#I hope we get to do this every now and again. I hope more remains get identified and we learn more and can continue to bring some closure

[cheftsunoda]

can you write a story on a sainz sister dating charles leclerc after divorcing max verstappen with whom she has a kid which leads to drama at the paddock.

karma wears prada — cl16

smau + written blurbs

charles leclerc x !sainz reader

max verstappen x !ex sainz reader

you were pop royalty — platinum records, sold-out stadiums, your voice on every chart and every stage. he was formula 1’s golden boy — fast, ruthless, worshipped by millions. you married in secret. you had a daughter. you built a quiet world of your own, away from headlines and cameras. and for a while, it was perfect. until it wasn’t.

when the truth came out — first as a rumor, then a photo, then undeniable — you packed your bags, held your baby close, and walked away from the man who promised you forever. you thought you’d have to face the fallout alone. you didn’t expect charles leclerc.

your brother’s teammate. his best friend. the one who never looked at you like you were broken. the one who made your daughter laugh before you could smile again. now, the paddock is on fire — caught between loyalty and betrayal, rage and whispers, broken hearts and new beginnings. and as the world watches, one question remains:

can you start over when the whole world is still watching the wreckage?

fc : kali uchis (i have vip tickets to see kali in less than a month in a half!!! my motherrrrr) (also used some pics of alexandra teehee)

before you read + (a/n): hiiii pookie!! took me forever to perfect this so i hope you enjoy!! max is lowkey an asshole in this so im soz and carlos is still w ferrari because in my mind i never had to go through that divorce too :) alsooo no hate to kelly, anything said is just for the purpose of my fictional nonsense.

—

deuxmoi

5,702,005 likes.

deuxmoi : yep. this one is reallllll messy. and we still have yet to get to the bottom of it. stay tuned.

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view 789,000 other comments.

username000 : max CHEATED on THE yn sainz??? oh he’s never finishing a race again i fear 😭

username00 : kelly piquet must have a punch card at this point. one more and she gets a free f1 car

liked by deuxmoi and yn_sainz

↳ username00 : oop our queen is here. confirmation?

username0 : carlos is going to body slam him in the paddock.

username1 : she gave birth like a YEAR AGO. men are actual demons. protect yn at all costs.

username5 : i just KNOW her breakup album is gonna end careers. drop the tracklist queen xx

username7 : carlos unfollowing max and then reposting an old pic of yn with her daughter?? family comes FIRST 😤

username10 : she gave him a marriage, a child, and silence. and he gave her kelly piquet.

username11 : i just KNOW the group chat with carmen, alexandra, and lily is on fire right now.

username15 : can’t wait for the ‘you fumbled the woman everyone wanted’ edits. they’re loading as we speak.

—

flashback

monaco, 2:12am

You shouldn’t be awake. You’re rocking your daughter gently in the crook of your arm, whispering half remembered lullabies against her soft hair. She’s teething again. Clingier than usual. You don’t mind. It gives you something to do. Something to hold onto.

Your phone buzzes on the counter — a quiet vibration you almost ignore. But something in you, some sliver of unease that’s been growing for months now, makes you look. It’s a DM. From a name you don’t recognize. You open it.

I’m sorry if this is overstepping but… I didn’t know you and Max were still together. He told me you were separated. I wouldn’t have— You don’t deserve this.

There’s a screenshot. A message thread. A photo. Your husband. Smiling. Someone else’s hand on his jaw. Time slows. Your daughter fusses in your arms. You stare at the screen and feel nothing. Not right away. Just a long, slow ache in your chest, like something is pressing down and refusing to let go.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You press a kiss to your daughter’s temple and whisper, “Okay, baby. Okay. We’re leaving.”

—

Four hours later, the sun is barely up when the car arrives. You move quietly, deliberately, packing only what you need. You don’t leave a note. You don’t send a message. You take your daughter, her favorite stuffed animal, your passport, and disappear.

By the time Max wakes up to an empty apartment, you’re already on a flight to Ibiza.

No PR statement. No explanations. Just silence.

And the beginning of something new. For you. For your child.

—

the next morning

ibiza – 8:06 AM

The villa is too quiet. It sits tucked away in the hills, ocean just visible beyond the terrace, sun pouring into the white-washed kitchen. There’s a stillness here that makes your heart ache.

Your daughter sits in her high chair, fingers messy with banana, babbling to herself. She’s safe. She’s happy. She doesn’t know. You sip your coffee with trembling hands.

You haven’t turned your phone back on. Not yet. You can’t. You know the second you do, the world will rush in — agents, lawyers, team PR, headlines, Max. You want to stay in this moment just a little longer. Just you and her. The soft morning light. The sound of birds. The smell of the sea. You want silence. And for the first time in months, you have it.

—

monaco – 8:11 AM

Max wakes up to your absence like it’s a punch to the gut. At first, he thinks maybe you’ve taken the baby out for a walk. But the bed is cold. The closet is half-empty. The pacifier on the nightstand is gone.

Then he sees the open drawer. The missing passports. The baby monitor left behind. He calls you. Straight to voicemail. He calls again. Then again. He checks your location. Disabled.

Panic sets in. Not loud, but deep. Spreading. Heavy. He opens Instagram and sees it.

“Pop Star YN Sainz Allegedly Left Monaco With Daughter After Cheating Scandal – Sources Say Max Verstappen Seen With Kelly Piquet in St. Tropez”

And for the first time, it hits him: You’re not coming back.

—

madrid – 8:23 AM

Carlos nearly drops his phone when he sees the post. He reads it twice. Then again. And again. He doesn’t text you. He calls. You answer on the third ring.

“Hola?” your voice is quiet. Steady. But he knows you. He hears it. The exhaustion. The heartbreak.

“Tell me where you are.”

“Safe,” you say.

There’s a pause. You hear him breathing. Hear him trying to hold himself back.

“I’m going to kill him,” Carlos says flatly.

You almost laugh. “Get in line.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer:

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want anyone trying to talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

You believe him.

He exhales. “I’m coming to see you after the race.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Okay.”

“Love you, hermanita.”

“Love you more.”

—

present day (race day)

The baby’s asleep. You’re lying on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin, phone resting on your stomach, TV muted. The pre race coverage flickers silently on the screen — cars in garages, skycams over the grandstands, an interviewer smiling too widely. You haven’t watched anything F1 related since you left Monaco. You tell yourself it’s because you’re busy. You’re a mother. You’re tired. But really… it’s because you can’t stomach seeing him in red and blue. Can’t stomach the way the world still treats him like nothing happened. Like you didn’t. Your phone buzzes quietly.

Charles Leclerc

You stare at the screen for a moment, startled. Then swipe to answer.

“Bonjour,” you say softly.

He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a terrible accent.”

You smile for the first time in hours. “Well, I’ve had other things on my mind.”

There’s noise in the background — voices, radios, something metallic being dropped. The paddock, alive and buzzing. You picture him sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, race suit halfway on, hair messy from the helmet fitting.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he says. “Before everything gets loud.”

Your chest tightens. He sounds calm. Gentle. Not like the rest of them — who all called asking for statements, reactions, damage control.

“You really don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

Silence settles for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

“How’s the little one?” he asks.

“Asleep,” you say. “Teething still. I haven’t slept properly in four days.”

Charles hums. “You need a break.”

“I need a time machine.”

He laughs quietly. “Well, I can’t offer that. But if you ever need someone to sit with her while you nap... I’m quite good with babies, you know.”

You can’t help the warmth that spreads in your chest. “Are you?”

“I have proof. I held Pierre’s niece once and she didn’t cry.”

“That’s a low bar, Charles.”

Another soft laugh. “I’ll take what I can get.”

You glance at the screen again. They’re showing Carlos now — focused, arms crossed, deep in discussion with his engineer. Your brother. Your anchor.

“You should go,” you say gently. “It’s race day.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You’ll be watching?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why.

“Either way,” he says, voice quiet now, “I’m racing for you today.”

Your throat tightens.

“Good luck, Charles.”

“Merci, ma belle.”

The line goes quiet. The paddock fades from your ear. You sit in the stillness of the Ibiza villa, blinking at the television, heart beating a little differently than before.

—

3rd person pov

The confetti hasn’t even settled yet. Carlos is out of the car before his engineer can reach him, helmet off, jaw clenched. He doesn’t even look toward the cameras. Doesn’t acknowledge the cheers. There’s only one person in his line of sight — standing ten feet away in Red Bull gear, smug smile plastered on his face. Max. Third place. Another podium. Another reason to pretend like nothing happened. Carlos moves before anyone can stop him.

“Don’t,” Charles mutters under his breath as he tosses his own gloves down and jogs after him. “Carlos.”

But Carlos doesn’t stop. He’s already standing in front of Max, every muscle in his body pulled taut. Max turns slowly, lazily. Like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Like he thinks he’s still untouchable.

“You think I don’t know what you did?” Carlos spits, voice low but venomous.

Max shrugs. “If this is about your sister, that’s not really—”

Charles steps in fast, hand to Carlos’s chest, firm and calm. “Stop.”

“Move, Charles.”

“No.”

Carlos’s eyes flash. “He cheated on her. Lied to her. Let her disappear with his daughter and then ran off to play boyfriend with Kelly like it was nothing. And now he’s standing here like—like he deserves to celebrate anything.”

“I know,” Charles says softly. “I know. But don’t give him what he wants.”

