to piece your life back together. You took the job with Pepper, though it felt like every step forward was weighed down by the nightmares that now plagued your nights.

The dreams were vivid, cruel reenactments of the attack. In them, you weren’t fast enough, weren’t strong enough. You’d wake up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, your hands trembling as you clutched the sheets.

You wanted to reach for Bucky, to feel his arms around you, to hear him tell you it was just a dream. But the bed beside you was empty.

Most nights, you stayed awake, unable to face the terror that waited for you in sleep. You buried yourself in work, trying to keep your mind occupied, but the exhaustion weighed heavily on you.

Bucky’s absence only made it worse.

He came home occasionally, offering you a distracted kiss on the cheek or a tired smile before retreating to the bedroom. He didn’t notice the dark circles under your eyes or the way your hands shook when you handed him a cup of coffee.

You tried to hide it, plastering on a brave face whenever he was around. But the weight of carrying it all alone was crushing.

One night, after yet another nightmare, you sat on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. The silence of the house was deafening, pressing down on you like a suffocating fog.

You thought about calling Natasha or even Tony, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to remind them of how weak you felt.

So, you swallowed the pain and carried on, day after day, night after night. But inside, you were unraveling.

The knock on your door was unexpected. You hesitated for a moment before opening it to find Natasha standing there, her sharp green eyes scanning you with concern.

“Hey, love.” she said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, “You didn’t answer my texts.”

You’d forgotten. Your phone had been buried under a pile of papers for days, silenced to avoid the world.

“Sorry, I’ve been… busy…” you mumbled, brushing a hand through your disheveled hair.

Natasha’s gaze swept over you, taking in the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, and the slight tremor in your hands. Her expression softened, and she gently placed a hand on your arm, “Tony told me...”

Your stomach dropped. You turned away, the shame curling in your chest like a vice, “Nat, I…”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, her voice steady but kind, “Your secret’s safe. I’m not here to push you, but I am here to help.”

The dam broke. You sank onto the couch, tears spilling down your cheeks as you finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. Natasha sat beside you, her presence steady and grounding, letting you cry without judgment.

When the tears subsided, she spoke, “You’ve been carrying this alone for too long. You don’t have to, Y/n. Let me help you.”

With her encouragement, you agreed to see a therapist she trusted, someone discreet, someone who understood the unique struggles of those close to the Avengers.

The sessions were hard, each one peeling back layers of pain you’d buried deep. But for the first time in weeks, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Natasha stayed in close contact, checking in on you regularly. She didn’t push, didn’t pry, but her quiet support was a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

Meanwhile, Bucky returned from his latest mission, tired but in high spirits. He dropped his bag in the common room, greeted by the usual banter from the team.

But Steve wasn’t smiling.

“Hey, Buck. Got a minute?” Steve’s tone was calm, but his eyes were serious.

Bucky shrugged, “Sure, what’s up?”

Steve led him to one of the quieter corners of the compound, his arms crossed as he faced his best friend, “Why don’t you go home anymore?”

Bucky blinked, surprised by the question, “What are you talking about? I go home.”

“Not after missions. You stay here, hanging out with us, but you never invite Y/n. And when you do go home, it’s for a day or two at most.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, his defenses rising, “She doesn’t mind. She likes her space.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, “Does she? Or is that just what you tell yourself so you don’t feel guilty?”

Bucky frowned, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face before he brushed it aside. “Steve, it’s not a big deal. She knows I’m not going anywhere. She’s fine.”

“Is she?” Steve pressed, his voice rising slightly, “Because I don’t think you’ve even noticed what’s going on with her. You’re so caught up in the team, in reliving your ‘bachelor days,’ that you’ve completely forgotten what it means to be a husband.”

The words hit Bucky like a punch to the gut, but he masked it with irritation, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve stepped closer, his blue eyes sharp, “Don’t I? Y/n was willing to live here in the compound, to be part of this chaos with you. But you wanted the house, the space, the life you said you both deserved. And now, you’re the one ignoring it.”

Bucky looked away, his jaw clenched, “I’m not ignoring her. I just… I need this, Steve. The missions, the team, it’s the only thing that makes me feel normal.”

Steve sighed, his voice softening, “I get that, Buck. I really do. But you’re not the only one in this marriage. You made a commitment to her. And right now, you’re breaking it.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unyielding.

Bucky didn’t respond, his thoughts swirling. Deep down, he knew Steve was right. But admitting it was another thing entirely.

At home, you sat by the window, staring out at the darkened street. Natasha’s words echoed in your mind, urging you to take things one step at a time. But as the days stretched on and the nights grew colder, the loneliness crept in again.

You wondered if Bucky even noticed you were gone, not just physically, but emotionally.

And for the first time, you wondered if he ever would.

The thought struck Bucky out of nowhere during breakfast at the compound. He realized he hadn’t been to your workplace in months, hadn’t seen where you spent your days or even asked how things were going. Guilt prodded at him. He decided to surprise you, to make amends for all the time he’d been away.

Pulling up to your old workplace, he entered with a small smile, half-expecting to see your familiar face light up at the sight of him. But as he approached the reception desk and asked for you, the receptionist gave him a puzzled look.

“Y/n? She doesn’t work here anymore.”

Bucky blinked, stunned, “What do you mean? When did she quit?”

The receptionist shrugged, “A couple of weeks ago, I think. You’d have to check with HR.”

Bucky left in a daze, the receptionist’s words looping in his mind. You’d quit? Why hadn’t you told him? Where were you working now?

What happened to you, that he missed so much? Was he really that absent?

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loveinhawkins · 2 days ago

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ao3

Steve can’t really blame Robin for forgetting her trumpet: they’ve been chatting the whole ride to school like normal, and Spring Break is fast approaching, excitement in the air—so infectious that Steve feels it too, like he’s still at school, like Robin’s anticipation is partly his own.

They barely stop talking for long enough to draw breath; it’s a surprise to them both when Hawkins High comes into view, and Robin has to take her seatbelt off in a hurry, climbing out and rushing through, “So yeah, I’ll keep you updated and—yeah, yeah, my work stuff’s in my bag, okay, see you later, loveyoubye!”

Steve realises the trumpet is still in the backseat as he’s pulling out of the parking lot. He stops, honks his horn, but it’s too late: Robin must’ve already gone inside. Several students look over at the noise, but no-one Steve really knows; Claudia is dropping Dustin off today, but he can’t see any trace of him, otherwise he would’ve…

He does another quick scan—spots one familiar face at the last second.

Yeah, he thinks, you’ll do.

He twists in his seat to pick up the trumpet case and opens the passenger door.

“Hey, Munson!” Eddie’s a couple feet away; it seems like he’s kicked the habit of hardly ever showing up to homeroom. He just looks at Steve, like he’s faintly baffled, so Steve feels the need to tack on, “It’s Steve. Steve Harrington?”

That does the trick: Eddie shakes his head as if Steve’s just said something completely pointless.

“Yeah, no shit.” He heads over to Steve’s car and cocks his head at the case. “Are you trying to uh, trade? I’m cash only, Harrington.”

“Ha ha,” Steve says flatly. “No, it’s—you know Robin, right? She’s in your year.” At Eddie’s blank look, he adds, “Robin Buckley,” trying not to sound judgemental. It’s just now that he knows her, he can’t imagine how it’s possible for anyone to not know her. It’s Robin.

Eddie glances at the case again; the penny must drop, because he says, “Oh. Yeah, duh, she’s the one in band? Fluent in, like, everything?”

Steve smiles. “That’s her.” He hands the case over. “Thanks, man, she’s gonna freak when she realises she doesn’t have it. They’re practicing for the game, so—”

“Swiftest of deliveries, got it,” Eddie says, and he actually manages a little salute while holding the trumpet case.

Steve almost laughs.

He doesn’t think any more on the exchange until he’s picking Robin up again. He’s temporarily locked Family Video—what Keith doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Thank God he’s out of town for Spring Break; Steve’s counting down the days. A whole week of just him and Robin, and whatever movies they want to throw on and enthuse about. He’s already picked out his choices, though he still needs to check if the store has them or if he should go through the tapes he’s got at home.

He brings out a notepad from the glovebox and scrawls a reminder to do just that before he sees Robin walking out of school, trumpet case swinging by her side.

She spots his car without him needing to use the horn—claps her free hand to her forehead, and he shakes his head, smiling. It’s a gesture they keep doing at each other, especially when making mistakes at work, getting more and more stupidly exaggerated each time. Then she switches to a thumbs up which Steve returns enthusiastically with both hands, as she opens the door to the backseat and puts the case back inside the car.

“Glad the delivery was successful,” he says, craning his neck to try and meet her eye.

“Yeah, it—” The clunk of the door being shut, soon followed by Robin opening the passenger door and sliding in, still talking, “—was all good, I just, um—ooh, you have gum in here! Great, thanks—what was I—? Oh yeah, I think I confused him?”

“You confused him?” Steve echoes with amusement: an incontrovertible fact of Hawkins High is Eddie Munson’s talent for confusing other people.

“I didn’t mean to! It’s just—okay so, he showed up, like, ten minutes into first period, but you know how Taylor’s stressing about the pronunciation of—basically Rebecca said fam-eel instead of fam-ee—”

“Quelle horreur,” Steve interjects wryly.

Robin snorts, then nods in approval. “Très bien, see, you sound great! But, like, poor Rebecca, she lost her shit—Miss Taylor, I mean, though Rebecca was—anyway, the point is Taylor’s so incredibly strict about talking in French the whole time. I mean, the whole time.”

“The whole time, got it,” Steve says as he reverses out the parking lot. “Wait, the whole time? What if—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, I guarantee you Taylor doesn’t care. Unless someone’s actually dying, and even then—”

“Okay, but what if there’s—like, what if someone’s gotta get pulled out of class—”

“No-one interrupts Miss Taylor,” Robin says gravely. “No-one has dared try.”

Steve starts to grin. “I see where this is—”

“So, Eddie Munson—Taylor always shuts the door but I see him coming, and he’s, like, looking through the window, and I’m trying to wave without being obvious about it so Taylor doesn’t murder me, and I guess I don’t do it great ‘cause he’s looking at me like…”

There’s a pause. Steve huffs a laugh, knowing that Robin’s probably doing a not all that faithful interpretation of what Eddie looked like.

“Rob,” Steve says patiently, managing a brief side glance, “I’m driving.”

“Right, okay, basically he looked like he thought I needed medical attention. And then he’s lifting up my trumpet case, and I’m trying to, like, signal with my eyes like, yay, great! Please just leave it outside the door if you wanna get out alive, but he doesn’t get it, so he knocks and Taylor. Just. Goes. Silent.”

“Ouch,” Steve says. He knows that type of silence well—thinks namely of Mr Mundy’s ire whenever he showed up late to math.

“And Eddie opens the door, and Taylor just speaks the most rapid French at him, and he basically does the world’s most startled mime act, like, pointing at the case then at me, and he’s got these eyes, Steve—”

“Woah, he has eyes? Hadn’t noticed.”

“—that are just begging you for help. And I’m trying to talk for him, in French, obviously, but I’m trying to widen my eyes like, dude, leave, but he just looks even more confused, but then it must click ‘cause he stammers out Bonjour, and Taylor’s staring him down, it’s so—”

“Sounds painful.”

“I mean, it was kinda worth it in the end.”

Steve chuckles. “Really? How?”

“A: I got my trumpet. And B…” There’s a giggle rising in Robin’s voice as she says, “Eddie Munson might not know much French, but he does know how to say Monsieur Harrington.”

“Bullshit, he didn’t say that.”

Silence, quickly broken by Robin’s hiccuping laughter—which, of course, means Steve starts laughing, too. Much later, he’ll recall just how much he smiled; how he told himself he didn’t quite know why.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes!” Robin says. It’s more of a squeak. “He even tried to make your name sound French, oh my God, I can’t breathe—”

“I mean, doesn’t it sound pretty French already?” Steve says, already planning how he can keep this going; maybe he’ll steal Robin’s beret when she isn’t looking. “Don’t I have that je ne sais quoi?”

“Oh, you are so corny, it’s unb—and don’t act like you don’t know it’s all anyone would talk about after, the whispers.” Robin’s voice rises comically. “Did he say Harrington? As in Steve, Steve Harrington? Oh, my cousin was in his year, he’s so—”

“Shut up,” Steve says fondly. Then, faux smug, “Told you I’m still cool.”

They’re stuck behind a little build up of traffic, just before the turn off to Family Video—and just as Robin starts to reply, she cuts herself off.

Steve gives her another sidelong glance. She’s trying to slide down in her seat.

“… What are you doing?”

“Shh, Steve, he’s right there!”

“Who’s right—oh.”

Eddie Munson must be walking home today, because there he is on the sidewalk. He’s not noticed them, he’s just readjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder.

Robin keeps wriggling.

Steve snorts. “Jeez, what’re you so scared of? He’s not gonna turn you to stone.” He thinks about it. “Well, actually, there was that one time where—but that’s just ‘cause one of the Murphy twins freaked at—”

“I’m not scared, I’m just mortified, Steve! I’ve basically ruined his life.”

“Uh-huh, totally. Look at him over there, that’s a broken man, all right.”

The traffic starts to move.

“Oh no,” Robin says. “Oh no, no, no.”

Steve grins mischievously. “I’m gonna say hi.”

Robin sounds like he’s just suggested they go rob a bank. “Steve, don’t you dare—”

“What? I like honking the horn, sue me!”

Which is true: whenever he stumbles upon one of the kids—when he’s not actually giving them rides—he loves seeing their reactions when they spot his car. He’s still got a warm glow from passing by Dustin and his mom on his way to work at the weekend, their enthusiastic waves.

They catch up to Eddie, and Steve sounds the horn in a short rhythmic group of three, like a little song.

He glances over in time to see Eddie’s eyes widen in recognition, a red flush creep up his neck. His hand lifts and hovers in the air like he doesn’t know whether to commit to a full wave or not.

Robin, evidently still panicking, winds down the window. She shouts wildly into the wind, “Merci!”

Steve makes it to the parking lot before he loses it.

“Merci?” he wheezes with laughter, as Robin frantically slaps him in the chest. “Merci?”

“I panicked!”

“Oh my God, really? No-one would know.”

“He’s gonna think I’m a total—”

“Freak?” Steve cackles. Robin socks him in the arm. “Ow!”

“That did not hurt. Ugh, maybe—maybe he didn’t know it was me?” A beat. “Steve.”

“Oh, sorry, didn’t realise you wanted me to lie to you.”

This time Steve avoids the punch, gets out the car and retrieves Robin’s work vest from the back. He tosses it to her over the roof of the car, shakes his head with exasperated affection.

“Rob, seriously, relax. Eddie Munson’s probably just praying he never sees us again.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Oh, well, in that case.”

But she does relax as she puts on her vest; she’s already enthusing about the movies they’ll watch over Spring Break by the time Steve unlocks the front door.

“You need to pick some, too, Steve.”

“Dude, I have a whole list, it’s in the car.”

“Très bien, Monsieur Harrington.”

“Jesus.” Steve scoffs. “Was that supposed to be an impression?”

“No! Eddie was more like…” Robin does an incredibly odd movement with her jaw, as if preparing herself.

Steve flinches back in mock horror. “Oh my God! Never mind.”

“Now, Monsieur Harrington—”

“Uh, no. That is not becoming a nickname.”

“Pass me those tapes, please.”

“No.”

“Whatever you say… Monsieur Harrington.”

“Robin,” Steve says, breaking again into laughter—and the sight of Eddie Munson so obviously blushing gently drifts to the back of his mind. “Ta gueule!”

#pre s4 but so close to it #Robin and Steve should be allowed to talk and laugh in the car forever #a moment of bittersweet silence for the spring break they envisaged #steve and robin fic #pre steddie #steddie fic #steddie #steve and robin #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #robin buckley #steve x eddie #eddie munson

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azullumi · 3 days ago

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“WE NEVER GO OUT OF STYLE !!” : A Study in Love Confessions, Childhood Friendships, and the Emotional Aftermath of Saying Too Much (or Not Enough) ft. PHAINON

PREMISE — For as long as you can remember, it’s always been just the two of you—best friends, partners-in-crime, in your own little world. Oh, and your feelings for him... those inconvenient, stupid, all-consuming feelings you’ve sworn to keep buried forever. What you don’t know is that he’s been doing the exact opposite — dropping hints, making moves, trying (and failing) to confess before you catch on. So when the annual sports festival rolls around and you've found that you’re both on the same team, the universe finally decides to stir the pot.

ALTERNATIVELY, put two emotionally constipated idiots in love in the same room and let them fail, flail, pine, and maybe... win.