Max scoffs. “What I want?”

Charles doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on Carlos. “You won. You raced for her today. Don’t let him take that from you.”

Carlos is shaking. But his hands curl into fists, not around Max’s collar, just at his sides.

“I need to see her,” he mutters.

Charles nods. “I was going to ask if I could come with you.”

Carlos blinks. For the first time all day, his face softens—just barely.

“You sure?”

“I promised I’d check on her,” Charles says. “I meant it.”

Carlos exhales through his nose, chest still rising and falling too fast. Behind them, Max walks away like nothing happened. Ahead of them, the exit looms — press waiting, questions brewing, cameras ready. But Carlos claps a hand to Charles’s shoulder and mutters, “Let’s get out of here.”

—

back to 2nd pov!

You weren’t expecting visitors. You’re in an old t-shirt, hair twisted into a messy bun, pacing the kitchen with your daughter on your hip, humming softly to keep her calm. The day’s been long — teething again, of course — and you’d barely kept your eyes open through the first half of the race. You didn’t even check the results. You just… didn’t have it in you today. Then your phone rings. Carlos. You answer immediately.

“I’m ten minutes away,” he says. No hello. Just that. “Don’t freak out.”

“What do you mean—? Ten minutes away from what?”

“From you.”

You blink, shifting your daughter higher on your hip. “Wait, you’re here? In Ibiza?”

“Yup.”

“Carlos—”

“And I brought someone,” he says quickly, before you can ask. “Just—open the door when we knock, okay?”

He hangs up before you can respond. Your heart stutters. You glance down at your daughter, who’s now wide-eyed and babbling softly like she knows something’s about to change. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. You open it slowly—and freeze.

Carlos stands there in a hoodie and sunglasses, like someone wouldn’t immediately recognize the British Grand Prix winner anywhere in Europe. But you’re not looking at him. Not at first. Because behind him, standing quietly, holding a small white stuffed bunny in one hand and a bag slung over his shoulder, is Charles.

Your breath catches. “Charles?”

He offers the smallest smile. “I brought her a gift. I hope that’s okay.”

You blink down at the stuffed animal. It’s the exact one she lost at the airport three weeks ago. The one she cried about for two days. You never told anyone that.

Carlos clears his throat. “I figured she could use some normal faces. And, well. I told Charles everything.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Your daughter wriggles in your arms when she sees Charles, reaching slightly, recognizing him even after weeks. Your eyes sting.

“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping aside, voice caught in your throat. “Come in.”

They do. Charles’s hand brushes lightly against your back as he walks past you — not a touch that demands anything. Just… reassurance. You glance at him, and he offers nothing but warmth.

“I made coffee,” you murmur to Carlos. “And there’s wine.”

Carlos sighs, dropping his bag and hugging you tight. “Wine. Definitely wine.”

And Charles? He stands quietly in front of you and your daughter, holding the stuffed bunny out to her like an offering.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Missed you.”

She takes the bunny with both hands and smiles. So do you.

—

The villa is quieter now. Carlos disappeared into the guest room twenty minutes ago, your daughter tucked against his chest, already half-asleep. You could hear him humming her lullabies in Spanish, the way your father used to for the both of you. You step out onto the terrace, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, glass of wine in hand. The ocean’s just a dark line in the distance, moonlight skipping over it like silver threads. The cicadas sing. The air smells like salt and jasmine.

Charles is already out there. Sitting on one of the lounge chairs, hair still damp from the quick shower he took, hoodie unzipped, legs stretched out. He looks over when you slide the door shut behind you.

“She’s out?” he asks.

You nod, sinking into the chair beside him. “Carlos has magic uncle powers.”

Charles smiles at that. “I believe it.”

Silence stretches for a few seconds — but it’s not uncomfortable. Just peaceful. Like the two of you are breathing in the same kind of relief.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you say quietly.

“I didn’t plan to,” he replies. “But when I saw how angry Carlos was… and how badly he wanted to check on you… I just knew I couldn’t stay behind.”

You glance at him. “You raced today.”

He shrugs. “I’ve raced tired before.”

“But not like this.”

Charles looks at you now. Fully. Gently. “You matter more.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t flinch or look away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t mean it. He just says it plainly, like it’s always been true.

You swallow. “It’s been a lot. Everything... It doesn’t stop, Charles. The internet. The rumors. Max’s lawyers. The press trying to bait a reaction out of me—”

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” he says. “Least of all him.”

You rest your head back, closing your eyes. “I know. But I still feel like I’m holding my breath.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You hear the soft clink of his wine glass being set down.

Then, gently: “Can I tell you something?”

You open your eyes.

“I was scared to come,” Charles admits. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t know if I’d be crossing a line.”

You look at him.

“Charles…”

“I know you’re not ready for anything. And I’m not asking you to be. But I meant what I said — I care about you. I care about her. I didn’t come here because I want something. I came because I wanted to make sure you knew you’re not alone.”

Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You don’t say anything. Just reach out and place your hand over his on the armrest. It’s small. Barely anything. But his thumb brushes your knuckles, and that says everything. You sit there in silence, wrapped in the warmth of the night, the waves humming in the distance, the feeling of something steady blooming slowly between you.

—

yn_sainz

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, franciscagomes and 7,777,000 others.

yn_sainz : thankful for all these angels and blessings i have in my life. more from me soon<3 promise you.

tagged : charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and iamrebeccad

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user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : YN SAINZ POSTS FIRST PHOTO DUMP SINCE SPLIT — CHARLES SPOTTED WITH HER DAUGHTER 👀 popstar yn sainz just broke her silence with a photo dump from ibiza, including a very cozy shot of charles leclerc holding her baby (!!). caption? "thankful for all these angels and blessings i have in my life. more from me soon<3 promise you."

yeah. the internet is NOT okay rn.

—

view replies.

username00 : the fact that she said “angels” and included carlos, the baby, rebecca and CHARLES???? that’s a family post. that’s a FAMILY.

username88 : i just know max opened instagram, saw that pic, and walked straight into a wall

username000 : she really said “i'm healing, i’m glowing, and he’s helping raise the baby you forgot existed.” iconic behavior.

username15 : her dropping this after weeks of silence like she didn’t just emotionally flatten everyone??? girl i’m on the FLOOR.

username17 : charles is not the rebound. charles is the healing arc. charles is the redemption story. charles is the HOME.

—

The smell of coffee and fresh bread pulls you out of sleep. You pad into the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of Carlos’s oversized Ferrari tees and your daughter balanced lazily on your hip. Her hair’s a mess of curls and dreams, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes already scanning the room.

Charles is standing at the stove. In sweatpants. No shirt. Just barefoot, sleepy, and completely at home — flipping pancakes with one hand while balancing a bottle of milk against his side.

Carlos is at the table, cutting strawberries. He glances up and grins. “Good morning, madre superiora.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make me throw something at you.”

Before he can fire back, another voice chimes in from behind the island.

“Don’t encourage her, Carlos.”

You blink as Rebecca, your brother’s longtime girlfriend, emerges holding two mugs of coffee — somehow already fully dressed and glowing like she’s just stepped off a Vogue shoot. “Hey, mama.”

You laugh, caught off guard. “You’re here?”

“She landed late last night,” Carlos says, stealing a strawberry. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Rebecca says, walking over to kiss your cheek. “And meet the little one. Finally.”

Your daughter reaches toward her without hesitation. Rebecca melts immediately.

“I made extra pancakes,” Charles says, glancing back at you. “Hope that’s okay.”

You smile sleepily, heart so full it aches. “More than okay.”

The five of you gather around the table — your daughter on Charles’s lap, sticky fingers reaching for fruit while he gently wipes her chin. Carlos buttering too much toast. Rebecca laughing at something dumb he says and stealing bites off his plate. There’s sunlight pouring through the windows, music playing softly in the background, plates passed around without question. It feels… right. Like this moment shouldn’t be rare. You sip your coffee and glance across the table. Charles is already looking at you. He doesn’t say anything. He just smiles, soft and quiet, like he’s exactly where he wants to be. And for the first time in weeks, you believe it.

—

It is quiet again. Rebecca and Carlos are in town picking up groceries. Your daughter’s asleep, finally settled after fighting her nap like a tiny warrior. The sky outside is streaked with pink and lavender, the last bits of sunlight trailing off over the sea. You’re on the floor of the living room, legs crossed, notebook open in your lap. Your guitar rests beside you, fingers tapping against the worn wood as you hum under your breath.

Charles sits on the couch behind you, legs stretched out, a book in his lap he hasn’t touched in half an hour. He’s been watching you. Not saying anything. Just listening. You scribble down another line, cross it out. Try again.

One thing about karma…

You pause. Sing it under your breath.

That bitch will find you.

You glance over your shoulder. “Too much?”

Charles shakes his head. “Not enough.”

You laugh — dry, soft, tired. “She’s… angry.”

“She should be.”

You look down at your lyrics again. The page is slowly filling. Not polished, not final, but raw. Real. Like something crawling out of your chest and finally, finally getting air.

Yeah, everyone's replaceable But not me, though You'll feel it deep down whenever you're alone You're livin' a lie if you're sayin' I'm wrong

You stop, throat catching. Charles speaks before you can spiral.

“I think that line’s going to wreck people.”

“Good.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you ask, quieter, “Do you think he’ll hear it?”