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS — FEATURING: phainon (w/ gn!reader) | highschool!au, written with filipino highschools in mind, childhood friends, popular student!phainon, experimental writing style, formatted like a research paper, use of various tropes, sports festival, astral express as your annoying friend group, fluff, (mutual) pining, slowburn with feelings, phainon the hopeless romantic, banter, a little bit of crack, references to various media content, jealousy, cursing, phainon confesses first, he runs away and you chase him, not proofread | WC: 10.4k (it's worth it i swear)

DIRECTOR NOTES — i dont know what happened but here you go. DISCLAIMBER: The research paper about this fic itself is entirely fictional and is not meant for academic use, however, the references used are based on actual studies and are linked on the references section.

what next? navigation | masterlist

ABSTRACT: This study explores the emotional complexities of confessing romantic feelings within long-term friendships, particularly among childhood friends. Centered around two best friends who have unknowingly spent years concealing their mutual affections, the narrative unfolds during their daily lives following the chaos of a school sports festival—a catalyst that forces them to confront everything left unsaid. While one clings to the belief that speaking their heart will ruin everything, the other has been quietly trying to express the same love in return. This paper examines whether such confessions lead to the deterioration of friendship or its transformation into something deeper. Ultimately, this research asks: what happens when two emotionally constipated teenagers in love are finally pushed into the same room — will everything fall apart, or finally fall into place? keywords: romantic feelings, childhood friends, mutual pining

INTRODUCTION

“Here, I brought you something.”

A cold box of juice lands in your hand, the cover of it spelling a certain brand with your favorite flavor slapped on the paper. You’ve been dreaming of drinking this for hours! There’s a sparkle in your eyes when you glance up to Phainon, holding the item to your chest as if someone else was going to steal it.

“How did you know?”

“You said you forgot your wallet.” Phainon cannot contain the quirk of his lips at the witness of your joy and excitement over a small drink.

“Huh, how does that connect?”

A laugh falls out of his lips and he scratches the back of his neck, looking like a shy puppy in your eyes; “I noticed you always buy that drink during break, but since you left your wallet, you can’t get it…” Flashing an embarrassed grin, he continues. “I figured you’d be craving for it.” and it feels like an arrow is shot straight to your heart. Oh my god, how could someone like him exist???

“But what if I wasn’t?” You jest, raising an eyebrow at him. I mean, you’d still take it and drink it—aside from it being your favorite and it coming from your beloved friend, you can’t exactly say no, especially to him. He just has this face that makes you feel bad if you turn him down (or maybe it’s just you and your stupid crush on him). Cue the boba eyes and sad noises.

“Then I’ll just take it.”

“And give it to someone else?” You clutch your heart, acting hurt, and even add some pizzazz of staggering on your knees. However, Phainon only flicks your forehead, causing you to wince and compose yourself.

“If you’ve got time to joke around, you should head back inside and drink that already before it gets warm.” He flashes you a grin, the one that blinds you more than the sun, sparkles and all.

“Yessir!” Bringing out the soldier within you that you have nurtured after watching all those shows, you straighten your form and salute the man before you. Victory is within your grasp when he laughs and ruffles your hair, all the while ignoring your complaints and swatting of hands.

“See you later.” Is the only thing he says before he’s turning around and leaving, You’ve stayed there on your spot a little longer, the box in your hand that is slowly warming up from the rising heat of your skin.

You’ve known Phainon ever since you learned how to count your numbers in your hand.

For all you’ve known, there has always—and always has been—the two of you in your world. You and Phainon, just that, seemingly etched into the stone of your life and miserably tangled in your thread of fate. There was no moment in your life that you didn’t get to spend with him: you grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, had the same classes, graduated middle school together, and everything that is part of growing up.

You’re 18 now, and yet, the both of you are still inseparable. He has seen you in misery and in joy—or with a broken bone after falling off a tree trying to save a kitten. Albeit, you have seen him with dirt on his skin as he tries to catch you whenever you trip.

Admittedly, he has seen every phase of yours: through the awkward ones which heavily revolves around your fucked-up haircut, the embarrassing moments that haunts you and he teases you with, and even the tragic times that you have cried whether about a show that you forced him to watch with you or about someone, or something, who broke your heart. It has always been you and him in this tiny world.

And, too, if there was an award for the bestest bestfriend and childhood friend ever, it will go to Phainon. He knows you better than anyone else, even better than you. But perhaps, not better enough to realize the feelings you hold for him. Sigh, what a joke.

Once you’ve returned to your seat, you are reduced to silence as if you weren’t just laughing so loudly and heartedly earlier with your friends. You quietly sip on the drink, the clean tang of your favorite fruit (or flavor) bursting on your tongue—Phainon had always put into mind the things that you like even if you had never told him—, and somehow, the air between your group dances in the same note you play. Quiet, stringing on something tense, before eventually being broken into a violent melody:

“Are the two of you dating?”

The words nearly made you choke, coughing as you clutch on your chest. Stelle stares at you with an expression that only gleams with joy (perhaps at your misery) while March, made out of sweetness and everything nice, looks at you with worry.

“Are you alright?” The pink-haired girl asks, scrambling to look for her handkerchief but you just wave your hand at her, showing your own soon after. You wipe your lips, hoping that the redness of your cheeks had already faded and returned to its original color.

“So…” Stelle’s voice trailed, elongating on the ‘o’, as if waiting for your answer. Dan Heng, silent as ever, doesn’t seem to say anything to prevent her further prodding as if he, too, were curious about your answer.

Stelle didn’t have to say a name for you to know who she was talking about. Who else would she be even talking about aside from the person who had come by to your classroom despite being in another building just to give you the exact box of juice you were drinking from?

“We’re not.” You answer straight, trying to contain the falter of disappointment in your tone. You’re fine with what you have, in fact, this is better. The certainty of your great friendship with him being maintained and never crumbling down was better than the incredulity of confession and not knowing if he feels the same, which will eventually lead to shit still going south.

“How?” It’s Dan Heng that speaks this time.

“What do you mean how?”

“Why?” Then, March’s turn.

“What are you going to ask next? Who?”

“Where?” And the final hit of it all: Stelle.

You groan, pinching the sides of the poor gray-haired victim beside you who roars in pain and hunches over the desk, glaring at you with the look that asks ‘why me?’. You roll your eyes, sipping the last of the juice in your hand, “Stop that, we’re just friends.”

RESEARCH QUESTIONS:

What are the perceived effects of confessing romantic feelings on an existing friendship between childhood friends?

What emotional or behavioral changes occur in the friendship after one party confesses their feelings?

Does the confession of feelings lead to relationship deterioration or romantic development between close friends?

How do individuals interpret the outcomes of their confession: as a loss, a gain, or a neutral event in the friendship?

The following hypothesis was formulated based on the research questions:

(H₀₁) Confessing romantic feelings does not negatively affect the friendship between childhood friends; rather, it either maintains the current relationship or deepens it.

In contrast, an alternative hypothesis was formulated: (Hₐ₁) Confessing romantic feelings leads to the deterioration of the friendship between childhood friends.

LITERATURE REVIEW

Phainon has watched hundreds of shows—comedy, drama, horror, and most especially, romance.

So of course, this scene of rain-soaked longing feels all too familiar. The moment the clouds darken and the drizzle turns into a downpour, as you and him stand by the sheltered entrance sharing a moment of silence and contemplation on what to do in this situation, his brain immediately queues the mental footage as if an entire movie is playing inside his head where the both of you are the main characters. Two people caught in the rain, huddling under a shared umbrella, shoulders brushing, hearts louder than the thunders above. Perhaps, there is even some mutual laughter as you talk about how your day went and complain about some things here and there.

He has seen this, and has already predicted the outcome. From Korean dramas like Twenty-Five Twenty-One, where the umbrella wasn’t simply just a shelter, to animes that portray the scene of a shared umbrella as the very first inch of closeness, and even in Western media. Film and TV have conditioned people to believe that if you stand close enough under one umbrella, the air between you will spark. It’s simply textbook romantic tension, one that he is very familiar with. A carefully constructed coincidence with just enough heartache to make the payoff worth it.

So Phainon, standing here at the school gates with you beside him, watching the heavy downpour blur the concrete steps — yeah, he knows what this looks like. He had seen this exact scene a thousand times through the screen. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to lean into it. It wouldn’t hurt to have his own moment. Right?

He gives it a second before he spits the words out.

“Oh, I forgot my umbrella.”

“I don’t have an umbrella.”

(Ya, shibal this life.)

The both of you spoke in unison, albeit saying different words but fall under the same note, nonetheless. Silence wraps around you like the rain wraps the city, constant and suffocating, and he doesn't exactly know what to say nor do aside from laughing a little too nervously. He sees you scratch your cheek with forced awkwardness, but neither of you makes a move. Although his hand twitches close to his bag, where his umbrella is very much present and intact, while yours debate on rummaging through your own to see where actually yours is. Yes, your very umbrellas (plural) that you swore you haven't brought or forgotten are actually hidden inside your respective bags.

And maybe it’s just his mind but did it just rain harder? He swears he hears the faint sound of thunder rumbling too. Well now, you and him were fucked ten times over from the front and back, and the both of you don’t know whether to escape from the fabricated lie or continue on with this situation you got yourself into. It feels like the whispers of his umbrella that is deeply buried alongside the mess of his bag is ringing inside of his ears in a form of mockery.

This was supposed to be the moment, Phainon protests in his mind, imagining himself crouching in the timeout corner and counting the dust. The literature, the drama, the script he had seen play out a million times… and now you and him are the main characters who don't know whether to run, confess, or stand still in the rain and pretend you're dry.

The umbrella trope has long existed in fictional storytelling as a metaphor for emotional intimacy. From classic East Asian dramas to local teleseryes, it has evolved into a symbolic act of offering comfort, protection, or affection. And at this moment—whether you admit it or not—you're both banking on it. You're both playing your roles, silently hoping the other slips, confesses, shares a laugh, or simply shares space under the lie.

The problem is, you both want the same thing. And neither of you has the guts to say it.

“What terrible luck.” He says, shattering the glass of silence.

“Right,” You let the vowel trail, as if finding the way to the words you’re supposed to say. “How could you even forget your umbrella? So unreliable, Class President Phainon.” A click on your tongue and a shake of your head completes your sentence. It’s a feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere, through the darkness of the skies, the roar of thunder, and the absolute joke of a situation this is. You’ve committed to the bit; you’re deep in this dilemma already. Perhaps it was better to have not said anything at all.

“Why are you blaming me!?”

“Between us, you’re the one who’s supposed to be reliable,” you argue, dramatically pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Your duties include protecting your classmates from bad weather!”

“We’re not even classmates!”

“Right, right, I forgot about that. But still!”

“Oh please,” he snorts, pushing your hand away with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. “I’m not your personal weather forecast. Besides, didn’t I send you a message this morning to bring your umbrella because it might rain? So, where is it now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

“You…!” He wraps his arm around your shoulder, bringing you to him, close to his chest, so he can ruffle your head with so much force that you’re thrashing in his grasp like a fish who accidentally ended up on land.

“I surrender, I surrender!” You flail wildly, laughter spilling out of you in between squawks of protest, and Phainon’s grip loosens just enough for you to escape—though not without your hair looking like it lost a battle with a typhoon.

“Man, didn’t your parents teach you to respect your elders?” You huff, smoothing your hair down with zero success.

“You’re older than me by a month…?”

“A month and 21 days. Get it right, you brat.”

“Okay, granny,” he says, reverting your progress of hair-fixing back to zero when he ruffles it again. You just give up at this point, giving him an exasperated look to which he only replies with a smile before continuing: “Seriously, what kind of person shows up unprepared and then blames me for their terrible planning? A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.”

“Oh, fuck off, I know you read that from a comment section and decided to run with it.”

“So, what if I did?” He raises an eyebrow at you, crossing his arms, standing in this rather sassy pose that has you questioning him: “What the hell?”

“What? It’s Regina George.”

“You’re just George.”

Before Phainon could even clap back to your response, the thunder does him first. And suddenly, you’re brought back to your quandary.

“I don’t think the rain’s going to stop.” He says, gaze to the angry sky.

“I think so too.”

For a moment, there was silence, then suddenly movement from him as he worked on taking his jacket off, revealing his pristine uniform underneath. You’ve asked yourself many times how the uniform looks so good on him, but when you look at others who're wearing the same thing as him, they look so plain and boring. You’ve never found the answer—or perhaps, you already did, you just didn’t want to admit it (you just like him, that’s that).

“What are you doing?”

He tosses you the clothing and you catch it effortlessly, before he answers, “Use that. We’re charging forward in the rain.”

“That’s your plan?! What if you get sick?!”

“Unless, you have anything better, genius.” You don’t, that’s why you fall silent. He takes the jacket from your hand, wrapping it around you, and pulling the head up so it covers your head. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t get sick easily.”

Ah, who cares about the embarrassment of the lie now? You’ve decided on laying out the truth to him instead of settling on this stupid solution. “Wait, actually—” But before you could even finish, he’s already running forward and straight to the rain, using his bag as a shield. THIS IDIOT!!!!

“Let’s go!”

(In the end, neither of you pulled out your umbrellas.)

Resigning to your fate, you sigh and follow after him, his jacket on you, his scent filling your senses as if he was right there instead of steps away from you.

“Wait for me!”

The both of you ran through the rain. Maybe not fast enough to stay dry—hell, you both were drenched within seconds despite the bag he uses to shield himself and his jacket that you use to desperately cover yourself—but fast enough to chase the illusion that this wasn’t about the umbrella at all. It wasn’t about the lie, either. It was about the chance to do something together, however stupid and foolish it may be. And perhaps, have something cinematic, akin to a romantic play, like in those rainy scenes that ends with flushed cheeks and unspoken words.

The sky poured its heart out, and so did your laughter and his. It echoed between buildings, between splashes, between your fingers intertwining for balance and maybe something more. Beyond doubt, you were having fun; the rain drops had washed away your worries, allowing you to have this moment of forgetting everything.

It was a blur of puddle jumps and near slips, but he caught you, holding you steady in his arms, and all of it came to a sudden pause when your eyes met. And just like your traditional films, the world, the rain, and even your soaking socks seem to disappear into a void for a second. Yeah, you know it’s corny, but it’s really what it feels like—there’s even the addition of your heart thumping, and wait, is that background music you hear?

Phainon stared at you like he was finally going to say it. Like he was about to ruin everything you feared and make it better all at once, and maybe, you even braced for it, even though you swear to the AEONS that you are not prepared for this moment at all, and never will be. Is this it?

“I—”

Until a car comes passing by, indifferent to romance and its rhythm, floods the gutter water directly onto the both of you. Your disgruntled wail echo into the already loud air, high-pitched and horrified.

“What the—that’s nasty!” You say, spinning away from his hold, away from the street.

“I think some got into your mouth.” He spoke between wheezes, wiping water from his own face.

A loud ‘EW!’ and you drag your feet towards the only place where you can seek refuge from the rain—the convenience store, very convenient. Phainon follows behind you, still laughing (as if he wasn’t going to shatter your world the moment before the brutal slap of water came). The automatic door slides open with a gentle ding, but neither of you enters immediately. You’re too busy trying to catch your breath, arms wrapped around yourselves, chests heaving from the run.

Your clothes cling to your skin, your shoes squelch with every step, and your pride has long since dissolved in a puddle back at the curb. But… “Suddenly, I’m craving for some noodles.”

“Me too.” He’s digging through his pockets when he says that, and he gestures for you to sit on the small bench outside, protected by the awning instead of enduring the rigid cold inside, while you wait for him. He returns soon after, balancing two cups of instant noodles like they’re holy grail, steam escaping from the lids, curling up into the air. You’ve noticed that there are also newly-bought towels pressed in between his inner arm and sides.

“For you, Your Majesty.” He says, handing you the right one.

“Thank you, peasant.” You sigh contentedly as the warmth seeps into your hands, your chest, and maybe somewhere deeper you can’t name.

Phainon places down his own cup right beside you as he takes out the towels from its packaging; the crunch of plastic drowns out the sound of pitter-patter of the raindrops and you watch him as you slurp on the noodles. You’re interrupted, however, when he suddenly places the towel on top of your head and begins drying your hair off with a gentle motion.

“I’m eating!”

“Just eat, don’t mind me.”

You grumble under your breath, noodles halfway to your mouth, but you don’t protest further. His hands are warm through the towel, careful and steady. He dries you off like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held—tender, rhythmic, as if he's done this before in a dream he doesn’t talk about.

Between bites, you glance at him. He's focused, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in concentration. The wet strands of his hair stick to his forehead, and there's something annoyingly boyish about how serious he looks while patting you dry like a soggy dog.

“Here,” you say suddenly, lifting your cup and nudging the utensil toward him. “Eat.”

He blinks, pausing from his movements. “What? I have my own.” And it’s there, right beside you, but you’re sure it will be cold by the time he’s done taking care of you.

“Just eat it.”

Phainon hesitates for a moment, like sharing food might just be the most intimate thing in the world, more than forehead kisses or pinky promises. Then, wordlessly, he leans forward, slurping the noodles off your utensil. You remained composed despite the way your heart nearly somersaults out of your chest with how close the both of you are.

“Taste good?”

“Mm,” he hums and you give him another bite without thinking and he accepts it again, less hesitant this time. You then continue on slurping your own share, as he finishes drying you, acting like this isn’t a soft scene unfolding beneath the dull glow of a convenience store awning — like this isn’t the kind of memory that’ll replay in your mind for weeks.

“You know,” he says after a while, blowing gently into his cup. “The sports festival…”

“What about it?”

“Our team has a good chance of winning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

“I’ve seen our team’s practices, they’re rather strong. Plus, you’re on the committee, so that’s an automatic buff.”

“Oh, so now I’m a buff?”

“Obviously.”

You snort. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to swap your event with a three-legged race.”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that."

You finish your noodles, wiping your mouth with your sleeve while he gathers the empty cups. The rain is still coming down, softer now, like it’s listening in.

The both of you don't say anything at this moment, remaining on your seats and watching as the sky's tears dance with the ground. But you feel it again, the silence, the one that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. And maybe, maybe something almost did—if not for the fear that erodes beneath your skin.

And perhaps, one day, hopefully, you’ll both stop lying.

But not now, not today for it’s warm enough not to matter.

METHODOLOGY RESEARCH DESIGN This study employed a qualitative observational design to explore the emotional and behavioral outcomes of confessing romantic feelings within long-term friendships. Through observed interactions and reflective moments, the study aimed to capture subtle shifts in relational dynamics, including tension, hesitation, and unspoken affection. Emphasis was placed on analyzing pivotal moments that reflect the internal conflict of withholding or revealing romantic affection. PARTICIPANTS The participants in this study were two high school students, both aged 18, who have maintained a close friendship since early childhood. Their relationship is characterized by emotional familiarity, consistent companionship, and shared developmental milestones, making them ideal subjects for examining the complexities of hidden romantic feelings within established bonds. SAMPLING METHOD A purposive sampling method was employed to identify individuals whose relationship history and current behavior aligned with the study’s objectives. To ensure the data collected is meaningful and relevant, purposive sampling focuses on selecting participants who can provide deep, insightful perspectives on the phenomenon being studied, allowing the sample to accurately represent key characteristics of the target population (Palinkas et al., 2015).

INSTRUMENT USED

DAY 1

The day of the Sports Festival rolls around without a hitch.

Colorful banners, loud drums, and cheers blaring your eardrums welcomed the event. You’ve been busier than ever—chasing down players who are slacking off and not going to their respective sports, and even attending to some errands such as bringing water to the participants, and looking out for the injured ones. Why does it feel like you did a lot of things compared to last year even though you had the same role? Is it because you’re a senior now?

By the time afternoon comes, you’re already heaving and holding on to the railings, catching your breath.

“Maybe the additional credit is not worth it after all…” Wheezing, you opt to sit on the stairs, head propped up by your arms that rests on your thighs.

“What’s not worth it?”

Suddenly, your vision is blocked—white hair that gleams under the light, a pair of blue that stares at you intently, and that same grin that has your heart skipping a beat.

“Oh, Phainon.”

He’s dressed in a jersey that has his name and your favorite number on it.

“That’s me.” Phainon sits down beside you, giving you a cold bottle of water in the process. You mutter a ‘thanks’, hurriedly opening the bottle and drinking from it. You feel clarity flooding you, feeling refreshed already, and he waits for you to finish before he starts talking.

“You’re working hard.”

“I have to, or else, we’re going to lose.”

“So competitive.”

“Whatever,” you wipe the water from your lips with your handkerchief. “Don’t you have a game to attend to?”

“I do.”

You blink at him, eyebrows knitting, “What are you doing here then?”

“I don’t know, maybe I saw a certain someone running around and nearly collapsing on the stairs,” he tilts his head like a curious dog, a finger on his chin, “it’s only the first day and yet you’re already tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I beg to differ, Your Honor.”

You reach your hands out to pinch his cheeks, stretching them out as you speak. “Go back to your game or I will have you join the three-legged race.” And he attempts to reply, but all you get are indecipherable words which you assume to be him protesting at your threat. You then let go, watching as he pouts and rubs his face in comfort.

“If you promise to watch, then I’ll go.”

“You know, you didn’t have to tell me.” You’ll go anyway even if he doesn’t ask nor beg for you to, even without these stupid feelings you desperately try to hide. Because truthfully, it’s not about the obligation nor a promise. It’s not just about being a responsible senior, or fulfilling your duties, or checking off some list of expectations. It’s about him—Phainon—whose name has found a permanent residence in the corner of your thoughts, quietly taking up space like a tune you can’t stop humming.

You’ll show up for him, not because he asked, but because some irrational part of you wants to witness his moments too—the way he runs, the way his hair messes up from the wind, the way he grins when he scores a point. It’s embarrassing to admit even to yourself, but watching him feels a lot like rooting for something precious. And maybe, just maybe, you want him to know that you’ll always be there. That he doesn’t have to look too far in the crowd to find someone who’s cheering for him—not just as a friend, not just as a classmate, but as someone whose heart has quietly started tying its rhythm to his.

You don’t say any of that, of course. Instead, you look at him with a small smile, one you hope doesn’t give too much away. “Go win something for once, would you?”

He raises an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “I always win.”

“You win arguments, Phainon, not games.”

“We’ll see about that.” And with a playful salute, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you in the court, sunshine.”

As soon as you enter the gymnasion, loud cheers and screams greet you. It was already the final game so there were a lot more people than usual. Among those is the yell of Phainon’s name coming from various sides of the place, even some of the opposing teams are cheering for him—you forgot, that man is well-known among the students. And you forgot, a lot of them admire him and like him (romantically).

I mean, you get it. You understand them. You understand these people crushing on Phainon and declaring their love for him through a romantic scene on the rooftop (apparently, there’s a rumor going around in school that there’s a higher chance of not being rejected when you confess there), because you also like him. Just omit the confession part because aeons know how much you’d rather jump through a blazing hoop while doused in gasoline than tell him about your feelings.

He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything that literally screams the main lead of a novel or webtoon—and you’re just there, perhaps the tragic side character who ends up dying. And that’s the problem! He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything, that was the damn problem. This loud cheering, shrieks of his name echoing inside the gymnasium, as the devil himself runs through the court and dribbles the ball in his hands, then shoots, flawlessly scoring, you understand it all.

“There’s your boyfriend.” March, beside you, says in a singsong voice as she repeatedly nudges your shoulders playfully. There’s a teasing grin on her face as she looks at you with that sparkle in her eyes. Maybe it was a bad idea to force her to come with you.

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.” You refute, squeezing through the cheering students, their voices loud in your ears as you repeatedly utter, ‘excuse me’, until you finally found a spot at the front where you can completely see him.

You see Phainon glancing at the crowd, eyes wandering around as if searching for something or someone. What’s he looking for? You question yourself until you meet his gaze and he grins. Oh, he was looking for you. He waves excitedly and you return it with the same note, though, this garnered the attention of the people around you, and somehow, pride wells up in your chest as you feel their eyes stabbing at the back of your head. Of course, it has to be you and they could never be you.

“Wait, Caelus is playing too?” March snaps you out of your daydream-fueled spiral.

“What, where?” You pull your eyes away from Phainon and follow her gaze. True enough, Caelus is on the opposing team, having just called out of the bench, tying his shoelaces and sipping water like he’s not about to go head-to-head with the boy who just set the gym on fire.

“That idiot didn’t even tell us!”

You laugh, “He said he didn’t want us cheering for him.”

“Scared that he’ll make a fool out of himself, probably.” March shrugs her shoulders, then braces herself to cheer loudly for your gray-haired best friend despite his constant protests about not liking the attention. “Go, Caelus!” And you copy her, yelling louder, “You can do this, Caelus!”

Neither of you didn’t care if he was an opponent, wearing a shirt that is different in color from the both of you. That was your friend right there on the court who explicitly said he doesn’t want any of the group cheering for him (are you truly friends if you didn’t follow his ‘rules’? After all, he had insisted multiple times that these rules are meant to be broken). However, one person seemed to mind though—Phainon, looking at you. You swear, you could see a physical manifestation of puppy ears on top of his head slowly going down as if he was sulking.

You see him mouth something and you immediately understand what he meant. Eyes on me.

“What’s wrong? What’s gotten you so silent?” It’s March, poking your sides.

You shake your head, “Nothing.”

The match is heated now, even the audience’s cheers are fuelled. Both teams are chasing points one after another until it comes down to a score of 87 - 89 with the opposing leading the score. This was the last set and there is less than a minute left. If your team loses this, the title of Champion for Basketball goes to the other, and as much as one side of you is okay with it, your competitive side is not.

Phainon has the ball, and you can sense how everyone is tense. Even you are holding March’s hands tightly, silently praying in your minds that he’ll carry your team onwards to a bright victory.

There are 10 seconds left.

With the ball in his hands, he runs to his team’s court.

5 seconds.

He’s far away from the basket, but he prepares to shoot anyway.

3 seconds.

The ball is in the air.

1 second.

The buzzer rings just as the ball goes through the hoop.

90 - 89.

The number declares.

There are screams echoing throughout the gymnasium as your team celebrates its win. Everyone is hugging each other, even strangers that you don’t know but are united in the same color embrace one another. And you see it, you see him, breaking away from his members that gathered around him as they lift him up over their head. He’s pushing past the crowd—dodging high fives, brushing off shoulder pats, even shrugging off the arm one of his teammates throws over him. And you see him, running straight to you.

And before you can even register what’s happening, he’s in front of you, breathless and grinning like an idiot. “I told you I’ll win!”

Then his arms are around you—tight and warm and all-consuming—and you feel your feet leave the ground. He spins you in a full circle as if the momentum of his joy can’t be contained in anything less. You let out a squeal, half from surprise and half from the giddy disbelief flooding your system like sugar, like sunshine, like all things that make your heart race.

“Phainon!” You laugh, holding onto his shoulders, basking in the glory together with him. And he repeats after you, going along with your cheerful rhythm of: “We won, we won, we won!”

Good things have a way of feeling even better when shared. This act—known as capitalization (Langston, 1994)—is more than just recounting a happy moment; it often enhances the joy itself. In addition, the emotional boost that comes from sharing isn’t solely due to the positive event, but largely depends on how the other person responds (Gable et al., 2004). Unsurprisingly, these moments are typically shared with someone emotionally significant—like a best friend, a parent, or someone who feels like home.

The moment dies down, and suddenly, you feel embarrassed. Phainon, sensing this and perhaps feeling the same as evidenced on the red of his ears, sets you down. You avert your gaze away from him, somewhat flustered, and your eyes land on Caelus who is waving at you and making faces—puckering his lips in a kissing kind of way, even making hand gestures with his hands, and there was also March beside him, giving you the thumbs up. Those idiots are not helping you at all.

“I see you’re paying attention to someone who is not me. Why is that?” Phainon’s voice drags your attention back to him.Before you can respond, a voice calls out his name sharply—likely a teacher or team captain. He groans under his breath.

“Duty calls.” He offers one last smile, eyes lingering as if he doesn’t want to go. Then with a reluctant step backward, he adds, “Don’t go too far. I’ll find you right after.”

You nod, watching as he jogs off toward his team, who are already lined up. The cheers rise again, but this time, you barely hear them and when you turn around, there is March approaching you with the smuggest look known to mankind.

“Don’t start.” You immediately hush her.

“Oh, I’ve already started.” Laughing, she slings an arm over your shoulder.

With that, the first day comes to an end.

DAY 2

It was your turn to play now.

“I'm going to cheer for you.” Phainon says as you perform stretches. He’s found a great spot for himself by the sides, accompanied by your friends. It seems he has gotten chummy and close with them; you just pray they—specifically the gray-haired twins and March—didn’t say anything to him.

“Me too, me too! Would you feel more motivated if I wear cheerleader clothes?” Caelus teases, striking a pose with a mock move he probably got from watching the cheerdance competition earlier.

You roll your eyes, grinning despite yourself, “What the hell, sure.”

Phainon laughs along but keeps his eyes on you. “You’ve got this,” he says more softly now, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be watching.”

There’s the sound of the whistle, signalling the start of the game, and cue, The crowd erupts in cheers and claps, the energy immediately shifting. Before you leave, you turn to your personal cheerleading squad and give them a thumbs up with a grin. It earns you a series of whoops and exaggerated gestures, Caelus already pretending to wave pom-poms.

You make your way to the sidelines, where your coach stands with a clipboard in hand. Your teammates fall in line beside you, offering firm pats on the back. You return each one with the same, steadying your nerves as you prepare to play.

The match begins, and almost immediately, you find your rhythm. The opposing team isn’t particularly challenging—some missteps in defense, a few miscommunications, and perhaps hatred for each other as you witness them blame one another—and you capitalize on every single one. Your movements are fluid, instinctive, confident. You spike, you dive, you serve, and everything lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

You hear your name being cheered from the sidelines—loudest among them, of course, is Caelus’ dramatic, theatrical hollering. So much for a guy who doesn’t like attention. March whistles like she’s at a concert, and even Stelle is jumping up and down with little banners she probably made last-minute. But above them all, you hear Phainon’s voice—steadier, but just as enthusiastic. Every time you score, it’s like he forgets how to breathe, mouth falling open before cheering like he just watched a miracle unfold. He’s never seen you like this and it’s doing things to him.

It’s your turn to serve now. You bounce the ball twice, breathe in, then ready your stance, and serve. Your opponents attempt to catch it and bring it back to your court, but fails after your teammates block it. You get high fives from them and a particularly loud yell coming from the opposite bleachers, not coming from your friends.

“LET’S GO, [NAME]!!!!”

Your group turns at once, heads snapping toward the noise.

“Who does he think he is?” March deadpans, blinking in disbelief.

“So loud,” mutters Caelus as if he wasn’t like that too. “Can’t they have some decorum?

“That guy has a crush on [Name].” Dan Heng suddenly says.

“Seriously?” Phainon echoes.

“Yeah, seriously.” Except Dan Heng is actually lying, a rare occurrence that has the two gray-haired and March eyeing him suspiciously. That guy definitely didn’t have a crush on you, but for the sake of the game of feelings, he’s decided to stir the pot. And judging by the way Phainon’s jaw clenches just a little and his cheering volume raises just a notch, it’s working.

His eyes narrow slightly as he stares at the guy across the court who dared yell your name louder than him. He doesn’t know who that is—and frankly, he doesn’t care. What he does care about is the spark of irritation creeping into his chest, igniting something undeniably competitive. A crush? On you?

The thought doesn’t sit right with him. Not when he’s been here—by your side, watching you shine, supporting you, cheering for you with everything he’s got. Not when he knows what your favorite juice is and just how you like your coffee made in the morning (or if you even like coffee at all). Not when he has seen you in everything, have shared laughter together, and not when you have his number printed on your jersey. That unknown guy, completely out of the picture of you and him, has nothing against him.

So, he does what a man should do in this situation, and that is, cheering louder. Cupping his hands around his mouth and throwing his entire weight behind the words, his cheers echoes across the gym, louder than before, louder than anyone else. He’s yelling your name like he's front row at a concert.

Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as they lock with his. You blink once, then twice as if processing what just happened. Then gestured—palm down, brows drawn, pressing a finger to your lips —urging him to please, for the love of all things holy, pipe down. There’s a certain warmth that blossoms in your chest and creeps up to your face.

Mortifyingly, he doesn’t heed to your begs. You didn’t hold hope for your friends around him who appear to be having the time of their lives, and you can only sigh, long and slow, before accepting your fate. There was no stopping a man fuelled with the raging fire of jealousy and competitiveness intertwined into one, and who only wants the best for you (which is him).

You serve again, clean and sharp, and the opposing team fails to return it. The ball hits the floor. Another point.

The match continues and the other team is visibly falling apart—some of them are clearly frustrated, arguing in hushed tones after missed blocks and botched saves. And as your team scores and sets one after another, victory inches closer, and finally it’s in your grasp. Everything ends as quickly as it started, and now, after another win in your hands, you're walking home with Phainon beside you—still buzzing with energy like he didn’t just spend the entire day screaming his lungs out in the gymnasium.

“You did so well today, you were so amazing.” He says, practically beaming as he bounces slightly with each step.

“You’ve said that like ten times already.”

“Well, I mean it ten times,” he nudges your shoulder, looking at you with awe. “Seriously, my best friend is so amazing. The coolest ever.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You huff, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you can react, he throws his arms around you in a spontaneous hug, pulling you close with zero regard for personal space—or hygiene.

“Don’t hug me, you’re sweaty!” You grumble, pushing at his chest with both hands, but he only relishes in your struggles.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, nuzzling his cheek to your temple. “Now we both smell.”

“That’s disgusting, let go!” You sputter, still trying to peel him off. He finally lets you go after a moment or so, laughter spilling out of him, and flashes you that boyish grin—equal parts mischief and charm, all bright eyes and reckless delight. You smack his arm before you fall back into your earlier rhythm of walking, but you’re ahead of him.

“Let's go to the arcade.” He suggests, chasing after your steps to be beside you.

“Why do you have so much energy? What are you, some kind of dog?”

“Woof.”

“I think you should spend less time with Snowy.”

The sun’s already dipping, the sky streaked in warm hues, but neither of you seem in a hurry to end the day.

DAY 3

“So full of energy, Phainon.”

You remark, watching as the man ties the ribbon across his forehead, mentally preparing himself for the race that he is participating in. Apparently it’s the one where they have to borrow someone or something among the crowd; seriously, who even put this kind of event?

“This is what, your third game today?” You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in resignation, eyes raking over his appearance—his hair is only slightly tousled, not a bead of sweat in sight, posture relaxed like he didn’t just hours on the field. He looks fresh. He looks good. Unfairly so. Like every definition of effortless charm wrapped in his entire being. “As expected of the school heartthrob—still looking like you just walked out of a magazine shoot.”

“Cut it out.” Phainon mutters, cheeks tinged pink.

You lean in a little, clasping your hands dramatically near your face. “So handsome, Phainon. Kyaaa, you look so cute even when you’re embarrassed.” Your voice comes out high-pitched, imitating his so-called fangirls and he chokes out a laugh at your poorly-done parody.

“Yeah, don’t fall in love with me now.” He quips, all teasing and smiles.