Charles nods. “He’ll feel it.”

You blink quickly, swallowing the tightness building behind your ribs. “It’s not about revenge.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I just…” Your fingers curl around your pen. “I want him to feel it. To sit with what he did. To know that he broke something that didn’t deserve to be broken.”

Charles sets the book aside and leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, voice low and steady.

“He’s going to hear this song one night when he’s alone. Maybe in the back of a car. Maybe in his apartment. And it’s going to cut deeper than anything you could ever say out loud.”

You look at him. Really look.

“And what if I’m never over it?” you whisper.

Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then I’ll sit with you through every moment of it. For as long as it takes.”

Your chest aches at how easily he says it. How much he means it. You glance back at your notebook. Your handwriting’s getting sloppier — more urgent, more alive.

Hope you’re at least real with yourself...Karma comes ‘round knockin’ at your doorShe’s comin’ to collect, ‘cause karma won’t forget…

The pen taps against the page, the rhythm of your rage and heartbreak and healing all stitched into one. And when you start humming again — soft, deliberate, full of power — Charles doesn’t say a word. He just stays with you. And somehow, that makes all the difference.

—

several weeks later...

yn_sainz

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, yukitsunoda0511 and 11,000,000 others.

yn_sainz : that karma...she's a bitch you won't see coming. moral conscience is all yours my angels<3 love you all and remember to stay karmically intact. kisses xx

—

user has limited comments on this post.

yukitsunoda0511 : you've got that post divorce glow. i promise to stay karmically intact after this song (does shoving him off the track still count?) love you pooks

liked by yn_sainz

↳ yn_sainz : i feel like karma would forgive you, yukipie. love you my boyyyyy

liked by yukitsunoda0511

franciscagomes : you bodied this. physically. emotionally. spiritually.

liked by yn_sainz

alex_albon : lily has not stopped playing this since midnight...sigh...you ate mama

liked by yn_sainz and lilymhe

georgerussell63 : girl lets hold a "surviving max verstappen" seminar

liked by yn_sainz

↳ yn_sainz : we would both be there all damn day 💀

liked by georgerussell63

iamrebeccad : the most beautiful woman in the world. they will all regret crossing you, mi amor

liked by yn_sainz

charles_leclerc : 🌹🤍

liked by yn_sainz

carlossainz55 : so proud of you, mi vida<3

liked by yn_sainz

—

several weeks later...

f1gossipgirls (took me way too long to find a pic of max and charles where they look at least mildy tense...they are always so happy together and gay.)

10,00,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : If you were wondering why the paddock felt ten degrees hotter this weekend, allow us to recap the absolute chaos that unfolded: Pop sensation YN Sainz made her official return to the paddock for the first time since her Moral Conscience drop — and she did not come quietly. She was photographed arriving in head to toe black, sharp sunglasses, and holding hands with none other than Charles Leclerc. She spent most of the afternoon laughing and walking with Lily Muni He, while Carlos played the world’s most protective big brother in the background. Meanwhile…Rumors swirled post-race of a heated exchange between Charles and Max Verstappen, who reportedly crossed paths in the Red Bull hospitality with zero smiles and maximum tension. And if that wasn’t enough...Later that night, YN and Charles were caught sharing a kiss behind the Ferrari motorhome, completely oblivious to the cameras — or maybe not caring at all. YN Sainz is back. With a vengeance. And in couture.

—

The paddock is buzzing long before you arrive. People know. They don’t say it — not out loud — but the tension is in the air like static. A few paddock photographers shift on their feet, ready. Social media managers hover by the entrance like lions with camera rolls open. And then the gates part. First, it's Charles. Red Ferrari polo, sunglasses, hair pushed back like he didn’t try but definitely did. Calm. Poised. Steady. Then you. All black. Silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Designer sunglasses. Statement earrings. A subtle red lip. Your heels click against the pavement like punctuation — not hurried, not performative. Just confident. Controlled.

Your fingers are laced with his. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You walk beside him like you’ve always belonged there. And maybe you have. Carlos is the first to greet you — waiting near the Ferrari hospitality, arms crossed, brow raised, he hugs you. Hard.

“Please tell me you didn’t wear black because you planned to kill someone,” he mutters in Spanish.

You smirk. “No promises.”

Charles chuckles beside you, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He can feel the eyes. The whispers. He doesn’t care about the noise — but he does care about you.

“I’m okay,” you murmur to him, as if reading his mind. “Let them look.”

And look they do. You pass Lily and Alex first — both of them giving you knowing smiles and whispered greetings. Then the photographers flash again. Then a Red Bull mechanic walks straight into a stack of tires because he’s too busy staring. But it isn’t until you cross into Red Bull territory that you feel it. The silence. Max is standing a few feet away — suit half-zipped, water bottle in hand. And for a second, everything slows. His gaze flicks to your hand in Charles’s. Then your outfit. Then your face.

He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his chin slightly. The same way he used to when he wanted control. Power. But today, you don’t flinch. You don’t even stop walking. Charles squeezes your hand. You squeeze back. And just like that, you disappear into the Ferrari garage — the door sliding shut behind you like a final, satisfying period at the end of a chapter long overdue.

—

You’re seated on the pit wall steps, reviewing Ferrari timing sheets and sipping a smoothie, when you hear his voice.

“Can we talk?”

You look up — and there he is. Max.

You don’t stand. You don’t invite him to sit. “I’m busy.”

He ignores it, stepping closer.

“I just want to understand what’s going on. With Charles. With her.”

Your chest tightens.

“You had months to understand what was going on,” you reply coolly. “Now it’s not your business anymore.”

“She’s my daughter,” he says sharply. “It’s always going to be my business.”

Your voice stays even. “You haven’t asked about her once since February. You haven’t seen her in person in almost five months.”

“I’ve been racing. Travelling.”

“So have I. And Charles. And Carlos. But we show up.”

He flinches. His jaw ticks. “You’re parading her around with Leclerc like he’s—”

“Like he’s what?” you snap, standing now. “Like he’s present? Like he’s kind? Like he knows her favorite bedtime song and how she takes her bottle when she’s teething?”

He goes quiet.

“I’m filing for full custody,” he says suddenly.

You blink.

“I’m not going to let you turn her against me.”

“Max,” you say, voice steel under silk, “no one has to turn her against you. She’ll grow up and see what she needs to. I won’t say a word. I don’t have to.”

He opens his mouth, but doesn’t get the chance to speak again. Because Charles is walking over from the Ferrari garage — already tense, already reading your face.

“Everything okay?” he asks, stepping between you and Max.

“She’s fine,” Max mutters. “For now.”

Charles doesn’t blink. “You should leave.”

Max scoffs. “You’re not her lawyer, Charles.”

“No,” he says quietly, “I’m the one she trusts.”

Max stares at him. But he backs off. For now.

—

The race is over. Max P2. Charles P3. But neither of them are thinking about champagne. Charles finds him in the post-race cool-down room — alone, toweling sweat off his face.

“You really want to go to court?” Charles says, calm but sharp.

Max doesn’t even look surprised. “It’s not about you.”

“No,” Charles agrees. “It’s about her. And the baby you haven’t bothered to see. You don’t want custody. You want control.”

Max’s mouth hardens. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No,” Charles says, stepping closer. “I know I am. Because I’d never walk away from someone I love and then try to drag her back just because she found better.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know she cried herself to sleep for months. I know she had to play popstar and mother and survivor all at once. And I know that every single day you chose to ignore that.”

Max swallows.

Charles leans in just enough. “If you try to hurt her again — legally or otherwise — I will fight. Not on the track. Not for a title. For her. And I never lose when I’m fighting for something real.”

And with that, he turns and walks away.

—

The house is still. Your daughter is asleep down the hall. Carlos and Rebecca are staying the night again, curled up in the guest room with old movies playing low. The windows are open, letting the sea breeze drift in, warm and weightless.

You’re in the kitchen, standing barefoot at the sink, rinsing out her bottle, letting the silence settle around you. Charles steps in quietly, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing one of your brother’s hoodies. His eyes find you instantly.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but don’t look up. “I heard what you said to Max.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away.

“I wasn’t trying to cause more drama,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t let him talk to you like that. Not after everything.”

You turn slowly, finally facing him. “You didn’t cause anything.”

He leans back against the counter, watching you. Carefully. Gently.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

Charles’s brow furrows. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you whisper.

“No, it’s not.” He steps forward. “I don’t owe you anything. But I love you. And that means I’ll protect you — not because I have to, but because I want to.”

The words hit you like soft thunder. Familiar, terrifying, safe.

“You love me?” you ask, voice barely there.

He nods. No hesitation.

You blink fast, heart racing. “I don’t know if I’m ready to say it back.”

“You don’t have to,” he says gently. “I’m not in a rush. I just need you to know where I stand.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes burning.

“I felt… held today,” you say after a pause. “Not just protected. Seen. Heard. It’s been a long time since I felt that way.”

Charles steps even closer, hands finding your waist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Whether you’re sad or strong or angry or radiant or terrified. I’ll be there for all of it.”

Your hands move to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his hoodie like you need something to hold onto.

And then, softly — so quietly you’re not sure he hears it:

“I think I’m starting to love you too.”

He smiles. Not smug. Not surprised. Just warm. Infinite.

He leans down, forehead resting against yours. “We’ll take our time.”

And under the hush of night and the whisper of waves outside, you finally kiss him — slow, deep, full of everything you don’t yet have the words for. But he understands. He always does.

—

2 months later...

f1gossipgirls

8,100,009 others.

f1gossipgirls : Pop star YN Sainz and Max Verstappen faced off in court today over custody of their 1½-year-old daughter — and let’s just say the entrances alone told a story: YN arrived hand in hand with Charles Leclerc, who has not only been consistently present in the baby’s life for months (see: weekly IG story cameos and those now-iconic zoo day photos), but looked like he belonged beside her in every way. Calm. Solid. Unshakable. YN was also backed by her brother Carlos Sainz and his girlfriend Rebecca Donaldson, both of whom walked in arm-in-arm with her, radiating “try us” energy. Max Verstappen, meanwhile, arrived with Kelly Piquet — which... bold move? Sources say the courtroom tension was palpable, especially when Leclerc reportedly refused to acknowledge either of them inside. And the verdict? YN was granted full legal custody. Sources say Max is “furious,” but insiders insist there was never much of a case on his side. All we’re saying is… karma might wear Prada. And a Ferrari polo.

—

The courtroom is cold — painfully bright and unforgiving. You sit straight-backed in your chair, hands folded in your lap. Not shaking. Not hiding. You wore black again. Not for mourning — for armor. Your daughter is at home with your Mama and Papa, safe and smiling. She doesn’t know what today is. She just knows her mama kissed her four times before leaving and promised pancakes when she came back.

Charles is beside you. He hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked in. Carlos and Rebecca sit directly behind you, arms crossed, jaw tight. Carlos hasn’t blinked in fifteen minutes. He doesn’t need to testify. His presence says enough.

On the opposite side of the courtroom, Max sits with his lawyer. Kelly’s behind him, sunglasses still on indoors. He doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The judge glances over the papers in front of her.

“Miss Sainz, you’re requesting full legal custody. Sole decision-making rights.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” you answer, voice steady.

The opposing lawyer stands.

“Your Honor, Mr. Verstappen simply wants to be involved. He is willing to discuss joint custody arrangements, but he feels he’s being pushed out of his daughter’s life.”

You speak before your attorney can respond.

“With respect, Your Honor,” you say clearly, “he hasn’t seen his daughter in person since February. He missed her first steps. Her first full sentence. Her first fever. He didn’t ask about any of it.”

Max shifts but doesn’t look at you.

You go on. “I never once denied him access. Not through the breakup. Not through the media storm. I kept the door open. I waited. And he chose not to walk through it.”

Your voice wavers — just once — but Charles squeezes your hand, and you steady again.

“I’ve been her sole caregiver. I’ve built her routine. I know her allergies. I know her laugh. I know the exact song that calms her down when she’s scared. And none of that is because I locked anyone out. It’s because no one showed up.”

The room is silent. Even the judge stops writing.

“Why now?” she asks gently. “Why fight for her now?”

Max speaks, finally. “Because I’m her father.”

You turn to face him. “Then where were you when she cried for one?”

The judge takes a breath. Her decision is swift.

"Full legal custody awarded to Ms. Sainz. Supervised visitation may be discussed upon demonstration of consistency and parental responsibility."

Max doesn’t react. He just blinks. You thank the judge quietly. And when you turn to Charles, he pulls your hand to his lips — kisses your knuckles, reverent and proud. Carlos exhales behind you, finally. Like he hasn’t breathed all morning. And as you walk out — head high, shoulders strong, the woman the world tried to break — you don’t look back. You never have to again.

—

The house is quiet when you get home. The baby is asleep on the couch in her favorite position — arms splayed like a starfish, one sock missing, soft cartoon lullabies humming from the TV. Mama left a note on the kitchen counter: She’s been an angel. We’ll give you some space. You’ve got this. Love you.

You stand there for a moment, just staring at her. She looks so peaceful. So untouched by the weight of the day. She doesn’t know what happened in that courtroom — how close things came to unraveling. How hard you fought. How close you were to breaking. And maybe that’s the point. You fought so she’d never have to know.

Behind you, Charles sets your bag down quietly, then comes to stand beside you. He doesn’t say anything. He just brushes his hand against your back, warm and grounding. You finally exhale. And suddenly — your knees buckle. He catches you instantly.

You don’t sob. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s the kind of cry that lives in your chest for weeks. Quiet, exhausted, relieved. You curl into his hoodie, your hands gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to the floor.

“I didn’t realize how scared I was,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Until she said it. Until the judge actually said I could keep her safe.”

Charles wraps his arms around you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head. “You were never going to lose her.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But I kept thinking… what if he lies better than I tell the truth?”

“You didn’t have to lie,” he says softly. “You just had to show up. And you did. Every day. She’s yours. Always was.”

You look up at him, eyes red but full of something softer now. Something steadier.

“And you,” you say, voice low. “Thank you for—”

He stops you with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to thank me. Loving you both? That’s not something I do for you. That’s just… who I am now.”

The baby stirs softly on the couch, letting out a tiny squeak before rolling onto her side and settling again. You and Charles both turn to look at her.

“She looks like you when she sleeps,” he says with a crooked smile.

You sniff, laughing through it. “Terrifying.”

“Beautiful,” he corrects.

You lean into his chest again, heartbeat slowly settling. The sun is streaming through the windows. Outside, the world might still be loud. Messy. Cruel. But here — in this quiet corner of your life — it’s just you, your daughter, and the man who never once let go of your hand. And for the first time in forever, you feel completely safe.

—

The villa is quiet, bathed in golden lamplight. Your daughter is asleep in her room, dreaming in soft babbles, the monitor humming gently on the kitchen counter. Charles is sitting on the floor of the living room, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he sips tea and scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t notice you right away when you come in — carrying your laptop, a pair of headphones, and a nervous sort of calm in your chest.

You sit beside him and tuck your knees under you.

“I have something,” you say softly, “I want you to hear.”

He puts his phone down immediately, giving you his full attention. You hand him the headphones, then open the laptop and press play. He slides them on. You don’t watch the screen. You watch him. The intro is soft — strings, and then your voice, humming lightly. Not polished. Not perfect. But real. And the lyrics are the kind that make your throat close up even now.

When you smiled at me, something changed in my brain chemistry…A love felt infinitely, was my heart’s remedy…

Charles’s lashes lower as he listens, mouth parting slightly, hands clasped around the mug. You can see it in his face when the chorus hits.

Heaven on earth may fade away, but you and I are forever to stay in love…I don’t care about much anymore, it’s just us…

His lips curve — not into a smile, exactly. Something softer. Something felt. The kind of expression he only makes when he's looking at your daughter. Or you. The second verse plays and you look down, fingers knotting in your lap.

You wrote this album with no filter. You didn’t think about radio play or critics or charts. You just thought about them. The way your daughter clings to Charles when she’s sleepy. The way he runs his fingers through her hair while she babbles about nothing.

The way he looked at you that night in court when everything was falling and he stood steady anyway. When the track ends, Charles pulls the headphones off slowly, eyes glassy.

“You wrote that?” he says quietly.

You nod, biting your lip.

“For us?”

You smile. “It’s the first track. The whole album’s about you two.”

He sets the headphones down and cups your jaw gently, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this,” he whispers.

“You showed up,” you say. “When no one else did. You didn’t try to save me — you just loved me until I remembered how to save myself.”

He kisses you then — slow and reverent. Like he knows you’re giving him your heart in more than just melody. And when he pulls back, his voice is rough and full.

“I want the world to hear that.”

“They will,” you say softly. “But I wanted you to be the first.”

The baby monitor crackles — a soft whimper, then silence. Charles leans forward, eyes still locked on yours.

“I can get her,” he offers.

But you shake your head and climb to your feet.

“She wants both of us.”

And as you both walk down the hallway — bare feet, tangled fingers, new music humming quietly from the laptop — you know now, more than ever: It’s just you. It’s just him. It’s just love. And it’s forever.

—

yn_sainz

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 14,008,003 others.

yn_sainz : had to learn to rearrange my mind and be in peace <333 my new album for : you will be released on 10/16. the birthday of both my soulmates. charles, thank you for loving me when i felt unlovable and loving my angel like she is your own. you have been too good to us. i love you both more than anything in this world. my perfect little fam :)

tagged : charles_leclerc

—

user has limited the amount of comments on this post.

charles_leclerc : you both saved me right back. je t’aime, always.

liked by yn_sainz

alex_albon : crying, throwing up, screaming… and also requesting track 3 early

liked by yn_sainz

↳ yn_sainz : you and lily need to come over for early access listening party!!

liked by lilymhe and alex_albon

↳ lilymhe : ON MY WAYYYYYY

liked by yn_sainz

lando : both born on 10/16?? okay the universe shipped this.

liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc

lewishamilton : love like this is what makes the world feel soft again. congratulations, angel.

liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc

carlossainz55 : this post made me cry. happy now?

liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc

arthur_leclerc : you’re telling me i grew up with this man and he ends up the muse?? wild.

liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc

—

[isambardsclub]

He sat down slowly, hoping Stefan truly meant what he said. That he really was always welcome. Over the past months he'd fear each day would be the day he was told he had to leave.

Isambard shifted, turning a little towards his Maker where he sat, readying to reply. Readying to get the words off his chest that had sat there for so long. But Stefan continued and he found himself stunned into silence. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Really hearing these words was more than he'd hoped for. To hear he had Stefan's acceptance.