The speaker blares and calls for the players to come to the starting line for the race. You wave goodbye to your best friend and promise to cheer him on, watching as he jogs backwards with a grin before spinning around and heading off.

“Don’t trip, okay? You’ll scar your handsome face!”

He throws a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

Phainon lines up with the rest of the players at the starting line, bouncing slightly on his feet. The ribbon across his forehead flutters with the wind as he falls into a stance waiting for the blow of the whistle. As soon as he hears it, he surges forward with the others, sprinting across the field toward the singular basket propped on top of a table at the halfway point. His legs move instinctively, hair dancing in the wind, but his thoughts are scattered—half focused on the task, half focused on you.

He was the first one to reach the basket. He grabs one of the folded slips inside, unfolds it, and the words written on it beams at him like a sentence of death.

Seriously, what kind of old geezer even thought of such stupid thing?!

Phainon stares at the paper like it personally offended him. His nose scrunching and his jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, fingers crumpling the paper slightly as he glares at it like the words might change if he stared hard enough. Of all the possibilities—hat, shoe, red umbrella, teacher’s slipper, hell, even a stranger with glasses—why this?

The others start reaching the basket, brushing past him as they hurry on. The realization hits—he’s wasting time, and if he keeps standing there like an idiot, he’s going to lose. Panic nudges his chest. He snaps his head around, eyes darting across the crowd—and then they land on you, still unaware of the chaos, laughing with March, your smile bright and carefree.

“Damn it,” he mutters again, dragging a hand down his face. His legs don’t move right away. His heart’s thudding too loudly in his ears. His pride tells him to just grab someone random, laugh it off, save face.

But he doesn’t want anyone else.

So with an exaggerated sigh, like he’s being asked to carry the entire world on his back, he makes his way toward you. His shoulders are tense, brows furrowed, and there’s a distinct redness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks that he’s desperately trying (and failing) to suppress. Frustration is scribbled all over his face, but beneath it, the flustered flush betrays him completely.

“Phainon?”

“Come with me,” he says, tone short and flat.

“...What?” There is confusion etched all across your face, but you accept his offered hand anyway.

“Just—just come with me, okay?” He blurts out, voice caught somewhere between urgency and panic. He starts tugging you toward the field and back to the race, his hand firm but trembling slightly. You don’t resist—you never really could when he gets like this—and you follow without further questions, your brows furrowed in concern.

The dirt crunches under your shoes as you both sprint back toward the course. His grip on your hand never falters, but there’s something odd about the way he won’t look at you. He’s avoiding your eyes, jaw tight, face set in determination—or maybe, embarrassment?

You catch up with the rest of the players, breath hitching as the finish line nears. The supervising teacher is already stepping forward with the finish flag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She takes the slip of paper from Phainon’s hand, eyes flicking over the words. Her lips curve into a knowing smile, gaze lingering on the two of you just a beat longer than necessary.

“Second place,” the teacher declares.

You double over, catching your breath, and glance at Phainon beside you—flushed, panting lightly, visibly trying to hold himself together.

“What was on your paper?” you ask, squinting up at him.

Phainon doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out, ruffles your hair roughly, and mutters, “Don’t worry about it.” Then he walks away from you, leaving you confused and curious. He’s only thankful that you don’t notice the redness of his ears.

“So, what was in the paper?”

You don’t stop pestering Phainon about it, even as you walk home side by side like you always do—your steps light, his unusually quiet—while you poke him every few seconds, relentlessly, determined to get the truth out of him before the day truly ends.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be such an ass.” You frown, “Tell me, tell me, just tell me.” You even begin dancing to Wonder Girls’ hit song as you repeat the same two words.

“You’re going to trip, stop that.” He’s frowning now, but there’s no bite behind it—only a hint of worry and something else stirring underneath.

“I won’t, unless you tell me.” It’s a joke said like a threat, but he stops from his tracks and you do, too. The setting sun casts golden slants of light between you, shadows stretching long down the empty sidewalk. You eye him, tilting your head, waiting, waiting, and waiting until he speaks up in a rather hushed tone as if he was ashamed of the words.

“it was… someone you like.”

You pause then laughter bubbles from your throat, spilling past your lips, “Oh! like a friend. Geez, why be embarrassed about that?” You turn to keep walking, brushing off the tension with ease—until his voice, quiet but certain, stops you once more.

“No, it wasn’t.” There’s a shift of something heavier, steadier, and you feel it. The same weight you felt when he held you under that rain, when the moment between you sparks and stills, when he looked at you with that gentle gaze you could never understand beyond friendship, when his hand lingered after a high-five, when his voice softened just for you. It’s that same unsaid thing thrumming beneath every touch, every glance, every almost. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Huh?” You turn back around and he takes a step forward to you. A deep breathe, an affectionate gaze that is only reserved for you, and:

“I like you.”

The wind blows, curling around you like a slow exhale. The world tilts just a little. The chatter of distant students, rumble of cars, and every noise fades into nothing, the rustling leaves go mute, and even your own breath seems to still. Everything sharpens, then softens—all color draining into something dreamlike. It’s just you and him now. The sidewalk may as well have disappeared and the only ground that exists is the one beneath your feet and his. The sky holds its breath. The ground threatens to drop. Time folds in on itself. And all you can do is stare.

"I don’t think liking you quite covers it—I love you.”

DATA COLLECTION AND ANALYSIS

According to Ackerman et al. (2011), the words “I love you” carry a weight far beyond mere emotion. These three small words have, for centuries, sparked hope, fueled devotion, and led to both sacrifice and heartbreak. Even today, saying “I love you” is not just an expression of feeling—it’s a declaration of intent. It marks a shift, signaling the desire to move from a fleeting connection to a more serious, long-term relationship.

“I know I’m such a loser for saying this just now and even at this moment,” Phainon blurts out, the words stumbling over each other in a panicked stream. “I had a whole plan, okay? There was supposed to be a sunset, and music, and a bouquet of flowers—like a really big one, the kind you see in cheesy dramas, and it’s your favorite flowers too—hell, I even practiced a speech in front of my mirror twice. Twice!” His hands flail a little as he talks, voice growing more frantic with each word, and you’re there, stunned, listening to him ramble on and on, pacing everywhere, left and right, front and back.

“But nooo, the universe had other plans and now I’m here, word-vomiting in the middle of a random sidewalk with zero preparation and—oh my god, this is so embarrassing. And you’re just standing there. Being all cool, calm, and radiant like always. And here I am losing every single brain cell just trying to say three simple words. But wait, I already said it!”

You’re already dizzy just watching and hearing him. His fingers rake through his hair, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “I mean, how am I supposed to say it properly when you smile like that? Or when you laugh so freely and cheer for people like it’s the most natural thing in the world? Or when you completely destroy everyone on the court and make my heart do—whatever the hell it’s doing right now!?”

And he starts walking.

“God, and don’t even get me started on that guy—who even was that guy cheering your name like he owned the rights to it? I was so close to throwing my shoe at him but that would've ruined the whole ‘supportive best friend’ thing I had going on.”

Then jogging.

“And I was trying, okay? I was trying to be subtle, to be normal, but no. It just has to be you, all bright eyes and laughter, and then looking at me like that as if I’m someone worth looking at even though I look terribly ridiculous right now. And suddenly I’m spiraling, spiraling, spiraling.”

Then he runs. Like the confession physically launched him into fight-or-flight state and he chooses the second option.

???

?????????

“Where are you going?!” You yell, shocked and confused. You receive no answer and as the distance between you grows bigger as his figure becomes smaller, you run after him, chasing him down the streets. The wind kisses your skin, tugging at your clothes as your shoes slap against the pavement.

“Phainon, you idiot!” you shout, half-laughing, half-panicking, unsure if you want to catch him just to hit him or hug him. Your heart is a wildfire in your chest, burning with questions, with confusion, with something dangerously close to love. The world blurs around you, but your focus stays locked on his retreating back—flushed ears, messy hair, the boy who just broke your world open and ran.

“Stop running!”

“i dont want to!” He yells back. And as much as you were having fun in this stupid game of chase, you were never going to win against someone who has been a repeat-player and winner of the relay competitions and races.

“I’M GOING TO REJECT YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP RUNNING, I SWEAR TO NANOOK!” you yell with all the breath left in your lungs, and that is what finally does it. Phainon stumbles to a stop, shoulders tense, frozen mid-step like someone hit pause on his panic. You catch up moments later, completely winded, clutching your side as you suck in air like your life depends on it, then without hesitation, you grab his shoulder, spin him around, and glare at him with the force of a thousand burning suns.

“What was that for?! Why did you run away?!”

“‘Cause I was scared and embarrassed.” He says, like a child that is being scolded.

“Are you stupid?!” You snap at him, voice sharp and breathless, chest still heaving from the run. It was your turn to ramble now. “Seriously, you’ve played through entire horror games without even blinking, like some kind of fearless freak—” you jab a finger at his chest, “—I’ve seen you laugh coming out of haunted houses while everyone else was crying!”

You take a breath, exasperated. “You climbed a tree once—taller than your house, mind you—just to get a balloon for a kid you didn’t even know!” Your voice rises again, frustrated and incredulous.

“I—”

“I like you too! What’s there to be scared about?”

The words slam into the moment like a sudden lightning, and everything around his word stills as Phainon falls into silence. The man who had cheered for you louder than everyone else, the boy who had barked after you asked him if he was a dog, the one you called embarrassing and annoying more times than you could count—the same boy who once hugged you when you and him were sweaty and didn’t care, who ruffled your hair instead of answering questions, who ran from his own confession like it was chasing him—is now standing in front of you, completely speechless. His eyes shine with disbelief, heart worn so plainly on his sleeve that even the setting sun seems to soften for him.

“Wait, really?” He finally breathes out, voice soft, stunned, utterly floored.

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“You're not lying?”

“I will be if you don’t stop asking.”

And then suddenly, Phainon is pulling you close, hugging you, heartbeats thundering into each other’s chest. He laughs—loud and breathless and disbelieving—as if joy has taken over every nerve in his body, and without thinking, he spins you around like you weigh nothing, the world blurring around you both. He’s beaming, grinning so wide it almost hurts, the kind of smile that makes the stars jealous.

The sky seems to burst in color, wind sweeping past like applause, and you can feel his happiness radiate like sunlight, warmth infecting you as you grin, gaze on him and only him, laughter tangled together with his. When he finally sets you down, still slightly breathless, he leans in, eyes searching yours, voice soft and awed.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

You should have known Phainon never listens to you.

FINDINGS AND DISCUSSION

Days, weeks, and perhaps months later, after this stupidly abrupt confession that he had never planned, many spontaneous dates, gifts and bouquets that he had promised you, dancing around in each other’s rhythm of affection, shared shirts and items, misunderstandings, your parents teasing the both of you, learning how to hold hands without overthinking it, and exchanging glances that say too much without saying anything at all—one thing has become incredibly, undeniably clear.

The world didn’t end just like you had feared. The friendship didn’t shatter like some fragile thing dropped from a great height. There were awkward moments, yes—nervous laughter, flustered stammering, the occasional “I can’t believe this is real” look tossed between bites of your usual snack spot’s overpriced fries, the whispered confessions when one thinks the other is not listening—but it wasn't a loss. Not even close. If anything, it felt like rediscovery. Like finding something that had always been there, just slightly out of reach, and finally having the courage to reach for it.

To answer the questions: confessing didn’t ruin the friendship. It redefined it. Emotional changes were there, that’s for sure. There was more nervous energy at first, more care in the silences, but over time, those shifted into warmth, trust, and an oddly grounding sense of security. Behavioral changes? Sure—he texted back faster now, you caught him looking at you longer than necessary, and neither of you minded the shift in physical closeness. If anything, it was welcomed.

Did it deteriorate the relationship? No. It bloomed into something new, something romantic—but still rooted in all the years of being childhood friends, still steeped in history, memories, and ridiculous inside jokes that no one else could understand. The confession didn’t take anything away; it just added another layer.

And as for how it was interpreted in hindsight?

Not a loss. Not neutral. But a gain. Absolute gain.

So, with the data now laid bare—smiles exchanged, hands held, memories archived and new ones created—the study concludes:

ALTERNATIVE HYPOTHESIS REJECTED.

THE NULL HYPOTHESIS IS ACCEPTED.

There were no catastrophic shifts, no collapses of trust, no bitter ends. Only laughter, soft beginnings, and the quiet, steady unfolding of love that had been there all along—waiting.

RECOMMENDATIONS

While the results of this study were favorable, it must be noted—this method is not universally applicable. In simpler terms: just because it worked out here doesn’t mean it won’t end in tears and ghosting for someone else. Proceed with caution (and maybe a backup plan).

REFERENCES

Palinkas, L. A., Horwitz, S. M., Green, C. A., Wisdom, J. P., Duan, N., & Hoagwood, K. (2015). Purposeful Sampling for Qualitative Data Collection and Analysis in Mixed Method Implementation Research. Administration and policy in mental health, 42(5), 533–544. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10488-013-0528-y

Ackerman, J. M., Griskevicius, V., & Li, N. P. (2011). Let's get serious: communicating commitment in romantic relationships. Journal of personality and social psychology, 100(6), 1079–1094. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0022412

Otto, A. K., Laurenceau, J. P., Siegel, S. D., & Belcher, A. J. (2015). Capitalizing on everyday positive events uniquely predicts daily intimacy and well-being in couples coping with breast cancer. Journal of family psychology : JFP : journal of the Division of Family Psychology of the American Psychological Association (Division 43), 29(1), 69–79. https://doi.org/10.1037/fam0000042

Gable, S. L., Reis, H. T., Impett, E. A., & Asher, E. R. (2004). What do you do when things go right? The intrapersonal and interpersonal benefits of sharing positive events. Journal of personality and social psychology, 87(2), 228–245. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.87.2.228

my ass hurts

TAGGING : @felibrary

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pookiesylus · 1 day ago

Text

✧.* Miss Mephisto ✧.*

synopsis: Sylus makes you a mechanical bird companion that ultimately becomes Mephisto’s mate

✧.* Sylus x Reader fluff , but it’s more like Mephisto x His Wife LOL ✧.*

————————————————————————

You lean your chin on your palms as you intently watch your husband, Sylus, make adjustments to the wings of his pet mechanical crow. Gazing at Mephisto causes you to reminisce about the very first times when you had encountered the little bird. Most of the time he was “keeping an eye on you” as Sylus likes to say, but often it just felt like stalking. Sylus would also send Mephisto to deliver gifts to you. It was cute, but the bird would always leave a pile of feathers at your door. He sure has a personality, but you grew to adore him, especially knowing that he’s kept Sylus company all this time.

You lean your head on Sylus’ shoulder, smiling softly at the fond memories. A warmth in your chest. “Mephisto’s a really reliable bird, huh…”

“Well, I did make him that way.” Sylus leans into you, his smile evident in his voice.

“I wonder what it would be like to have a mechanical bird.”

Sylus chuckles deeply. “What do you mean? We have one right here.”

“You know what I mean, like my own bird. I love Mephisto, but he doesn’t always like to listen to me. He only follows your orders. It’s clear I’m not his owner,” you giggle.

He chuckles once again, “Kitten, I purposely programmed him to give you a hard time, I think it’s cute when you struggle with him. But if you want, I’ll reprogram him.”

You tuck your hand under his arm, “No, no it’s okay. I like him this way,” You squeeze his arm gently.” It gives him personality. I was only just wondering what it would be like.”

“Mmm…I understand, kitten,” he hums, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead.

————————————————————————

It’s been a week since Sylus worked on Mephie’s wing. He’s now flying at incredible speeds which in turn has been causing the bird to be much more energetic and playful. In fact, he’s discovered his new favorite toy. Your hair.

“Mephieee, I just washed it today,” you whine. “Where is your master at anyway? He told me he’d be right back.”

Sylus came back into the room with a small pink box in his hand. It was elegantly wrapped with a white ribbon.

“Mephisto,” Sylus says sternly as he approaches the couch you’re sitting on, “that’s enough.” Mephie caws, immediately stopping. “Hands out, I have something for you.”

You obey, leaving your palms facing upward, calmly wondering if you missed a special occasion. Sylus gently places the box in your hands. It feels dense, but fragile.

You carefully unravel the ribbon, and open the box. Inside is a beautifully crafted dove that appears to be sleeping. It’s exterior reminiscent of quartz as the light from the room reflects off of it.

Gently, you scoop your hands under the creature as Mephie perches on your shoulder. The white bird is so still, you wonder if it’s a carved sculpture. But as soon as you lift it up, it begins to rock out of its sleep, gracefully taking in its surroundings as it yawns and stretches. Mephisto cocks his head to one side, leaning in to get a better view.

The dove looks to you and cheerfully chirps. It nuzzles its head into your palm, then looks at you with adoration.

“Oh sweetie…this is for me…?” You look to Sylus who is entertained by the sight. To him, you look like a kid who just got their dream puppy.

“She’s all yours.”

“She’s perfect, Sylus.”

You spend some time getting to know your dove. She’s sweet, gentle and graceful, and she has the cutest chirp. She loves to sit on your shoulder, and nuzzle into your neck as you work, but her favorite spot is Sylus’ head. Somehow, his hair makes the perfect nest, though Sylus mentions that he did not program that.