He took the envelope automatically, his stunned state persisting with the revelations of what this envelope was. All he could do for a long moment after Stefan had finished speaking was to stare at it. Such an ordinary thing, an envelope. And yet it held so much within. Clearing his throat he forced himself to look back up at his Maker.

"You have left me feeling rather speechless," he admitted. "This," he continued after a moment, resting a hand over the envelope he held in his other, "is beyond generous. Truly. And I will of course speak about it with Natalia. However, and I hope you will not think me ungrateful or rude in the face of this offer, but I believe I speak for both of us when I say that we have no desire to leave," he had to pause there, feeling the first sting of threatening tears. "We both love you Stefan. You are our family. This seethe is our family, our home. And if you will permit us to remain a part of it, it would be our greatest joy,"

Now that he'd found his voice, he found he had to continue. "I never wanted to cause a rift, nor take her away from you. For so many decades I resisted the desire to act on my love for her. Because I have loved her, have been in love with her, since the beginning I fear," he admitted, something he'd still only admitted to Natalia herself and no one else. Though he suspected a few had guessed as much. His gaze fell away from Stefan, drifting to his own hands. "But I always felt I was not worthy of her, that she could do better than I," it was something he'd been sure Stefan would agree with too. "But when she said she felt the same, I was powerless. I could deny her nothing, not even myself,"

He blinked back tears, clearing his throat again and once more looking up with resolve. "I would like us to stay with you. But there is something you could give me, if you feel you can. You could give me your blessing. Because I may have felt unworthy of her in the past, but I will spend every moment of my future working to make sure that isn't true. I will love her, honour her, cherish her, protect her. I promise to never take her away from you or this family. I promise to spend my life making her happy. I want to marry her Stefan, with your blessing,"

Isambard took the greeting as an invitation, leaving the thresh hold of the room to walk round to the front of the couch. "Time wise the greeting is certainly accurate. Though as a greeting usually given after a nights sleep I would guess it is less so," Still, he didn't want to presume that Stefan would wish him to stay. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty spot on the couch.

[daincrediblegg]

I think what’s really just utterly compelling and really kindof beautiful about the whole James Fitzjames DNA confirmation is just how beautiful this intersection between history and the artistic mirror that we hold up to it coming together to celebrate this discovery is in a way breathing some life and even peace back into this person.

Like… I feel like a lot of the time we as a culture when we hear about the discovery of new artifacts, remains, remnants of history in any form, we have enough distance to it to accept the mysteries that we will never be able to reconcile about them. Like digging up folks who perished in pompeii, we may never know who exactly they were, what kinds of people they were. Who they loved, what they loved doing will remain as intangible to us as what they looked like. And it becomes harder with so many of those pieces missing to look at those bones and have any sense of certainty who they really were.

But we DO know James Fitzjames. In SO many ways. We know him because there isn’t just copious historical documentation on his life, the things he wrote, the things he did in his life the ramifications on the people he loved when he was lost, but also this weird little show that inexplicably gives us both a window into the unimaginable circumstances that led to his death alongside that of over a hundred other men, but also a mirror through which so many of us have been able to empathize deeply with the weight of those circumstances.

In that way we do really know who he was. And now he’s not merely a single jaw in an unprecedented pile of bones anymore, he has an IDENTITY again. And it’s taken so long and so many generations but we FOUND him. We had a tangible historical grasp on him already and it feels so much more personal now that we know exactly where he died. To know a rough time frame in which he perished. To know that circumstantially he was probably one of the first consumed in what was easily one of the most dire survival situations of his century- perhaps even ours. It’s closure and peace and relief for an individual that is still so cared for even though there are centuries between the time when he died and us and the circumstances in which we live. And from this information there is STILL more we can piece together for so many of the other individuals who were with him.

And we have all of that, all because of something as simple as a DNA test. That is one of the most beautiful things I have ever fucking seen.

[bunnyinvanilla]

imagine soft bunny girl wanting to play a silly little prank on sugar daddy!dilf john price by paying for the check. only an harmless little prank, nothing serious, right?

not for him. as an old fashioned gentleman, he wouldn’t take that well. he’d never let you pay for a single thing, you’re his sugar baby after all (his unconventionally too young girlfriend)

let’s say you’re on a date. restaurant, sweet treat break, anything you’d like, and when you’re done, you stand up in your frilly little skirt, glossed lips, strawberry and vanilla perfume that swirls around him when you lean down to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, right above that mustache you go crazy for.

“be right back sir, lady needs” you use the bathroom excuse, he gruffs out a “aight doll” but instead of heading to the toilet, you secretly go pay. innocent, naive little bunny, you think he’s gonna laugh at that, find it hilarious.

little does he know, you slip to the front and quickly pay the bill, before slipping to the toilet.

but after you actually hop to the bathroom, he stands up. broad shoulders, straight, imposing stance that exudes confidence, pure masculinity that stretches like leather with every step he takes, a cigar that’s not lit yet hanging from his mouth.

he doesn’t say a word, leisurely takes his wallet off the back pocket of his expensive suit jacket and proceeds to hand the card to the waiter, who, cluelessly, just smiles at him,

“the bill has already been paid, sir”

john blinks, once, then twice, maybe his ears are starting to play on him, given his seasoned age. he’s not sure he’s heard that right. so he mutters a rough “ ‘scuse me?”

“yes, the lady who’s here with you paid earlier”

those words feel wrong in his head, unwelcome. he wants to spit them out, but he’s always a man of undeterred and outmost control, composure. only the way his jaw clenches underneath his thick beard, salt and pepper like the mixed thoughts running in his mind, says otherwise.

he doesn’t how how long he remains still like that, buff muscles somehow becoming thicker, building a stonelike wall that prevents the boiling fire within him to flow outside. unmoving, like the endless times spent eyeing the target from afar, waiting like a statue for the perfect moment to bounce on them.

feigned stoicism and broodiness decor his mature face, as he tucks his wallet back inside his pocket with more strength that before — he nods to the waiter, and waits for you outside. when you come back, careless, sugary bunny that hops close to her brown bear, unaware of the way she’s offended his sense of manliness, you grab his hand with both of yours, smiling sweetly, blinking your long lashes. “we can go sir”

“what did you do, doll?” his rough tone should’ve made you halt, but you, sweet soul, think that his usual half, lazy smile is going to appear on his mustache. you shrug, like it’s nothing, really, giggling playfully soft.

“treated you for once,”

he’s gonna find it funny, you thought.

but he doesn’t.

“did i give you permission to do that?”

your smile falters. you blink, bunnies are slow in their movements when they’re processing their surroundings. but then, they haste.

“what? oh, no, but i just wanted to pay for once. it was a j—“

“get in the car, now.”

oh no. you hope you didn’t ruin your date with your little prank. it was supposed to be harmless, just a mere little thing to take him off guard. but—

“it’s fine, you always pay, sir, i thought you’d find it funny that i paid for once” you try to justify yourself, but he doesn’t laugh. his characteristic authority and intimidating nature comes out, a second skin that fits him perfectly.

“i said get in the car, doll, don’t make me repeat myself again, angel”

and when you do arrive home, you don’t even have time to take off your heels. you’ve always been a good girl, obedient, well mannered. you never disobeyed him once.

he never had to punish you for anything.

you squint when he pats his thigh, sitting on the edge of your bed. the rustling of his leather belt being unbuckled. manspreading his legs, he invites you.

”how much did you pay?” his voice could cut on stone, deep, low and husky.

you almost shiver, poor bunny, you keep your eyes down, fidgeting with your hands,

“and don’t lie to me, sweetheart. i can check your account.”

your mumble is almost a mute one as you whisper ”sixty, sir”

his hand looks large, heavy, you knows it’s gonna leave red marks on your butt, as red as your flushing cheeks. ”good. gonna keep count until half of it, come here, princess, thirty spanks, and then you’re gonna be my good girl all over again. understood?”

“but—“

“not mad at you, princess. you’re still my good girl. you didn’t mean to misbehave, daddy knows that. but actions have consequences, angel, even if it was well meant and intentioned, now,”

he patted his thigh again, and you swallowed, docile eyes downturned.

“don’t make me wait, have to put those money back in your account”

[gutsby]

Stubborn

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel sees your baby bump for the first time.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Breeding/Impreg Kink. Hurt/Comfort (mostly comfort). Mention of insecurities related to changes in Reader’s body from pregnancy (!!) Praise kink. Creampie. Girthy but unspecified age gap. Nothing bad happens to Joel Miller. He lives to 103 :)

Word count: 4.9k

Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

It had been a long week.

The one before that had seemed even longer. Joel Miller spent every night of it curled up on too-cold hardwood floors in remote cabins or in guard towers, on duty. He would’ve given anything to be someplace else, but as it stood, Jackson was on high alert for hordes of Infected. That meant he had had to contribute his fair share and go on extended patrol, no matter how loudly every last ligament, muscle, and bone in his old body protested.

Evidently, there was a dearth of strong and gun-savvy folks in town. No exceptions could be carved out for anyone among them—not even expecting fathers.

Today, Joel stood in a greenhouse, running off two hours of sleep. He’d made it back home that morning, but before he’d even slid off his boots you’d told him you were headed to the farmer’s market and you wouldn’t be gone more than twenty minutes at most, just stay here and get some sleep while I’m out, OK? Joel had refused.

“Already spent too much damn time away from you two,” he’d said grumpily, pressing a kiss to your temple before ushering you out the door. He caught you smile at that.

By ‘you two,’ Joel hadn’t needed to gesture to your belly and the life growing within it to explain what he meant. You both knew it—had been aware of this little world-altering development for weeks now—but no matter how much time had passed, neither one of you seemed quite capable of saying the words without a glance or a grin.

“Me and baby did just fine on our own these last nights,” you’d assured him teasingly as you walked along then. “In fact, I think he was glad not to hear all your snoring.”

Joel had almost chuckled through his latest yawn.

“Yeah? She tell you that herself while I was gone?”

He was convinced the baby was a girl.

You swore you were having a boy.

As Joel leaned against a display of sun-dried tomatoes and yawned extra big again, he decided it didn’t matter one bit what the gender was going to be. He just wanted to meet the kid. He hated that he would have to wait another six months to see their face and pinch their pudgy cheeks between his fingers, but that was a minuscule price to pay for what was to come in time.

Tiny feet. Bright eyes. Beaming, toothless smiles. Greedy hands that would no doubt be yanking at his silver hairs all hours of the day. He just hoped they’d take after y—

“Joel?”

Your eyes flickered to him in question. He hadn’t heard it.

“What’s’at, sweetheart?”

You furrowed your brows.

“I’m blanking on what Maria asked us to buy. Zucchini?”

Joel had no fucking idea.

A sea of fruits and vegetables lay out before him like a technicolor dream; he was so sleep-deprived it almost seemed surreal to see so much vibrancy at once, and he had to blink a couple of times to get his vision to adjust.

Then he was looking back at you. You were frowning.

“Baby, we can go home. You’re about to pass out.”

And Joel knew you meant it—despite only being at the market in town a grand total of five minutes, he knew you’d be willing to leave in a heartbeat if it meant giving him a moment’s worth of rest. It had been his own doing in bringing his drained, deadened, stubborn body here.

“I’m fine. Really, I’m good. You said, uh…cucumbers?”

“Zucchini.” You fended off his taut forced smile with a warning look of you own, as if to say: ‘You suck at lying.’

That look remained on him for a while and was only marginally diminished by a kiss he dropped on your forehead, followed by a promise to sleep the rest of the day. He didn’t like seeing you put off in the slightest, but if it meant getting to spend an extra half hour with you and Junior, Joel decided he was willing to bend the rules.

Fortunately, your scowl was even more short-lived than expected. The next second had you turning and, seeing something in a small wooden crate across the way, glowing with a bright, eager look. You walked over.

“Look—our baby!” you cried, peering into the box.

Joel was puzzled, but then you turned again and were suddenly holding a lemon up to your stomach, grinning.

“At thirteen weeks, the baby’s about the size of this.”

You balanced the thing proudly in your palm, just over your navel, and flashed him an irresistibly sweet smile. Joel smiled back, and was right about to squeeze the little fruit and tell you he couldn’t believe this kid was growing so fast, when a new voice cut in. It was some neighbor of yours. You turned to greet her, scarcely had a second to get through ‘hello’ before talks of an upcoming potluck were entered into, and before Joel knew it, he’d lost the opportunity to marvel your fruit fetus. He felt unusually dismayed at that but blamed it on burnout.

Why did he feel like he’d missed so much already?

It wasn’t like he could change the fact that this world you inhabited was overrun with the living undead, and he had to help defend this community against them, but still.

Joel was just about to yawn again and rub his bleary eyes when his gaze meandered somewhere else.

His yawn caught in his throat as soon as he saw it, and like before, he had to blink several times to clear the sight in front of him. This time, though, it wasn’t total exhaustion which clouded his vision—it was something more, snagged in his periphery at first, only to gain his full attention an instant later. Joel’s chest tightened.

Surely it wasn’t fatigue alone making him see this.

You’d tilted your body from him a little more while talking to your friend, and in your profile, Joel could make out an unfamiliar shape in your ensemble that he hadn’t noticed when you were holding the lemon: just under the swell of your breasts, beneath the apricot-colored material of your dress, he could see the faintest outline of a bump.

Joel stared harder, half-expecting that picture to fade like a mirage. He couldn’t believe the sight before him.

He’d seen you in fits and bursts over the last two weeks—he worked double shifts on patrol, so you were often asleep when he was home, and there were all the times he was forced to sleep at one of the far outposts, but no.

No.

Joel wouldn’t have missed something like that.

He couldn’t have missed the first glimpse of your growing belly when he’d gotten so…fixated on you, this baby, the thoughts of your future together as a family.

No, he shouldn’t have missed that. A good dad wouldn’t.

Hell, even a halfway decent father-to-be wouldn’t have not noticed the growth of his own child inside you. That seemed so rudimentary—how the fuck had he missed it?

Suddenly, a coil was forming in his stomach. Unlike the one in yours, it wasn’t a child but a pit of guilt growing there. He felt his legs weaken underneath him, and he swallowed dryly. He cleared his throat. He tried to cast a sideways look at you, maybe try and urge you to get on with this neighborly conversation and be done with it, but who was he to say anything now? Joel slumped against a table full of leafy greens and tried not to sulk.

He blinked and five minutes had passed, at least. His head was swimming with thoughts of shame and remorse, wanting to kick himself for agreeing to pick up shifts for his brother last week, and feeling like he’d failed you and your baby already—and they weren’t even born.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder again. Two bloodshot eyes darted to the left.

“Joel,” you said, softly. Your voice was full of sympathy.

The man couldn’t bear to hear it. He didn’t deserve it.

In fact, he felt so down on himself and dead tired now that he couldn’t muster up the strength to speak when you nudged him back onto his feet. You walked beside him with a basket that now contained three zucchini, two bulbs of garlic, a lemon, and a dozen other food items that he couldn’t place at the moment. Joel had no idea what you’d be cooking tonight, but he couldn’t help but wince at the sight of that tiny yellow fruit in front of him.

You knew this would be a long day.

Joel never slept well after those week-long stints going back and forth between patrol and home, and ever since taking Tommy’s as well while he was out sick, the man before you was drained of all his energy. Dead, almost.

Okay, maybe ‘dead’ was an overstatement.

Joel was very much alive; his body just sagged, his head lolled forward where he stood, and he refused to sleep.

It made no sense to you. It was like the longer he’d been awake, away from you, the more adamant he became that he couldn’t spare a minute while he was home dozing off. When you’d dragged his hulking body up the stairs to your bedroom, he shook his head in protest.

“I— I missed seeing her,” he mumbled dejectedly. Resisting your efforts to push him onto the bed.

“I know. You can talk as much as you’d like after you get some rest, OK? We’ll be right downstairs in the kitchen.”

That didn’t seem to appease Joel at all. If anything, he made an effort to shake his head harder and seemed ready to follow you back downstairs to help you cook.

You weren’t having any of that, so you nudged him back.

“Joel—”

“No, I missed it, honey. I missed it.”

He was talking nonsense now, surely.

“What do you mean? Missed what, Joel?”

With a deflated sort of sound, he collapsed on the bed behind him. Joel steadied himself wearily, blinking more.

Seeming as if he wanted to meet your gaze but couldn’t.

Then, to your surprise, he slid off of the bed and sank to the floor, on his knees. He shuffled closer to where you stood, and then slowly, sheepishly, peered up at you.

“I missed seeing this,” he clarified quietly.

And two hard, muscly arms wrapped around your lower half from where he kneeled. Joel’s face was mere inches from the fabric of your dress—where it flared the slightest bit out front and almost prodded at his nose.

Your little bump was protruding under your clothes now. It couldn’t be helped, no matter how loose of winter attire you wore, and you felt guilty that, at first, you hadn’t liked how it looked. Wasn’t motherhood supposed to be some exquisite, transcendent experience wherein every waking moment had you cherishing what your body did for you, like sustaining a brand new life? You’d felt awful.

So terrible, in fact, that you hadn’t even thought to mention the development to Joel, which somehow made things even worse. You just wanted to wrap up and hide, for no other reason than that you felt so self-conscious.

Now here Joel was, pressing his face to the little bulge in your frame and peering up at you with the widest, most glass-like pair of eyes you’d seen in a long time. He was watching you like he was riddled with guilt himself, oddly

You couldn’t imagine what the shame might be for.

“What are you talking about? You didn’t miss anything,” you said softly, lowering your voice to just a murmur.

Joel winced as if you’d just reared back and struck him.

“I did,” he whispered back, tone hoarse. Then, somehow, his next words came out even more broken. “I was gone so long I— I didn’t even notice you had a bump already.”

He sounded so despondent as he said it—like he’d missed some great milestone in your pregnancy and not an event that you’d actually wanted to keep out of sight.

Your heart ached in your chest. You hated seeing this.

You wanted to join him on the floor and hold him tight, tell him he hadn’t missed one single thing, but Joel’s grip around your hips was far too much to move an inch. So you remained standing instead and stroked his hair.

“What, this?” you said, gesturing toward the swell of your belly against his face. Forcing a smile when you felt guilt flood your insides. “It’s…it’s just a little bump, Joel, it’s—”

Joel drew back momentarily to meet you, eyes serious.

“It’s our baby,” he resumed, tone all soft solemnity.

That made the shame balloon in your chest.