She lovesss you though, and loves it when you give her little tasks, like fetching things and pecking Sylus’ arm every once in a while to bug him. If you don’t have a task for her, she’ll just sit close by and watch you.

However, you’ve come to learn that she’s quite intimated by Mephisto. Ever since you’ve opened that box, Mephisto has been very curious of her, flying in closely any chance that he has, but every time he does, she’ll hide right behind you. Mephisto will tilt his head, confused as to why she’s hiding from him, but he eventually backs up, watching from a distance. It seems the two birds have not yet warmed up to each other.

————————————————————————

It was a short day, and you had finished work early. So, you figured you’d help Sylus out by cleaning his place up. You asked your little friend to grab a few supplies, like a wash cloth and a feather duster. But as you unlocked Sylus’ jewel display, Mephisto swept in, and grabbed a few of Sylus’ prized jewels.

“Mephisto! Give that back right now!” The crow took off flying quickly into the next room, and perching high on the ceiling fan. “Just wait til Sylus comes home!”

You decided to keep cleaning the display case. As you finish up, Sylus walks through the door, his frame almost as large as the door.

“Cleaning today, sweetie?”

“Yes, but this case is missing a few jewels. It would seem that Mephie wanted to hold them.” You say, nodding towards the thief.

“Interesting…He knows better than to touch them.” Sylus raises his arm, and signals a motion downward. “Mephisto. Come down here. Give me the jewels.”

But Mephsito doesn’t listen. He backs away and caws instead.

“Mephisto.” Sylus says warningly.

With the jewels in his claws, the crow sweeps downwards and lands on the table in front of the dove. She flinches, but remains still as he carefully scatters the jewels from a distance and nudges them towards her with his beak. He hops a few steps back, and caws softly.

The dove slowly approaches the jewels, tilting her head to inspect them. She gently taps them with her beak, and chirps in response. With a soft flutter of her wings, she lands before Mephisto, coming in close to nuzzle her beak against his. Mephie un-stiffens, and nuzzles back.

“Huh...” Sylus says with his arms crossed, and an amused eyebrow raised. “It seems we have two love birds.”

You giggle aloud, making sense of Mephie’s wild behavior. “I guess we aren’t the only ones.”

“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Sylus says, and you feel an arm wrap around your waist.

“What about Missy, short for Miss Mephisto.”

“Miss…Mephisto…very…original,” he drags out, painfully slow.

“I couldn’t think of any good names, okay! She’s just a cute little missy. Plus, it’s clear they’re married now.”

He lets out a hearty laugh,” I guess you’re right. Missy and Mephisto.”

————————————————————————

Missy and Mephisto have been very lovey-dovey, no pun intended. The two are often cuddled up to each other, scratching the others’ head with their beaks. Many happy caws and chirps can be heard from the nest they built of spare nuts and boltz on Sylus’ shelf. But it soon became too quiet.

“Sylus! Missy has been lying alone in the nest for 3 days now. Is something wrong? Is one of her parts broken? I don’t understand. I’ve been taking good care of her.”

Sylus looks up from his work desk, “Love, relax. She’s probably just resting…or charging for a better word.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want her to malfunction or anything.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you say, shuffling your way out the door. You feel bad for Missy and Mephisto, but you decide to be patient for a few more days.

————————————————————————

You stir awake to Mephie’s loud caws, and roll out of bed in search of your husband. You eventually find him near the kitchen island with a mug in his hand.

“What’s the ruckus about…” you say lazily, rubbing your eyes open.

“Why don’t you check it out for yourself,” Sylus says with a smirk, handing you a mug that was set on the counter.

You stumble over to the nest. Missy is still sat over the nest, but Mephie is perched on the end, flapping his wings and cawing with declaration.

“What’s up, Mephie?” Mephie caws again, and nuzzles Missy, causing her to shift her weight slightly. It’s then that you notice something poking out from under her.

“What…” gently, you pick up Missy and set her next to Mephisto.

Three tiny mechanical hatchlings chirp, their mouths popping up and down as if waiting for food. One white with a few black feathers, one black with a few white feathers and one gray. The white and black ones are the same size, meanwhile the gray one is much smaller. They each have resembling features of Mephsito and Missy.

“Sylus…did you…do this…?”

“It’s a just little project I’ve been working on. I’m curious to see how learnt behavior differs from programmed behavior in mechanical birds.” He pauses for a few moments, then bursts into laughter, “I’m joking. I thought I’d make you happy.”

You feel him walk up behind, and wrap both arms around you, bringing you into an embrace. He kisses your temple, “Now, Missy and Mephisto have their own little family.”

You turn to him, eyes glossy, “Sylus,” you pout, “they’re so cute…Thank you for this.” Sylus holds you even tighter, your expression tugging at his heart strings. He can’t help, but fold for you. Every. Single. Time. That’s why he does these things. It doesn’t matter how big or small, he’d do anything for you.

He leans in closer, leaning his head against yours, comfort and sweetness in his voice, “Doesn’t it make you want to have a flock of your own…”

#love and deepspace #sylus #lads #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x reader fanfic #l&ds sylus #fluff #mephisto #Mephie

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songbirdseung · 3 days ago

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GONNA KILL ME - NISHIMURA RIKI ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

"thanks for the heart attack, i'll never believe you ever again" ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ n.rk x reader 𖹭 sometimes extra context would help a lot, yn 𖹭.ᐟ

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾

he was already so exhausted, adrenaline still pumping so fast through his veins. the sweat was making his tee annoyingly cling to his skin. his body started to ache mid rehearsal already. riki just wanted to go home and rest but that feeling went straight out the door when his phone buzzed and he took it out and read your text.

YN [22: 32] i'm in the hospital...

yup, just that. no type of follow up nor explanation, no nothing. it made his heart drop and his mind rush to the worse scenarios.

the room seemed to begin spinningas he started to register his emotions. he just kept re-reading your text over and over again. hoping you'd follow up, watching the bottom of the screen, waiting for the typing bubble to show up. "what the f-" his throat has gotten drier not like it wasn't already damaged from rehearsals.

next thing he knows, he's up and running, grabbing his bag and running out the room, not even saying goodbye to his members nor staff, not even getting the second to look at their confused reactions.

not even getting out a full sentence as he's rushing to pack his stuff in his bag.

"dude, riki. relax, what's the rush?" jake asked, trying to reach for him, trying to hold him back.

riki replies and gosh, the poor man's voice is now shaky just like his hands. "i- fu- i gotta go. yn is at the hospital" once he finished flimsily packed his stuff, he reaches for his phone and tries to call you.

now jungwon stood up as well, his expression concerned. "huh? what happened to yn?"

“i don’t know, she just texted that. no details. i’m calling her. shit, shit... come on, pick up,” he muttered, phone pressed to his ear.

again, there was no answer.

that's it. he didn’t even wait to explain more. he was already halfway out the door, heart jackhammering in his chest, thoughts spiraling. Was she in an accident? Did she faint? Was it serious? Did she get rushed there in an ambulance? Why didn’t she say anything?

once he got to the hospital, he burst through, making a bug appearance as if he's forgotten he was a well-known accomplished idol. he was breathless like he ran there, flushed and dizzy.

“hello, excuse me. i’m looking for a patient, her name is yn ln. kind of short, beautiful- uh... she texted me she was here, please, I need to know where she is.”

the poor nurse blinked at him, startled and statstruck but ecided to keep it professional to keep her job. after fumbling it all out, he was directed down a room and there he goes running through halls until he finally gets to a internal medicine wing of the hospital. the name making him panic even more. what do you mean internal? was she okay? now he was the one feeling sick.

taking a deep breath before twisting the door open.

and there she was.

on a standard check up bed, sitting while swinging her feet, looking... relaxed and okay.

you were in you little cardigan and baggy jeans, your hair tucked behind one ear, phone in hand as you scrolled with a calm little pout, like you were waiting for a coffee order and not like you did not just send you boyfriend into cardiac arrest.

then you eyes flicked up and saw riki, face lit up. “hh! you’re here.”

riki took a step forward, voice strangled. “of course, i- you texted me ‘I’m at the hospital’ and that’s it?”

“yeah. i didn’t wanna over-explain.”

riki actually groaned out of frustration. chest still heaving. “do you have any idea what that did to me, yn??”

"but did i lie though?"

"oh my gosh, yeah. like that's the point here, yn" riki rolled his eyes then dragging a hand down his face. "what is this even for, babe?"

scanning you through like an MRI. "why are you here?"

“just a check-up because i’ve been feeling lightheaded a lot recently so I thought i’d do a quick blood test. nothing too big, no drama.”

“no drama?” riki echoed, heart finally starting to slow down. “baby, I thought.... i actually started thinking if you were dying.”

you gave him a little shrug. “i just wanted you to come and see me." giggling and tugging on the front of his hoodie, guiding him closer until he stood between you legs. “hey baby. i’m sorry for scaring you," voice softening now that he was closer. your fingers snuck under the hem of his shirt, tracing the sweat-cooled line of his stomach. “but i’m okay. promise.”

his hands went to rest on both side of your hips. “you better be. you almost made me cry in the taxi.”

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #riki #nishimura riki #ni ki #riki nishimura #enhypen riki #riki x reader #ni ki enhypen #enhypen niki #niki nishimura

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everlong0girl · 2 days ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

꧁—————————————————————꧂

Price is in his late thirties and entering forties. He’s been wanting to start a family for forever. You’ve had some pregnancy scares before and you’d see he would never get scared or worried, a small smile flashing across his beard framed mouth before disappearing.

He’d come up to you one day, simply asking you to start trying. You’ve been together for long enough right? He was practically shaking, wanting you to say yes more than wanting to breathe. Every time he’d see a baby he’d look at you with a small knowing look. Trying out multiple methods he’d read on the internet like putting a pillow under your hips and whatnot.

Definitely a girl dad. A big strong guy with a little girl is everything. He’d let her dress him up and put that kids makeup on him whenever she asked because he when he enters the room, fragile masculinity vanishes.

Very private and wouldn’t tell his work buddies a thing. Not about trying for a baby, nor having one later on. Why would they need to know anything about his girls?

Soap would need a bit more time. But when he feels that small want for a family, he’s whipped. First you’d notice he’s touching your stomach more and before bed he’d just put a hand on there. Eventually you’d ask him about it and he’d get embarrassed and tell you he just wants a baby.

Would be more of a boy dad. He’d be the type of guy to just start yelling and screaming around the hospital “It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” like the proudest man ever. Biggest dad ever and would take the boy to games and get him a lot of fake guns, which you’d sometimes oppose, though he’d just brush it off like harmless fun.

Would definitely tell everyone about trying. Unintentionally catching some off guard by saying how he and his missus are trying every night for about a week now or more, and would be until they have a bun in the over. Though it wouldn’t be long till you actually did conceive.

Gaz is the youngest out the lot, but he’d get the feeling pretty early. Still in his late twenties, either he’d make a joke about it, or a comment, but then start considering it.

He would seriously not mind if its a boy or a girl. Some people say that too but secretly bias one gender. He’s not like that. He just wants it to be his little baby.

He’d be a gentle parent. None of that yelling or screaming at the kid, just gentle. He has a patience of a saint, and he’d even encourage you to be as calm as you could. Would probably be the most understanding about what you would be going trough while pregnant, and after.

Wouldn’t say anything to his team, and would keep quiet about it. One day he’d let you show up with a baby on your hip, shocking them all slightly, but he’d just be like “Yeah i have a kid”.

Ghost is scared. One random day a thought came to his head and he brushed it off, but later when you came to him with the idea, he considered it. Until he agreed.

He is mostly like Gaz, and doesn’t have a preference. He’d only be really scared about his emotional state and would doubt his ability to give the kid that father-child relationship. Wouldn’t be scared to voice his fear to you, but you’d comfort him and tell him it was okay to be afraid. He was hurt like everyone else, and it felt so refreshing to him that he had you, a person who loved him, and now a little baby. Meaning his hands could be used for something oh so gentle, and not just handling firearms.

He’d hold the baby like it was made out of glass, and during your pregnancy and after, he’d help with anything. What you said was law.

Nobody in his team would know from aside Johnny maybe. He’d tell him since in his eyes Johnny seems the least harmless out the lot for some reason.

꧁—————————————————————꧂

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cherrysinner · 2 days ago

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having clark be mean to you in front of his parents.

based on a trend i saw!!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST

"why do you want me to do this again?" clark leaned closer to whisper, "it'll be funny." "i don't think my ma scolding me is funny." your husband raised his bushy eyebrows, making you roll your eyes, "just do it."

last week, you'd been laying in bed with him, clark immersed on an article he was working on while you were scrolling through tiktok, coming across a video where a boyfriend said something mean to his girlfriend in front of his mom to see how she'd react, the immediate scolding the older woman had given to her son making you let out a small snort.

"what, what is it?" clark immediately turned all his attention to you with wide eyes, peeking at your phone, and you turned it around and replayed the video, your husband letting out a soft hum. "well, that's just proper parenting." the dark-haired man suddenly noticed the mischievous smile on your lips, "...what?"

you watched as martha brought the casserole she'd made into the dining room, placing it right in the middle of the dining table before sitting down next to her husband, a wide smile on her face, "i'm so happy you two are staying here for a few days." the woman exclaimed.

"we are too." you squeezed your husband's hand. when it came your turn to serve yourself, clark could already feel his cheeks starting to burn, the man clearing his throat, "honey, do you think- uhm, do you really think you should be eating all that?"

"what?" you feigned confusion, turning to look at him, "i mean, that's a pretty big serving. i thought we talked about how you should be eating less."

martha let out a gasp at his words, her jaw dropping, "clark joseph kent!" she exclaimed dramatically like he had personally offended her, and you could see the blush starting to rise to your husband's cheek. "what, ma? i'm just looking out for her..."

"who are you? i did not raise you to speak that way to any woman, let alone your wife." martha crossed her arms in front of her chest, "she will eat as much as she pleases, and you better not even think about commenting on it." your mother-in-law turned to you, her gaze softening, "does he talk to you this way at home, sweetheart? i'm so sorry, i don't know what's gotten into him."

"ma, it's just a-"

"clark, i am very disappointed and upset with you right now." martha's brows were raised as she looked back to her son as jonathan took her hand in his; as much as you thought it was adorable the way your husband was basically squirming in his seat, scratching the back of his neck with his face as red as a tomato, you could see the disappointment in his mother's eyes and you felt bad.

"don't worry martha." you took clark's hand in yours, letting out a soft chuckle as you squeezed his hand, "it was just a practical joke we saw online that i asked him to try, clark would never speak to me like that." "never." clark mumbled softly

"a joke?" martha's eyes widened, "you shouldn't joke like that, dear! i thought there was something wrong with him."

"i know, i know." you chuckled softly, letting go of your husband's hand as you stood up, walking to the other side of the table and gave the woman a small hug, "if he ever does say something like that to me, i'll let you know immediately." "you better."

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman 2025 #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fluff #superman x y/n #superman x reader #superman x you #clark kent au #david corenswet

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deviliciousnavy · 3 days ago

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IMPORTANT NEWS FOR ALL THE MONKIE KID FANS

We got information from a reliable source about the show.

Apparently, while we all thought that s6 was taking their time to give us a better quality, Lego hasn't worked at all on it.

We've been quiet about it for far to long. If we want this show to survive we need to make our voices heard! Let them know that the fans WANT for this show to keep going. And we have ways to do it!

1) Start using #RenewMonkieKid

Let them know that we want a new season!!

2) Contact LEGO.

Go to Lego customer service > send a message > I need help with something else > My topic isn't listed And let them know how much you love the show, your concerns, and maybe about the struggles we have with acessibility! But remember, no spamming and no harassing. Being mean about it will get us nowhere.

3) Start creating!

Fanart, fanfics, animatics, and whatever you like!! Show them how much Monkie Kid has inspired us all!! And don't forget to use the #

4) Get the show known!

There are tons of content creators out there! We can get their attention (I repeat without harassing or spamming them) to the show, show them what they're missing out!!

if we want our favourite monkeys to succeed, we need to start being loud!!

#RenewMonkieKid #monkie kid #lego monkie kid #lmk

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catsy83 · 3 days ago

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Just doing all of these to save myself the trouble:

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? Yes

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? My bestie

03: Do you regret anything? Not spending more time with my old people while I was younger

04: Are you insecure? Not anymore

05: What is your relationship status? Perpetually single

06: How do you want to die? Hopefully in my sleep, when I’m old af, mentally still fit and physically only a little less so

07: What did you last eat? Sushi, followed by three bites of a ham-and-cheese croissant, and Nutella on a spoon (it’s one of those days…)

08: Played any sports? In a team: handball, for kicks: football/soccer during school break with the guys

09: Do you bite your nails? No, never saw the appeal

10: When was your last physical fight? Probably some time when I was like 12-13 yo

11: Do you like someone? Ish

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? No

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? No

14: Do you miss someone? Yeah my dad. He passed over a decade ago

15: Have any pets? Sadly no

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? In that weird energy where I wanna do something but not sure what, so I just lie around instead.

17: Ever made out in the bathroom? Yes

18: Are you scared of spiders? Only the huge ones and anything that I can’t immediately identify as a common house spider

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? Mmmm….would be cool to live through the 90s and early 2000s as a real adult again, yea

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? In a bedroom

21: What are your plans for this weekend? None - and I’m loving it!

22: Do you want to have kids? How many? I always wanted 2. Don’t think I’ll be having any anymore tho.

23: Do you have piercings? How many? 2 - one in each earlobe 😁

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? Languages, especially Latin

25: Do you miss anyone from your past? Yes, my dad. See above

26: What are you craving right now? Adventure

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? Probably yes

28: Have you ever been cheated on? Not that I know

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? I don’t think so

30: What’s irritating you right now? Having adult obligations - laundry, vacuuming, that crap

31: Does somebody love you? I hope so - I got tons of family and friends

32: What is your favourite color? Green and teal

33: Do you have trust issues? Hmmm….not sure. I used to. I don’t think I do anymore.

34: Who/what was your last dream about? A friend

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? Not sure. Either a friend or my therapist

36: Do you give out second chances too easily? Ish. Usually not at all, but I have in the past and it wasn’t that easily

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? Forgive. I never forget how someone made me feel

38: Is this year the best year of your life? Not sure, but it is pretty damn good so far

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 15

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? Almost. Was at a nudist camp, got stared at for wearing underwear (had my period)

51: Favourite food? Sushi

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? Yes

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? Did some tarot

54: Is cheating ever okay? No

55: Are you mean? I can be. Gods help you if I you manage to bring that side of me out.

56: How many people have you fist fought? Oh quite a few as a kid

57: Do you believe in true love? Yes

58: Favourite weather? 25 degree C, but with a breeze, sunny, somewhere close to a coastline but with trees around me

59: Do you like the snow? Yes, if it’s real snow not just the mud often present in cities these days

60: Do you wanna get married? I think I still do

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? Babe is ok; baby not really

62: What makes you happy? Hugs, a good book, chocolate

63: Would you change your name? No

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? As in, do I want to again? No. It wasn’t a serious thing

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? Finally marry the fucker. 😂😂😂

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? Yes.

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? Other than the random cashier at the store…two of my three closest guy friends

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? Probably my closest guy friends mentioned above

69: Do you believe in soulmates? Yes, and they don’t have to be romantic

70: Is there anyone you would die for? Yes

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

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theegoldenchild · 3 days ago

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Chapter One: Dreams or Nightmares

Authors Note: Yeah so… I have a habit of starting something new while working on something else… Enjoy my coochie muffins!

By the time Alexandria Watkins stepped into her penthouse, the night had settled over Los Angeles like a veil of lies, thin enough to let the city’s light bleed through, but heavy enough to feel suffocating if you stood still too long. The glow from her skyline view flickered across the glass walls like a heartbeat, pulsing with the life of a city that never slept, even when she desperately needed to.

The soft click of the door behind her was the only sound in the apartment. No greetings, condescending voices, clinking glasses or microaggression congratulations. Just pure silence.

Her heels tapped against the polished marble floor with a rhythm that felt foreign to her ears now, echoing in a space designed to impress but not to comfort. The second the lock turned behind her, something in her spine gave out. Not physically… but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Her shoulders dropped, her posture dissolved, and the woman she carefully performed as all night unraveled in deliberate threads.

She stood there, motionless, for a long moment. Still in the shimmering midnight-blue gown that clung to her figure like it had been painted on. Still wearing the smile she’d forced through every conversation, every camera flash, and every tight-lipped exchange with producers who wanted to “talk numbers” but kept looking at her breasts instead of her eyes. Still reeking of expensive perfume and polite applause and the sour, invisible stench of a man who’d embarrassed her in front of everyone.

Adam.

The name tasted rancid on her tongue. She had watched him. All fucking night. Watched his hand linger just a little too long on the curve of his assistant’s hip. Watched the corners of his mouth tilt in that smug little smirk he used when he wanted to make someone feel chosen. She’d seen it before, back when it was still being used on her. The worst part was that no one knew about their split. Not her manager, her PR team, or even her friends. No one knew she and Adam were done. And this wasn’t their typical fight or just “taking a break.” No, they were completely finished. And because no one knew, she didn’t have an outlet to vent her frustrations.

Admitting the breakup out loud meant opening the door to questions, pity, and sly whispers that she couldn’t afford to trail behind her name right now. Not when her first major film was finally on its way to the theaters. Not when people were beginning to call her “a force.” So she smiled through it all. She nodded, posed, and she swallowed the humiliation like a jagged pill and let it catch in her throat while she played the part of the adored, the accomplished, and the unbothered.

But now that she was home, she peeled it all off.

The zipper groaned as she yanked it down her back, the fabric loosened like a secret exhaled into the dark. She stepped out of the gown with a quiet grunt, letting it collapse onto the floor in a puddle of sequins she would tend to in the morning. Her skin prickled with leftover adrenaline and her breath was shaky with the effort of keeping herself composed for hours on end.

She moved in silence letting the soles of her feet guide her to the kitchen. Her mid-back, jet-black curls still held the memory of tight red carpet glamour and were finally frizzing at the edges. She reached up and roughly gathered them into a pineapple bun at the crown of her head, letting the weight of it sit heavy. Loose curls spilled over her forehead and temples, framing her face with a messy kind of honesty she hadn’t allowed herself all night.

She walked over to a dining chair and grabbed her favorite shirt that was draping over the side. It was an old, oversized thing with faded lettering from a film festival she’d once been too broke to attend but swore she’d headline one day. She tugged it over her naked frame, relishing in the cotton softness against her bare skin. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric and the chill of the penthouse finally caught up to her now that her mask was off. Next came a pair of fuzzy socks. They were pink and mismatched and one of them had a tiny bleach stain near the toe. Nothing about them screamed “Hollywood,” and that’s exactly why she loved them.

She wandered to her bar cart and selected the darkest red she owned. Didn’t even glance at the label. She poured it into a glass that was definitely too big for a single serving and brought it to her lips. “I need a fucking vacation,” she spoke like the words tasted as bitter as her drink of choice.

She moved to her couch that was a wide, curved velvet thing the color of dried roses, plush and dramatic and far too large for someone who spent most nights curled up alone. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, the wine sloshing a little in her glass as she pulled her legs under her and reached for her phone.

The screen lit up and showed multiple missed calls.

Adam.

Five of them. One right after the other.

Persistent bastard, she thought, rolling her eyes before tossing the phone across the room. It hit the far end of the couch with a dull thump and tumbled between the cushions like it had the good sense to be ashamed of itself.

For a moment, she just sat there breathing and letting her mind wander. The city beyond the windows kept moving. Cars zipped across the hills like fireflies. Somewhere, someone was proposing. Someone else was crying in an Uber. Someone was having the best night of their life. And Alexandria was just… here. She wasn’t crying or screaming like a typical heartbroken woman, but she also wasn’t okay. She felt suspended in a quiet that felt like it might devour her if she let it.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the wineglass. Her throat burned from the heat of the alcohol, but she took another sip anyway. This kind of pain was something she could understand. She leaned back, closed her eyes and let her mind continue to drift. Not to her film, not to the critics, not even to Adam—but to something else. Something unreal. Something dangerous. The only thing lately that made her feel remotely alive: Smoke and Stack.

Two fictional men from a movie she’d watched too many times. Characters she’d written about late into the night, fingers flying over her keyboard, breath caught in her throat as she imagined the rough timbre of their voices, the weight of their hands, and the danger in their eyes. Alexi’s lips parted slightly as the thought lingered. She finished the rest of her wine in one long unapologetic gulp and let the glass fall to the plush carpet with a careless thud. It didn’t break, because nothing ever did in her world unless she wanted it to.

She pushed up from the couch and drifted toward her bedroom. The lights were low, casting soft shadows across the white oak floors of her bedroom and modern art hanging on the walls. Her bare thighs brushed against the hem of her oversized shirt as she moved, wine-warmed and restless. There was something electric building beneath her skin. A low hum of obsession that refused to quiet down no matter how tired she pretended to be.

She climbed into her California king bed and dragged her laptop onto her lap. The screen lit up painting her mahogany brown face in pale blue light, highlighting the dark crescents under her eyes and the soft crease between her brows. Her desktop background was a still from Sinners—the one where Smoke and Stack lean against the car and share a cigarette, their silhouettes outlined in danger and vengeance. That scene had branded itself into her memory the first time she saw it. And the second… And the fiftieth.

She opened her latest fanfic doc and began typing.

Ryan Coogler deserves every fucking award for what he did with these two.

No, seriously.

This man cracked open some dusty-ass door in my brain and summoned two men who’ve ruined every real man for me. I’m a writer. I create characters for a living. I’m good at it. But I haven’t been this crazy about a fictional man since I was watching Black Panther on repeat wishing Erik would climb out of the TV and claim me.

Her fingers flew across the keys, each word pouring out of her like a confession. She wrote about the way Smoke’s hand flexed around the grip of his pistol when he got angry. The glint of Stack’s gold tooth when he smiled right before doing something that should’ve landed him in Hell. She gave them more than just lines. She gave them purpose, pain, and power. She breathed life into every slow-burning stare, every drawled threat, every moment of brutal tenderness between them and the girl who could finally bring them to their knees.

The wine made her bolder and the silence made her reckless. She didn’t stop writing. Not when the clock struck midnight. Not when her eyes began to sting. Not even when her fingers began to cramp. She kept going until the lines between her fantasy and her reality blurred into something deliciously sinful. And finally once exhaustion took over, her laptop slid off her lap and landed beside her on the bed as sleep took her.

The sound that woke her wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp, metallic, foreign and completely out of place in the curated calm of her penthouse. Something slammed against the marble floor in her kitchen, followed by the distant scrape of movement. Then came the unmistakable clatter of glass hitting the ground.

Alexi’s eyes snapped open. Her room was a cave of shadows, faintly illuminated by the screen of her sleeping laptop. Her limbs were stiff from sleeping half-upright, her shirt twisted around her body, her curls now a wild mane around her face. For a moment, she thought it had been part of a dream. Until she heard it again. A heavy footstep… one… two… maybe three.

Every nerve in her body lit up with fear and she scrambled out of bed, disoriented with her heart thundering in her chest. Her eyes quickly scanned her room in search of her phone. She needed it to call help, she needed to—

“Shit.” Her voice was a strained whisper as she remembered how she threw her phone angrily after seeing Adam’s missed calls. It was somewhere across the living room possibly dead and definitely out of reach. Barefoot and breathless, she moved to her closet and yanked the old aluminum bat from behind her coats. It felt ridiculous in her hand, like a toy. But it was better than nothing.

Her penthouse was extra silent now, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls like it knew something she didn’t. She crept down the hallway and every step felt like a mistake. And then she saw the light spilled across the polished floor from the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat as she inched closer with her bat raised. She peered around the corner—and froze.

Two men stood in the center of her kitchen. They weren’t dressed like intruders. No masks, no frantic searching for valuables. No tools or backpacks or signs of panic. They were dressed like legends.

Both wore deep black three-piece suits that looked pristine, heavy, and cut in a style that belonged to another era. Smoke’s jacket hugged his frame, shoulders broad, chest commanding. Stack’s coat was open, revealing a pressed vest and blood-streaked white dress shirt beneath. Their shoes were scuffed but polished. Their suits were tailored, but dusty. Like they’d walked through a battlefield in their Sunday best. And in their hands—pistols. Not modern handguns. They both had antique revolvers, polished to a dull gleam, gripped tight like they were still warm from being fired.

Alexi’s bat hit the floor and her heart seized as she felt her legs lock. This was too much and her brain refused to process what was going on.

Smoke, who was standing closest to the stove, looked up first. The dim light in the room made him look larger than life. His stare was menacing and he looked like chaos with a pulse even in a state of confusion. Next to him, with a slightly looser and cockier silhouette stood Stack. He was fiddling with a pot and glanced up from it like it just swindled him out of money. “What in the cotton pickin’ hell…” Stack’s voice bristled, caught between doubt and fascination. “This ain’t no Mississippi.”

They both turned toward her at the same time. A lost breath left Alexi’s lips unsealed. Her vision blurred and her knees wobbled. And then she did what anyone in this situation would do… she laughed. It started in her belly, light and breathless, then exploded upward into her chest until it cracked out of her mouth in full, echoing peals.

“Oh my God,” she choked, gripping her stomach. “Oh, this is a good one.”

Stack looked over at Smoke with a face full of confusion. “Is she alright in the head?”

“This is definitely a dream,” Alexi said between gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “Jesus, I really outdid myself this time.”

Neither man moved. Their pistols stayed lowered, but ready.

Alexi took a few steps forward, still smiling. Her oversized shirt hung just off one shoulder, exposing smooth brown skin and the curve of her collarbone. Her fuzzy socks slid slightly across the tile as she moved. “Usually when y’all show up it’s way more romantic,” she mused. “Lot more kissing and licking. But you look good.” She eyed them slowly, boldly. “So… who wants to take a turn first?”

That stopped everything. Smoke’s brows furrowed sharply. Stack’s head tilted, confused and vaguely entertained. Neither man smiled.

Alexi raised her arms, twirling once. “I’m guessing this is my subconscious playing out one of the older drafts. The suits? The guns? You boys here to teach me a lesson?”

Stack blinked. “…Elijah, is this woman touched?” Smoke didn’t speak. Instead, he slowly raised his pistol and leveled it at her forehead.

Alexi didn’t even flinch; she just grinned wider, like the muzzle of a gun was a compliment. “Dramatic. I like it. You gonna rough me up a little, Big Daddyyyy?”

Stack’s jaw twitched. But Smoke’s stare stayed fixed. His voice was even and he didn’t find this exchange entertaining. “You got five seconds to tell me where we is,” he said. “Or I’ll put a fuckin’ bullet in ya pretty lil’ head an paint this shiny floor red.”

The words landed like a slap and the amusement drained from Alexi’s face. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a scene. The gun pointed at her was real and the man holding it was not playing with her. Her breath caught as she blinked in confusion. “Wh… what?”

Smoke took one step forward. “Four.” The weight in his voice was unbearable, like judgment and death wrapped in bourbon and thunder.

Alexi’s hands shot up, her words tumbling over each other. “W-WAIT! You’re in Los Angeles. You’re in my penthouse—I swear—I didn’t bring you here—I don’t know how you got here—”

Stack tilted his head slightly and he squinted. Suspicion threading his glare. “Los Angeles? We out west?”

“Y-Yes! And it’s 2025,” Alexi whispered.

That stopped them… kind of. Smoke’s pistol faltered, just for a moment. Stack turned slowly, scanning the space again. He took in the high ceilings, the clean, sterile light, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a skyline like stars poured into glass.

“This…” Stack muttered, “this really ain’t Mississippi.”

“I know,” Alexi rambled, overwhelmed. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. You’re fictional.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked and his finger hovered over the trigger.

Stack blinked. “Fictional?”

“You’re from a movie!” she cried, chest heaving. “A movie called Sinners! I wrote about your characters. I know everything about you… your birthday, the scar behind Stack’s ear, the way Smoke clenches his jaw before he kills someone… I-I didn’t make you but I definitely added on to who you are.”

Stack looked like Alexandria had grown a second head.

But Smoke… Smoke just stared. His eyes darkened, not with fear. “You sayin’ we dead?”

“No!” she said, backing up. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… I was writing… I fell asleep—”

Smoke took a step forward, gun still in hand.

Stack caught his arm. “Smoke,” he said quietly, “if she’s tellin’ the truth…”

“We ain’t in Clarksdale no more,” Smoke spoke through clenched teeth, tone sharp as a switchblade before lowering the weapon. His eyes still fixed on Alexi.

She collapsed to the floor, hands shaking. The sterile floor was cold against her skin, a cruel contrast to the heat flooding her body. Her knees hit first, then her palms. She didn’t care how she looked, didn’t care that her oversized shirt had risen high on her thighs or that her body was quaking with disoriented doubt. Her mind was a cyclone of disbelief and rising terror.

Smoke was still watching her silently and unblinking. Like a wolf trying to decide if the rabbit at his feet was already dead or just playing dumb.

Stack lowered his pistol completely now, sliding it into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket as he took a cautious step forward. There was a strange glint in his eye that wasn’t cruelty or even suspicion, it was akin to childlike intrigue. A hunter trying to figure out what kind of trap he’d just stepped into.

Alexi’s brain itched for answers. Her voice came out thin and breathless. “This isn’t possible.”

Stack crouched slowly, resting his forearm on his knee, eyes level with hers now. His voice, when it came, was low and coaxing, a balm compared to his brother’s edge. “Start from the top, sweetheart.”

“I told you.” Her voice cracked. “You’re from a movie. A film called Sinners. It came out this year… 2025. You’re both in it. You’re fictional characters played by a really talented actor. But I’ve been writing stories about you… in my spare time. Fanfiction… A lot of it.”

Smoke’s lips curled around the word like it was poison. “Fiction.”

“I didn’t mean to bring you here,” she rushed on, words tumbling over themselves. “I don’t know how you got here. One second I was writing about you, and the next…” She looked up, eyes wide and unfocused. “There was a crash,” her voice slipped out like a ghost. “And then you were here.”

Smoke scanned the room like it might offer him answers. His fingers flexed around the grip of his pistol, but he didn’t raise it again. “This some magic shit,” he grumbled low, letting the words barely escape.

Stack let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You been writin’ spells, baby girl?”

“No!” Alexi shot back, sitting up a little straighter. “I write romance. Angst. Sometimes smut… maybe a lot of smut… B-But I don’t write portals!”

That made Stack blink. Then his eyes drifted to Smoke, who looked like he was resisting the urge to shoot the floor just to hear something familiar.