You should’ve told him. Shown him.

But no, you’d been too afraid of what he might think of your changing body. You’d kept the news to yourself and let things go on as if nothing had happened at all. At the time, you told yourself you were doing it in Joel’s best interest—letting him rest and not spend too much time off-duty worrying about you. You’d played tougher than you really were and ended up causing the man pain over missing a moment like this. Your bottom lip trembled as you pulled him in closer to you. You hugged him to you.

“I— I’m sorry,” you croaked. You touched his head gently.

You’d just threaded your fingers through the soft, grey hair at the back of Joel’s head when he tilted his whole face back up to you. His chin hovered above your bump, and his eyes were shining up at you. Shortly, he frowned.

“Sorry for what, sweetheart? You didn’t—”

“I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to see.”

You blurted it out before you could think.

Joel was watching you so intently—tenderly—with his face so close to that spot you’d been trying to hide away. His look was open and sincere, and you felt like shit, so you just kept rambling on to clear your conscience of it.

“Ever since I saw the bump myself, I…I just…” you trailed off, feeling dumb as soon as the words started tumbling. “I didn’t like the way I looked. I wanted to keep it from you, because I was…scared of what you might think.”

And here he was, on his knees from how bad he felt.

His grip loosened, like he was processing things.

You found yourself lowering to the floor, too. You couldn’t help it. Your eyes began filling with hot, wet, hormone-induced tears like you’d been experiencing a lot of these last few weeks, and you hugged Joel again. You winced.

“I didn’t think it would mean so much to you, Joel. If I had known…If I knew it would hurt you not to know…”

Your wince became a full grimace—an ugly kind of cry that you’d long chastised yourself for doing—and you pulled back. You placed your palms over your eyes to hide your shame, but a couple stray tears leaked out.

Before you knew it, there were arms around you again. Big and muscly and warm, not hugging, but lifting you.

“Joel,” you sobbed into his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

You expected the father of your child to respond in words, but instead, at first, he just sat down on the bed with you in his hold. He let you rest your head on his chest, and for several long moments, he rocked you.

He held you, and you cried, and one of your hands came to fist the warm flannel of his shirt for sometime before you realized that Joel’s own palm was stroking your hair. Caressing it. Then, slowly, moving so he could thumb at the tears sliding down your cheeks, and holding you as close to his body as possible. Because of this, your ear was pressed flush against his chest, and you heard him.

Joel’s heart was hammering, and his breaths were quick.

You lifted your head, and as soon as you did, you were greeted with the sight of Joel peering down, face no more than a few inches away. Eyes soft and glossy.

“Joel, I’m so sorr—”

“You don’t,” Joel cut in, words still impossibly tender. “Don’t gotta apologize for nothin’, baby. Not one thing.”

You searched his face and saw exhaustion in every feature—there was no hiding that. Not just in the weeks but in the years he’d spent living in this world, fighting to survive and having all the scars and striations and thick, shining grays to prove it. You took stock of every sunspot and wrinkle, seeing a softness there that no pain had stolen, and found yourself all the more in love with this man. Your old man, the one who’d put this baby in you.

Without thinking, you reached for the hem of your dress.

You couldn’t get to it, as the skirt was long, and the material was splayed out all over Joel and the bed, but you were still able to bunch the fabric in your hands.

Tug it gently, but resolutely, up your legs. Near your hips.

Then over them. Suddenly sitting at your ribs, while your eyes stayed locked on Joel’s. The air felt a bit cooler now.

The house that you shared was always warm in winter. Now, with your stomach bared and your hand sliding at a snail’s pace up your front with Joel’s fingers clasped in it, you’d never felt a chill so biting in your life. Or frightening

Joel’s touch brushed the little bump above your pantyline, and instantly, you wanted to squirm. You hated how you felt that way, but it also couldn’t be helped. Your belly never protruded like this before, and you were still getting used to it—it would take time.

Joel hadn’t seen it even once before today.

Although he touched your body nonstop, with his focus centering a lot more on your tummy these days, he’d never actually gotten to feel the proof of his child growing inside you until now. You were showing.

Your belly was swollen beneath his hand and heaving lightly with every breath you took. You looked up at Joel.

And for once, he wasn’t looking back. He was looking at you, but his gaze this time was plastered to your lower half, where his palm was gradually moving to rest atop that tiny bump. He splayed his fingers. Yours sat timidly above his, and you wondered if you might not move back

Then you felt wetness on your hand. It was an odd, foreign feeling at first; you had no idea where those little droplets came from, but in a second, it dawned on you.

Joel’s head was bowed, and he was blinking hard.

The moisture was from his tears dripping down.

Your body almost caved with the realization. Your fingers tightened around the back of Joel’s hand, and presently, your voice was as hoarse as it had ever been as you shifted to sit up. Trying not to cry anymore yourself.

“Joel, don’t—don’t, no. This is my fault.”

“It’s my fault. I haven’t been here.”

And just hearing those words leave Joel’s mouth seemed ludicrous to you. He’d been there every step of the way to date, rubbing your back through the worst bouts of your morning sickness, spoon-feeding you on days you found it difficult to move a muscle, stroking your cheek and speaking soft words of consolation—he was there.

And here he was, meeting your gaze with bleary, bloodshot eyes as he blinked through his tears.

You couldn’t bear to see it.

You scrambled up from Joel’s lap and hugged him—no, attacked him with an embrace that knocked him flat on his back on the bed. Your arms wound around his neck, and your stomach brushed against his softer one. If it weren’t several weeks premature, you might’ve thought you felt some movement inside you. You squeezed your old man even tighter then and started shaking your head

“Oh, Joel…”

You pressed your body to his, hoping he’d feel your sincerity, if not the heat and the swell of your belly, thanks to what he’d done inside you. Now, more than anything else, you wanted to show him what he’d made happen—what you were so happy to feel every day, despite your insecurities and fears about some parts.

You wanted him to know how much you loved him.

“You’ve been here,” you assured him softly. Lifting slightly so you could lie on top with your front to his. “You always have and you always will. You hear me?”

Joel swallowed as soon as your lips attached to his neck and started peppering kisses to tufts of black and silver.

Gently, he reached around your back to hold you to him. His arms had just constricted in a protective grip around the base of your spine when you wriggled out. You sat up

You unzipped your dress and shifted on your knees to pull it off you completely. You tossed it and took a breath.

Now you were naked, save for your pale cotton panties, and sitting there. Straddling him. Soft rays of morning light filtered in through the window, and for a beat, you hoped the shadows it cast on your body didn’t make you look…odd, or undesirable to the man lying beneath you.

Fortunately, that fear was dispelled as soon as it arrived.

Joel’s gaze melted at the sight, and he swallowed again.

Wiping his eyes with one hand and beckoning with the other, he said, soft as anything: “Sweet pea, I love you.”

“I love you more.” You were fumbling to get your panties off—not even with sex in mind, but just so that Joel could see more of you. All of you. You wanted him to be able to drink in every inch now, like he couldn’t before.

You wanted to be naked with him, like you’d been when you made this baby together. It didn’t have to be anything more than pure and simple appreciation.

Though when you fumbled with the bottom buttons of Joel’s flannel and murmured, ‘Take yours off, too, please,’ you couldn’t deny that it had an edge of something else, as well. That was only natural.

Within seconds, Joel was stripped of his clothes, and his body was on display, the same as yours. You could stare at him, he could stare at you, and together, you could cherish the knowledge that these bodies made a third. There was a new one growing inside of you, day by day, and now you could see the proof as well as you’d felt it.

For once, Joel hardened, and it didn’t feel like just lust or love or arousal at the sight of your nude body, but a primal urge. When your folds dripped and glistened in turn, it wasn’t merely a product of wanting but of acknowledging what had already been done here.

This big man, this stiff and graying man, this kind man had put his seed inside you more times than you could count, and one of those moments had made him stick.

Stuck as he was, claimed as you felt, you were happy.

At last, one of your hands came to rest over your belly in a sweet, appreciative, and loving way, and you rubbed it.

It might’ve been the first time you’d done it.

That was definitely a first for Joel.

His hand immediately joined.

“You put a baby in me.” You said it gently.

“I put a baby in you,” Joel repeated.

In a breath, it was affectionate. In the next, it was protective. In the one after that, you felt his cock pushing inside you, but it hardly felt that way at all sitting on him.

It was sex, though. You rolled your hips and took him to the base. Joel’s hand stayed on your belly, trailing each movement with a look of awe. And strain. His smooth, bulbous tip grazed somewhere deep within your body, and your walls contracted around him. Sucked him in.

“Right there.” His fingers flexed over where his cock was currently stretching you out from the inside, and you whimpered softly. “Ain’t that where I stuffed you full?”

“Yes,” you breathed, free hand anchoring on his chest.

Joel fucked up into you gently, and damn, this was even better in the second trimester than the first. Your body was more responsive. Your slick warmth drew him in.

Every nerve-ending in your system seemed attuned to the one man who’d made himself a part of you, like he was made to be exactly where he was, and no place else.

“My sweet girl let daddy make her a mama, huh?”

It didn’t feel like fucking and still, you were a minute from coming. Joel’s words, paired with a hand on your swollen belly and the soft, pleasuring cadence of his thrusts made you helpless to the sensation. You looked down.

And for once, you relished the sight below. You loved it—Joel’s hand over your belly, his cock splitting you in two.