Alexi dragged herself back to her feet, wobbling slightly as she leaned against the kitchen island. Her voice dropped, quieter now, the fear finally catching up to her. “How did you get here?”

Smoke’s voice cracked like embers in the dark. “Last thing I ‘member, we was collectin’ on a debt.”

“Lil whiskey runner out in Lambert’s Creek,” Stack added. “Owed us for three weeks. Thought he could run.” His eyes narrowed, distant. “We was just about to make an example of him.”

Alexi’s heart skipped. “And then?”

“There was this… sound,” Stack said, frowning. “Low. Wrong. Like thunder inside ya’ skull. Next thing we know, we here. Bright lights an a kitchen full of glass that ain’t hold no food.” Alexi’s gaze darted to the kitchen island where a few pieces of broken glass glittered on the floor. She followed Stack’s gaze to her refrigerator, to the sleek stovetop, to the glowing digital clock above the oven. “Where we come from,” he muttered, “none of this shit exists.”

Smoke leaned against the counter now, finally slipping his pistol into the back of his waistband. His voice was dangerous like there was a blade behind every syllable. “An you expect us to believe we just appeared here ‘cause you was scribblin’ stories ‘bout us?”

“No,” Alexi whispered. “I don’t expect you to believe anything. I can barely believe it myself.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Stack, always the lighter of the two, turned his head and looked at her with something like wonder. “If you did write us… that mean you wrote this, too?”

Alexi blinked. “This?”

He gestured at his own body, then Smoke’s, then the suits. “These clothes. These scars. The way he talk. The way I smile.”

She swallowed hard. “I… yeah. I mean, I took inspiration from the movie, but the rest… yeah. I wrote all of it.”

Smoke’s eyes were flint. “Then you better explain why you brought us here. ‘Cause I don’t take kindly to bein’ yanked outta my life foe’ a lil girl daydream.”

Alexi cut her eyes to Smoke and her lips were still trembling with a mixture of emotions. “I didn’t bring you here on purpose! You think I would’ve done this to myself voluntarily? I thought I was dreaming when I saw you. Hell, I still think I might be dreaming.”

Stack smirked. “What kinda dreams you usually have ‘bout us?”

Alexi didn’t bother answering. Her silence said more than words could. Smoke’s gaze cut between them, and the heat in the room thickened. “You… you’re not gonna hurt me, are you?” That question hung in the air like a lit fuse.

Stack tilted his head and greedily took in Alexi’s figure. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Smoke answered, his voice a low, lethal hum. “On whether you keep lyin’.”

“I’m not,” she huffed, dragging the words out like a spoiled child. “I swear I’m not.”

The silence that followed was long and awful. Then, at last, Smoke exhaled deeply and reached up to loosen his tie. It fell away from his collar like a sigh. “We need answers, lil girl,” he said. “An ‘till we get ‘em, we stay here.”

Alexi’s brows lifted. “Wait. Stay? As in… here? With me?”

Smoke didn’t bother answering her right away. His eyes cut sharp across the room before taking in every inch of her. Weird colored socks planted stubbornly on a weird floor, arms crossed tight over her chest in a weird looking nightgown, and a mouth twisted in disbelief like she didn’t know how to address a man like him. She wasn’t like any woman he was used to dealing with and he was becoming more annoyed by the second while pulling off his coat.

Alexi’s breath snagged. “You can’t be serious,” she blurted. “This isn’t a boarding house. I don’t even… WAIT! Look, I can pay for you to stay somewhere else, okay? I’ll get you an Airbnb—nice view, clean sheets—”

“Air… what?” Stack murmured, his brow crinkling.

“‘Bee an bee,’” Smoke echoed, low and disinterested. He tossed his coat over the back of her pristine couch, already turning away like her words were gnats buzzing near his ear.

“It’s a rental! A place to sleep that isn’t my home!” Alexi whined, spinning on her heel to follow him as both men began to move through her penthouse like they owned the place. “You can’t just… HEY! STOPPP! This is MY space!”

But they didn’t stop. Stack’s polished shoes tapped across her floor as he trailed his twin, fingers giddily gliding across her countertops, poking into drawers, plucking items like a child in a toy store. He turned her electric kettle upside down and shook it like it owed him money. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s not a weapon, it’s for tea!” she barked, yanking it out of his hands. “Jesus! Stop touching everything!”

Smoke said nothing. His steps were slow and deliberate and his gun was already back in his hand. Not pointed, but heavy and ever-present in his palm as he swept into her hallway.

Alexi stormed after them, her oversized shirt swishing angrily around her upper thighs. “You’re both out of your damn minds! I don’t know what sort of Wild West fantasy you think this is, but this is my apartment and you are not allowed to just squat here!”

“You talk too much,” Smoke muttered, tone dry as dust. “Shut the fuck up.”

She halted mid-step. The words cracked across the air like a whip. He didn’t even glance back, just opened a door, peeked in, checked corners, and moved on. He treated her like she was background noise… like she wasn’t even there.

Stack turned to her with a lazy shrug. “He don’t mean it, sweetheart. He just don’t like unknowns. Ain’t nothin’ personal.”

“This is personal,” she growled. “He’s in my goddamn home with a gun telling me to ‘shut the fuck up’!”

“Exactly.” Smoke’s voice came from further down the hall now. “Which mean it’s mine an you listen to me ‘til I say otherwise.”

She chased the sound, catching up to find him standing outside her bedroom. Smoke’s hand reached for the doorknob and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“No!” Alexi darted forward and threw herself in front of the door, planting both hands on the frame like her, ‘pilates every other Tuesday’ body could stop him. “Absolutely not. You DON’T get to go in there.”

Smoke’s gaze slid down to meet hers, dark and silent. She could feel the air constricting, coiling tighter and tighter. Then, without giving another warning he raised his pistol and the barrel kissed her forehead. She felt her soul leave her body as her spine went rigid, her heart started to hammer like it was going to jump out of her chest, and her throat became dry as ash.

“Move lil’ girl.”

Her voice caught in her throat, but she held her ground. “I told you… no… you don’t get to go in there… And I’m not a ‘lil’ girl!”

Stack, behind him, tilted his head in interest and instigated the situation. “Maybe she got a man in there, Smoke”

“If she do, I’ll shoot him,” Smoke said flatly, eyes still locked on Alexi’s.

“I live alone,” she hissed. “There’s no one in there. It’s just my space and it’s private.”

His finger ghosted over the trigger. “You want me to believe you?” he asked, voice as sharp and filled with disbelief. “Then you let me see foe’ myself.”

She didn’t flinch. Not even as the cool metal pressed deeper into her mocha skin. Her eyes blazed. “You want answers?” she whispered. “Then stop acting like a fucking villain and ask like an adult.”

For the first time, something flickered in his stare just for a breath. Recognition, maybe. Or rage. Who knows. But it vanished just as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by that same calm brutality. “Stack,” he said.

His brother moved up beside them, suddenly all charm gone from his face. There was a hidden message in the way Smoke said his twin's name. He was watching her too now. Serious and coiled like a predator ready to toy with its prey.

She stood alone, but she still didn’t move.

Smoke exhaled. “Three seconds.”

“Or what?”

“One—you get shot. Two—ya’ door get kicked in. Three—”

“Stop!” she shouted, stepping aside at last. Fury, fear and exhaustion came crashing down all at once. “Just… go. But if you break one thing in there, I swear to God…”

Alexi stood just outside her bedroom, arms stiff at her sides while her fingers twitched with the effort of not clawing the doorframe. From inside, she could hear the low thump of drawers opening, the scrape of hangers sliding across the metal bar in her closet, the rustle of fabric being disturbed by hands that didn’t belong in her space.

And then, she heard a sound… that sound… a faint high-pitched hum. Followed by silence so sharp it pierced the air like a sword. Her blood froze before she shoved open the door. Smoke stood in the center of her bedroom, a hulking shadow in the lamplight, backlit by the faint silver spill of moonlight and city backdrop through the sheer curtains. In one hand, he held her pink vibrator. The long, curved silicone shape looked obscene in his large palm. It was out of place, too modern, too intimate. His thumb rested on the base, where a single button still glowed faintly red.

He was staring at it. No—studying it. Like a weapon. Like a quantum physics equation that needed to be solved.

“PUT THAT DOWN!” Alexi’s voice tore from her throat before she even knew she was moving.

She lunged for him, arms outstretched, but Smoke being a soldier was faster and stronger. His arm extended smoothly, raising the toy just above her reach and he didn’t even have to shift his weight. She collided with his chest, hands scrambling to reclaim what was hers, but it was like hitting a wall of stone.

“Back the fuck up,” he warned, low and quiet.

The air in Alexi’s throat snagged like silk on thorns. She took an instinctive step back, eyes flashing. Her heart was slamming so hard against her ribs she could feel it in her neck.

“That’s mine,” she hissed. “It’s private.”

Smoke’s eyes drifted back to the toy. The faint buzz had stopped, but his attention remained fixed.

“What is it?” Stack’s voice came from behind her now. His posture was still lazy but his eyes were sharper than before.

Alexi’s cheeks flamed. “It’s none of your business.”

Smoke didn’t even look at her. “It move,” he said, almost to himself. “Got a hum in it. But it ain’t no weapon. Ain’t no blade. Ain’t got no trigger.”

“It’s not a weapon,” Alexi spat, arms crossed tight over her chest. “It’s a damn vibrator.”

Stack squinted. “A what?”

Smoke finally looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes moved over her like a clock ticking down. He finally noticed the oversized shirt clinging to her curves. Her bare legs that looked soft enough to sleep on and that fire in her glare.

He held up the toy. “What’s it foe’?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Alexi clenched her jaw, heat crawling up her neck, and said through gritted teeth, “It’s for pleasuring yourself.”

Smoke blinked once before tilting his head, as if trying to make sense of a foreign language. “Pleasurin’ yaself?” he repeated, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, arms folded tighter. “It’s mine. It’s for me.”

A beat of silence passed and then Smoke laughed. It was a quiet, joyless sound that didn’t touch his eyes. He took a step forward, still holding the device, and stared down at her like she was some kind of sick joke.

“You that pretty,” he said, voice like bloodily thorns, “a you layin’ up in this glass box gettin’ off with toys?” Alexi didn’t respond and he pushed the issue further. “Ain’t got a man?”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice cracked. “No.”

“You fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered, more to himself than her like he finally cracked a code. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but something darker. “Makes sense. That why you keep talkin’ to me like I won’t put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull? Must be why you brought us here.”

Her nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice low. “No man in ya’ bed. No discipline in ya’ mouth. No sense in ya’ head.”

Alexi laughed at Smoke's audacity. “You think I need a man to control me?”

“I think you need somethin’,” he said, stepping into her space again. “You act like a damn child. Spoiled. Loud. And very disrespectful.”

Alexi’s spine stiffened. “I don’t owe you shit,” she barked. “You teleport into my house, you threaten me, you wave guns around like it’s 1920 and I’m supposed to what? Shut up and smile? Be grateful you’re ransacking my room instead of putting a bullet in my head?”

Smoke didn’t blink. “I’on like the way you talk.”

“And I don’t like the way you breathe, nigga,” she snapped. “Wanna start counting again?”

Smoke’s voice dipped into a register so cold it made the air shift. “You ain’t nothin’ but a beautiful waste of woman. I see why you lonely.”

A slap came from her hand and it landed across Smoke’s cheek before she even realized she’d done it. The sound cracked like a whip in the air. Stack, who was standing behind Alexi, went completely still and Smoke didn’t flinch. He sucked his teeth slowly, then turned his face back toward her, eyes narrowing just slightly. He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t reach for his gun.

But the air between them died. And when he spoke, it was quiet. Razor-sharp. “You value ya’ life?”

Alexi swallowed, but didn’t look away. Her lips were still parted, her chest heaving with breath.

“You wrote me,” he said, voice low and lethal. “That’s what you said, right, lil’ girl? You wrote me.”

Her throat tightened.

“Then tell me,” he continued, gaze slicing through her like a scalpel, “did you write that I’d let a woman lay hands on me an live?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“I killed a man for talkin’ outta turn,” he said, almost conversational now. “Slit another’s throat for steppin’ in my way. Shot a boy through the eye just ‘cause I ain’t like his stare. You think I wouldn’t kill you for hittin’ me?”

Alexi took a step back and was met with the muscled wall of Stack.

“You think I give a fuck ‘bout ya’ softness? Ya’ lips? You think ya’ little bare legs an smart mouth make you untouchable?”

Stack’s voice cut in low but thunderous. “Smoke.” And then he stepped forward keeping his eyes on his twin. “That’s enough.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His eyes were still on her.

“She don’t know where the line is,” Stack said, voice like gravel. “But we do.”

Smoke’s lips parted. A breath passed between his teeth like a dragon cooling itself down before setting a city ablaze. Then he turned and dropped the vibrator on her bed without looking at it. Let it fall limp and silent into the rumpled sheets like it was nothing more than a joke that had run its course. Alexi stood in the same spot, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear anything else. Her palms were damp. Her knees were shaking.

Smoke passed her like a shadow, shoulder brushing hers as he moved. Stack lingered a moment longer. His gaze, once playful, was sharp and focused. He looked at her not like a fantasy but like a woman who had just stepped into the jaws of something she couldn’t tame.

“You talk like you ain’t ever been put in ya’ place,” he said quietly. “But if you keep on, sweetheart… one of us might teach you.” Then he followed his brother into the hallway, and the door closed behind them.

Alexi stood alone in the middle of her bedroom, the silence wrapped tight around her throat. She knew something had changed. She hadn’t just brought killers to life. She had summoned storms.

Authors Note: TOLD YALL KNEEGAS I WOULD FIGURE OUT HOW TO BRING THESE MEN TO LIFE… OC might be a self insert *cough* or not *cough*

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed for this series… yes… I said series…)

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @iceyyycapsicle @honeytoffee @joonseuph0ria @desire4ella @li-da-savage

#sinners #sinners fic #sinners fanfiction #sinners movie #smoke x oc #smoke fanfiction #smoke smut #stack x oc #stack fanfiction #stack fic #smoke fic #smoke stack twins #smoke x stack x oc #smoke fanfic #elijah smoke moore #elias stack moore #stack smut #stack fanfic #smoke and stack

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cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Note

I have so many thoughts but listen 🥺 (walk with me) Max and Charles and their childhood best friend. (Max and Charles realizing they are both in love with her and each other) Thank you for listening ❤️😌

realization — cl16 & mv1

written blurbs

charles leclerc x !childhood best friend reader x max verstappen

in which charles and max finally admit what they’ve been pushing off for years— their love for you and each other.

(a/n) : i got many messages about lestappen x reader that I just decided to post this. ive had it for a while i just dunno if i like it or not. AND. JUST REACHED 2K SOOOOOO

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

flashback — monaco, age 11

You’re sticky with sweat and sunscreen, your knees scraped from crashing into the curb on your skateboard again—but you don’t care. You’re chasing after Max and Charles down the winding hill behind your building, hair flying, heart pounding, laughing like the sun will never set.

Max is ahead, his wild blond curls bouncing as he runs, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, slowpokes!”

Charles huffs next to you, breathless and flushed. “He cheats,” he says between pants. “He always goes before we’re ready.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” you grin, and yank his sleeve as you run past him, both of you giggling like it’s your full-time job.

By the time you reach Max, he’s sprawled on the grass in front of the bakery, waiting with that smug little smirk that makes you want to kick him and hug him at the same time.

You collapse between them, your legs tangled in theirs, all three of you covered in grass stains and dried lemonade. The smell of croissants and melted asphalt floats around you.

“I’m gonna marry both of you when we’re older,” you say, not even thinking. Just tossing the words into the air like confetti.

Max snorts. “That’s not how it works.”

Charles turns pink. “Why not?”

Max looks at you, shrugs. “I guess if it’s you, it could work.”

Your heart does a weird little jump. You’re too young to understand what it means, but old enough to feel the warmth settle in your chest.

Later, when the sun dips below the buildings and the sky turns peach and lilac, you walk home sandwiched between them. Max keeps bumping your shoulder on purpose. Charles holds your hand without a word.

You look at them and think— We’ll be together forever.

—

karting track, age 14

You’re sitting alone on the bleachers, helmet at your feet, fingers still buzzing from the last heat. The sun is starting to dip low, casting long shadows across the track, and the air smells like rubber, fuel, and sweat.

Max and Charles are nowhere to be seen.

You try not to let it bother you—but it does.

The three of you were always inseparable. Always. But lately… it’s like they’ve started circling each other like fire and ice. Sometimes you’re caught in the middle, and sometimes they leave you behind entirely, like now.

You spot them down by the garage, deep in conversation. Max’s posture is tense, arms crossed over his chest, while Charles gestures wildly with his hands. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but it doesn’t look friendly.

A few minutes later, Charles storms off in one direction and Max heads toward the track. Right toward you.

He doesn’t look at you as he sits beside you. Just reaches down and grabs your water bottle, drinks like he’s dying, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

You wait.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” you ask softly.

Max doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks, his eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. “He said you like him.”

The words hit like a slap.

You blink. “What?”

Max finally turns to you. His voice is low, steady, but there’s something wounded behind his usual sharpness. “He said you like him. And that I need to back off.”

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is… sometimes, when Charles smiles at you like you’re made of light, your stomach flips. And other times, when Max leans too close, when his voice drops and his eyes spark, you can’t breathe.

You’re 14 and confused and overwhelmed and you wish someone would just tell you what to feel.

So you deflect.

“I didn’t say that,” you mumble. “I didn’t say anything.”

Max laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already decided.”

You glance down at your hands. “And what have you decided?”

That catches him off guard. He looks at you, eyes stormy, unreadable. And for a second, you think he might say something—really say something. But then he looks away again.

“I don’t want to fight with him,” he mutters. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your heart aches.

You reach out without thinking and place your hand on top of his. His fingers twitch but don’t pull away. “You’re not going to lose me, Max.”

He squeezes your hand just once before letting go.

You sit in silence as the last race of the day rolls by, engines roaring, hearts racing, everything unsaid heavy in the air between you.

—

age 17 (pls just pretend that the timing make sense)

The day Max debuts in Formula 1, you’re in Barcelona, sitting in the Toro Rosso garage with a lanyard that feels too heavy around your neck. Cameras flash, journalists chatter in every language, and Max—your Max—is standing tall in a fireproof suit, grinning like the world is finally recognizing what you’ve always known.

You should be ecstatic. You are. Sort of.

He looks over at you just before climbing into the car, eyes locking with yours, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. You give him a shaky thumbs-up, and he nods like that’s all he needs.

But your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you know who isn’t here.

Charles.

He’s back in Monaco. At a funeral. His father died yesterday. You weren’t there. You couldn’t be.

You’d promised Max you’d be in Barcelona months ago, long before anyone knew what was coming. Long before Charles’ world shattered in one quiet, sudden moment.

You texted him. Called him. Begged him to let you come home.

He didn’t reply. Not at first.

When he finally did, it was just—

I don’t want you to miss his debut. He’s your friend too. Just… come back soon, okay?

It broke your heart. Because Charles Leclerc doesn’t ask for much. Never has. And when he does, it’s always too quietly. Too late.

You try to focus on the race, on Max tearing through the track with the same furious brilliance you’ve seen since he was 10. He finishes in the points. Reporters flood him. His team cheers. You want to run to him, to celebrate—but your phone buzzes with a new text.

He’s gone, YN. It doesn’t feel real.

Suddenly, all the noise around you becomes muffled, like someone shoved your head underwater.

You slip away from the garage without saying goodbye.

When you finally make it back to Monaco the next morning, you go straight to Charles’ apartment. You use the spare key under the planter—he always joked it was there for you, not for emergencies.

He’s sitting on the couch, surrounded by crumpled tissues and silence.

The moment he sees you, he crumbles.

You drop everything and pull him into your arms. He doesn’t cry, not like most people cry. It’s quiet, almost reverent—the kind of grief that steals the breath from your lungs. His arms wrap around you like a lifeline, like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

“I should’ve come,” you whisper, fingers in his hair.

“You did,” he says hoarsely. “You’re here now.”

You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the sunlight to shift across the walls. Long enough to feel your own throat ache.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“Max did good, huh?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

A long pause.

“I’m happy for him,” Charles murmurs, “but it’s hard not to wonder why some of us keep losing everything while others just… keep rising.”

You press your forehead to his. “You haven’t lost everything.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that. Like you might be the only thing left tethering him to this world.

Later, when you’re making him tea and digging through his cupboards for something edible, your phone lights up with a call from Max.

You stare at it.

You love them both so differently, and so much.

But right now, only one of them needs you.

So you let the call go to voicemail, turn off your phone, and go back to the boy whose heart has just been split open.

You sit beside Charles on the couch and tuck your legs beneath you. He leans against your shoulder like he did when you were twelve, when he first told you he wanted to race for Ferrari. You put your arm around him and hold him like you’ll never let go.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. He doesn’t have to.

Neither do you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

present day!

The café is tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, the kind of place tourists don’t stumble into, where the waiter doesn’t ask for a name—he just smiles and brings your usual. You’re already seated when they arrive, Max and Charles, ten minutes late and bickering lightly as they always do.

“She said noon,” Charles is saying as he drops into the chair beside you, already stealing an olive from your plate. “Which means twelve o’clock, Verstappen.”

Max slides into the seat across from you, sunglasses perched on his head, hair a little too tousled to be accidental. “Twelve is a suggestion, not a law.”

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “You’re both late. I should’ve invited Susie instead.”

Max leans forward, smirking. “You like her better than us now?”

“I mean,” you tease, “she listens to me. Shows up on time. Hasn’t crashed into anyone lately.”

Charles puts a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch.”

You grin, and just like that, the rhythm returns. It always does. No matter how much time passes or how many races come and go or how many relationships fall apart between the three of you… when you sit at this table, it’s like nothing’s changed.

The waiter brings drinks—sparkling water for Charles, coffee for Max, your favorite tea. You sip slowly as they talk about the last few weeks. Charles is still glowing from a podium. Max is unusually smug about a private test day in Austria that no one was supposed to know about. You let them talk, occasionally chiming in, occasionally just watching.

They’re older now. Sharper in some ways. Softer in others. Charles still gestures with his hands when he talks, like he’s conducting a symphony. Max still pretends he doesn’t care and then immediately contradicts himself with how much he does.

And you? You’re different too. Busier. Stronger. Fiercer than you were at seventeen. You’ve been building something with Susie Wolff that matters—mentoring girls, creating space, shifting the foundation of motorsport one step at a time. Still, when you’re with them, you feel like that girl again. The one who loved them both so much it sometimes made her chest ache.

“So,” Charles says after the food arrives, breaking a comfortable silence, “how’s your calendar looking? There’s a gala next weekend, FIA nonsense, but they’re doing a tribute for the Academy. Thought you might be there.”

“Invited, yes. Going?” You shrug. “Depends if I survive another board call with a room full of men who think Susie and I are ornamental.”

Max snorts into his drink. “Do they want to die? Be honest.”

You laugh. “One of them called me ‘darling’ last week. I didn’t even flinch. Just told him to shut up and open the report.”

Charles raises his glass like a toast. “That’s my girl.”

There’s a pause. You feel it. That old flicker. The way his eyes linger just a little too long. The way Max’s gaze shifts—like he noticed, like he always does. You look between them and smile, soft around the edges.

“Missed you both,” you admit. “It’s been too long.”

Max’s voice is quieter than expected. “You’ve been busy changing the world.”

Charles bumps your shoulder. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean you can vanish on us.”

You lean back in your chair, sun warming your face. “I never vanish. You two just get distracted with your supermodels and your drama.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Ex-supermodels, thank you.”

Charles just laughs and says nothing. The truth is, they’ve both had relationships that fizzled before they even sparked. People who didn’t understand the way they orbit each other. People who didn’t understand you. It’s always been the three of you. It still is.

You talk for two hours. About nothing and everything. Max makes you laugh until you snort, Charles insists on ordering dessert “for the table” and eats half of it before anyone else can touch it. You wipe powdered sugar off the corner of his mouth and pretend not to notice the way Max watches you when you do.

It’s easy. It’s warm. It’s home. As you get up to leave, Charles grabs your hand, just for a second. He squeezes it. Max doesn’t say anything. He just walks close, shoulder brushing yours more than once, like he can’t help it.

You wonder—not for the first time—if the three of you are just waiting for the right moment. If you’ve all been circling something inevitable for years.

And maybe… maybe that moment is closer than any of you realize.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

charles’ moment of realization!

It’s late. One of those Monaco nights where the sky is velvet and the water outside the window looks like melted obsidian. You’re at Charles’ place—because Max is in Italy for sim work, and you’re both too exhausted to be alone. There’s a movie playing in the background, something neither of you is really watching. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, legs stretched across Charles’ lap, nursing a glass of wine. He’s absently tracing patterns on your calf with the tips of his fingers.

You don’t flinch. You never do. It’s always been like this with you—touch without thinking, comfort without caution. That’s what makes it dangerous. He looks at you—really looks—and it hits him so suddenly, so fully, that it actually makes his breath catch. He’s in love with you.

Not in the distant, adolescent way he used to tell himself didn’t count. Not in the playful way he used to flirt to hide what he really meant. No. This is real. Bone-deep. Quiet. Terrifying.

You glance at him. “What?”

He blinks, startled. “Nothing.”

You smile softly, lazy, content. “You’re staring.”

“I always stare at beautiful things,” he says without thinking.

And for once, you don’t tease him for it. You just look at him—eyes soft, unreadable—and then turn back to the screen. He can’t breathe. He thinks about Max. About the way you laugh more when he’s around. About the way Max touches your back without thinking, how your eyes always find his first after a race. About the way Charles’ heart doesn’t ache with jealousy when he sees it—it just aches.

Because it’s both of you. He loves Max, too. He always has. Not in the way he was told to. Not with fire and declarations—but with steadiness. With awe. With understanding so complete it feels like silence between them is its own language.

And suddenly, it makes sense. Why no one else has ever measured up. Why every relationship he’s had has ended with restlessness in his chest and a name on his tongue that wasn’t his partner’s.

Why watching you and Max dance around each other has never made him want to stop it—just… join it. His fingers still on your skin. He wants to tell you. He wants to grab his phone and text Max. He wants to break the rules of whatever unspoken thing the three of you have built and just say it— But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you, your eyes fluttering shut as you relax into the couch. He memorizes the curve of your cheek, the way you mumble something soft in your sleep. The trust in the way you’ve let your guard down here. And then he leans his head back against the couch and whispers into the dark—

“I think I’m in love with both of you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. And in the silence that follows, he doesn’t feel scared. He just feels sure.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

max’s moment of realization!

It’s the night before the Dutch Grand Prix, and you’re with Max in his driver’s room—feet tucked under you on the couch, laptop in your lap, hair damp from the shower. He’s pacing. Not because he’s nervous about the race. You know Max. He doesn’t pace for pressure. He paces when he’s trying not to feel something.

“You okay?” you ask, eyes flicking up.

He stops, runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know.”

You close the laptop and pat the space beside you. “Sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

He does. Not immediately. But eventually. Max always comes back to you. When he sits, his thigh presses against yours. You don’t move away. You never do. He stares at the floor, jaw clenched, brows furrowed like he’s in a head-to-head battle with his own thoughts.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him, he says—

“Do you ever think we ruined ourselves for other people?”

You turn to look at him slowly. “What?”

“You, me, Charles…” He’s still not looking at you. “I mean—we grew up together. We saw everything. Every win. Every loss. Every ugly, messy part of each other. Maybe that’s why no one else ever feels right.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

You reach for his hand before you can stop yourself. “I don’t think we’re ruined, Max.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And something shatters in his expression. Because there it is. The truth he’s been avoiding. The reason no one else ever sticks. The reason you and Charles are the only people who’ve ever seen every piece of him—and stayed.

He’s in love with you. And with Charles. It’s always been both. Not some passing phase, not a blurred memory of childhood affection. No. It’s clear now—stark and soft all at once, like the crash of waves on the shore.

You tilt your head at him gently. “Max?”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. His eyes flick down to your hand, still wrapped around his. Your fingers curled loosely over his knuckles. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. But right now, he can’t say it. Not yet. Because if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. And once it’s real, he’s afraid it might break the fragile thing the three of you still have. The thing you’ve somehow managed to keep, despite everything.

So instead, he just leans into you. Lets his shoulder brush yours. Lets the silence stretch, not awkward, not uncomfortable—just full. You don’t press him. You never do.

You just sit there, legs tangled, hands linked, the low hum of the night buzzing around you like a secret you both already know. And when he finally falls asleep—with his head tilted toward yours, breaths even—you don’t move. Because even if he didn’t say the words, you felt them. And maybe… that’s enough. For now.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

It’s pouring in Budapest. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain—the cold, messy kind that turns paddock walkways into puddles and curls your hair no matter how carefully you styled it this morning.

You and Charles are hiding out in one of the Ferrari hospitality rooms, waiting out the storm before media. He’s laughing at something you said, eyes soft, hair still damp from the sprint debrief, and for a moment, it feels like you’re both sixteen again—tucked into a bench in Monaco, hiding from curfews and the future. You wipe a raindrop from his cheek, almost without thinking.

“You always get water in your eyelashes,” you murmur. “How?”

Charles grins. “Because I’m cinematic.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand lingers on his face a moment too long. Just then, the door creaks open. You look up—and freeze. Max.

He’s standing in the doorway, Red Bull hoodie soaked through, eyes already fixed on the two of you. On your hand on Charles’ face. On the quiet closeness of the moment. Your hand drops instantly.

Charles straightens, startled. “Max—”

But Max is already backing away, expression unreadable.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mutters, voice clipped. “Looks like you two are busy.”

And then he’s gone.

—

You don’t see him for the rest of the day.

He misses media. Misses dinner. Leaves all your texts on read.

And you know Max—he doesn’t avoid confrontation. Not unless he’s hurt.

Not unless he thinks he’s already lost.

—

It’s two days before any of you see him again.

Charles finds him first, late at night, in the back corner of the hotel gym. No music, no lights, just Max methodically punishing himself on the rowing machine like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“Talk to me,” Charles says gently.

Max doesn’t stop.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’ve been avoiding us.”

“No, I’ve been busy.”

“Max.”

Finally, Max lets the handle snap back. He stands, pacing, drenched in sweat and frustration and something achingly sad.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I saw,” he bites out.

Charles blinks. “You mean… in the lounge?”

Max scoffs, bitter. “It’s fine. Really. I always knew it would be you two in the end.”

“Don’t do that,” Charles says quietly.

“What?”

“Act like you’re not part of this.”

Max turns to him, eyes sharp and angry. “What the hell does that mean?”

But before Charles can answer—you walk in. You’d been looking for both of them. The second you saw the room light on, your feet had carried you here on instinct. You stop in the doorway, breath caught in your throat.

Max looks between you and Charles, jaw tight. “Perfect. The happy couple.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?” he spits. “Isn’t it true? You looked pretty damn happy together. I just got in the way.”

“You didn’t,” Charles says fiercely. “You never did.”

Max shakes his head, stepping back. “I should’ve known. It’s always been like this—me watching the two of you, pretending I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

The silence is thunderous. And then you speak—quiet, trembling.

“You’re not watching, Max. You are in the middle of it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

You step forward. “I wasn’t touching Charles that day because I chose him over you. I was touching him because I love him. And I love you too. I’ve been trying to figure out what that means for years.”

Charles is beside you now, voice low but steady.

“We didn’t choose each other over you. We were just waiting for you to stop holding it all in.”

Max stares at you both like you’ve just spoken in a language he’s never dared to learn.

“I—” he falters, breath catching. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want that. Both of you. Together.”

You smile through the sting in your throat. “You are.”

And then Charles moves first. He walks up to Max, slow and careful, and reaches for his hand. Doesn’t force anything. Just holds it. Max looks down at their linked fingers, then up at you—standing there, open, waiting.

And something cracks. Not painfully. Not like before. It cracks like sunlight through storm clouds. He takes one step forward. Then another. Then he’s kissing you.

Not desperately. Not angrily. Just… finally. You feel Charles at your back, his arms wrapping around both of you, pressing a kiss to your temple as Max rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath trembling.

And for the first time in a long, long time— No one pulls away.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The light filters in through linen curtains, warm and golden and so soft it almost feels like a dream. You blink awake slowly, blinking past the haze of sleep and finding yourself pressed between two heartbeats. Charles is curled behind you, arm slung lazily over your waist, nose tucked into your shoulder. Max is in front of you, eyes still closed, one hand cradling your hip, the other resting somewhere between the sheets and Charles’ arm.

It’s the quietest morning you can remember. No alarm. No paddock chaos. No rushing. Just warmth, and the sound of three people breathing in sync. You shift just a little, and Max’s fingers twitch where they’re holding you. He stirs, opens one eye, and gives you the faintest, sleep-rough smile.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he rasps.

Behind you, Charles hums softly, still half-asleep. “Too early.”

Max grins. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”

You laugh under your breath and let your fingers trace a slow line across Max’s collarbone. Everything about this feels surreal. Not because it’s wild or unfamiliar—but because it feels so right. So simple. So inevitable. Max watches you, eyes soft and unguarded in a way they never are outside of this bed.

“You are not imagining this, by the way,” he says, voice lower now. “I checked.”

You smile. “So did I.”

Charles shifts, lifting his head just enough to kiss your shoulder. Then, without opening his eyes, he reaches across you and lets his hand settle over Max’s.

“Why would we ever have to leave this bed? Can we just stay?” he mumbles.

Max snorts. “I give it two days. Before your PR team sends out a missing persons report.”

Charles groans dramatically and buries his face in your back. You laugh, tilting your head to press a kiss to Max’s forehead. Then one to Charles’ arm. Your hands are tangled with theirs beneath the blanket, warm and steady. You should be overwhelmed. You should be terrified of what comes next. But you’re not. You’re calm. Loved. Held.

Max brushes his thumb across your side. “This is going to change everything.”

You nod, forehead resting against his. “Good.”

Charles lifts his head again, eyes a little clearer now. He looks at you. Then at Max.

“Can we just… promise something?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“That no matter how complicated this gets… we don’t run again.”

You hold Charles’ hand tighter. “We stay.”

Max meets both your eyes, something in his chest again—but this time, it doesn’t hurt.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither are you.

And in the quiet, golden morning, for the first time in all your years together, the love is no longer unspoken. It just is. Always has been. Always will be.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

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