“Y’like how it looks? Me in you?” Joel chuckled. Behind it, you could sense that he was getting close too, though.

His thrusts sped up, and you bounced to meet them, a smile spreading across your lips once you found his gaze.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Know how goddamn pretty ya look swole up with me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice was sweet. Supplicating. Sincere.

It wasn’t as if your fears and insecurities all vanished the moment Joel told you you were pretty, or when he said that you had no need to be sorry. That would have to come with time—but the praise certainly helped. His words spoken so tenderly to you then had an effect.

You wanted to believe all these things, and the closer you got to climax, the more readily you shed your inhibitions. Your hips started gyrating with more force, and you no longer gave a shit whether your body looked so different.

For now, at least, you’d just have to accept that growing Joel Miller’s child inside you meant many things would change. There was no escaping it. What mattered now was your health, being together with Joel, and knowing how much he loved you, no matter what might happen.

And that much was clear from the way he eyed you suddenly—needily—and how the fingers splayed across your front migrated down your stomach, over your bump, and between where your body and his were joined. He always made sure you were taken care of, and of course, that concern extended virtually everywhere.

A series of quick, deliberate circles on your clit and his cock hitting you repeatedly in your most sensitive spot made you see stars. Your eyes were tempted to roll back in pure bliss, preparing for your orgasm to hit, when Joel snagged your attention back. He pulled you in until your chest was practically parallel with his, and then he drilled you from below. His mouth moved dangerously close to your ear, and from there, it was apparent he had plans.

Pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust, he spoke gently. He made sure you heard, though

“Y’like the way this feels now, don’t ya, sweet pea?”

In response, your words were more like a babble.

Still, you somehow managed to whine a ‘yes.’

And that was all Joel needed, apparently.

He leaned in even nearer, murmuring:

“Good.”

Good?

You were seconds from release. One hand was fisting the sheets now, your body moving in frantic tandem with Joel’s, and all at once, he was lifting your head. Tilting it sideways to meet his own while he fucked you relentlessly from below. He was beaming.

“Better get used to how it feels, ‘cause I’m keepin’ this belly full as long as you’ll let me keep on givin’ it babies.”

Fucking hell.

Your stomach clenched as if to say yes again, your brain went blank, and all you could think while you came on his cock was how much you loved him back—no matter how wary you were about these changes, how unwise making a man change diapers all throughout his sixties might seem, you’d give him as many babies as he wanted.

You might change your mind.

You might not.

But by the look on Joel’s face as he finished and flooded your insides with all his hot, sticky seed, you wanted to believe you would. One baby or a hundred, you’d give just about any number a shot with your old man, Joel Miller. You let him fuck you and fill you to the brim, and when it felt like he couldn’t go any deeper, or give you any more of this release, Joel pulled you in for a kiss.

Against his lips, muted between soft, sloppy movements, you managed to get out quietly:

“Whatever daddy wants.”

And when you’d finally pulled apart and were eye-to-eye again—after everything you’d been through today and these last couple weeks, these past few months—you couldn’t help it. A grin broke out on Joel’s face at the same moment it did yours. You both breathed heavily and felt your belly pressed against his. You were reminded, once more, of what brought you here and all you had to look forward to in the next months and years.

It would be hard, but well worth it with Joel by your side.

Gently, you nudged his nose with yours.

“I love you so much, Joel,” you whispered.

“I love you more, sweet pea,” he whispered back. Smiling

[biscuityskies]

With the impending implementation of Project 2025, I suspect that AO3 will come under fire as well. And given that it’s a US based organisation, and the US has wedged itself somehow into every possible thing, I would also suspect that this will have global impacts. I cannot be certain of it - I’m certainly not an expert on political things and Trump remains, frankly, unpredictable - but I have personally found it’s more helpful to prepare beforehand than to scramble to keep myself afloat in the midst of a crisis. Knowing how important our favourite stories are to so many of us, here’s what I suggest:

Readers, I recommend you find your favourite stories again. Go all the way back in your bookmarks. Tell the authors you appreciate them, and you love their work. I think we could all use some nice words right now. If you want to keep the story, I recommend downloading it: here’s a guide on how to do so from the AO3 FAQ. I personally have wanted to take up bookbinding for a hot second; I might print off my favourite fics for myself and figure out how to bind them. The OTW also recommends downloading your favourites - see link below.

Authors, I recommend you keep your manuscripts. Download them onto an external flash drive and save them for a rainy day four or so years from now. Even the ones you don’t like are worth keeping - I guarantee you somebody else likes them even if you don’t. (I’m speaking to myself here, too.) Project 2025 has blatantly laid out a ban of pornography, and they will take that to mean whatever they want it to; I suggest you don’t even keep your fics on a Google drive if possible it’s definitely easier to keep them all online, trust me, I know, but so does the government. Corporations do not care about you: they will sell you out to whoever is willing to pay. Remember also to turn off AI scraping wherever possible, or better yet use sites that don’t engage in that behaviour.

For further reading from people more qualified than I, here’s the OTW’s statement on what their plans are so far.

I hope I’m wrong. I honestly would love nothing more. But more importantly, we will get through this. Humanity has told stories and put blorbos in situations for literal millennia. We’ll see the other side of this.

[em1i2a3]

Only Human

Pairing: Soft!Void!/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Mutant!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been staying with Bob every night since the incident with The Void in hopes to prevent anything like that from happening again. Much to your surprise though, he slips out of Bob to see you one night. (Sequel to ‘The Dark Side’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Fluff, Smut, and like Hurt/Comfort kind of?, Mentions of Injuries that occurred in the first part, Just as a Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, There is some references to supernatural things (we are dealing with The Void here, so it does need a bit of a warning I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️), Reader and Bob are not in a relationship (not at the moment), but they do have feelings for one another.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please lol), Sensual Touching, The Void is Touch Starved (what can I say?), Fingering, Squirting, Mutual Masturbation, Biting, Praise/Dirty Talk (kind of?), Little Bit of Supernatural Elements to the sex, Hopefully I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: People really liked my portrayal of Soft-ish Void in ‘The Dark Side’ and truly I wanted to kind of expand on that and take the story just a bit further too. Writing Soft!Void was so fun and odd, but it was so nice to be able to do it. Hopefully y’all enjoy! Thank you for readin <3 (P.S. Yes I said Soft Void. Don’t worry, normal Void shenanigans will be back soon.)

Word Count: 9,702

“You really don’t ha–have to keep doing this…” Bob’s voice broke softly through the silence like a crack in still glass. It wasn’t really a protest, it was more like a quiet plea laced with guilt. He lingered just inside the doorway, his tall frame half-silhouetted by the dim hallway light that glowed behind him. His tone trembled, stretched thin by exhaustion, “I’m…I’m sure you want to get more sleep than ju-just an hour or two.”

You were already under the covers of his bed, leaning against the headboard with your legs drawn up beneath the thick comforter, shoulder relaxed but eyes wide open. Sleep hadn’t been coming easily lately for you–not with everything still so raw with worry and concern–but being here, in his room with him, had become a kind of comforting ritual for you. A place where you stood guard, and soothed.

The chaos that once wreaked havoc over his bedroom–the splintered furniture, shattered glass, dented drywall–was gone now. Cleaned. Patched. Rebuilt from the ground up basically. The entire team had taken on the task to make everything right again, to erase the brutal traces of The Void’s presence. Even the scuffed floors had been sanded and polished, though some of the deeper gouges remained, hidden beneath the new rug Ava insisted on buying.

You had spent nearly every spare hour of the past week in his room–sorting through broken remnants, salvaging what you could. Bob’s framed photos of the team had been the first thing you tackled: cracked glass removed, splinters of wood from the frames glued back together, and new little pieces of plastic placed against the photos to replace the glass. You sat cross-legged on his floor, each picture spread out before you like fragments, before putting everything back together. You had also tried to salvage some of his mugs, but only two had been saved–Bob was grateful that you even tried to do it anyway.

Then came the dresser. A new one that you ordered from IKEA, that was delivered in a box that was too heavy for you to haul into Bob’s room on your own. You got Alexei and Walker to help you with that, but you stayed behind after they left, kneeling on the carpet beside Bob, helping him screw everything into place and go through the instructions. He had insisted on doing everything himself, even though his knuckles that you had patched up had begun to bleed through the gauze.

When things settled, everything looked very close to normalcy–eerily so. There was familiar furniture positioned back into place, books reshelved in the same order, and picture frames perched in the same areas. But it felt different. Lived in again…Touched by healing hands.

And Bob noticed.

He thanked you feverishly every time you finished a picture frame or replaced something–even when you handed him a cup of tea. He thanked Walker for lifting the headboard, Ava for the rug, Yelena for restocking his little trinkets. He must’ve said those words a hundred times within the week. You could tell he didn’t think it was enough. That it gnawed at him–how much everyone gave, and how little he felt he could return.

Now, he stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with that same soft care he had throughout the entire week, his shoulder rising and falling with a tired breath as he crossed the room toward his dresser. You watch him from your place under the covers, silent, observant.

His movements were slower than usual. Careful. Painfully so. You saw it in the way he unzipped his hoodie with trembling fingers, the bandages frayed slightly at the edges, stained faintly with ointment from earlier. Your eyes followed every shift of his hand–the one you’d held steady days ago as you pulled a splinter from beneath the nail, listening to him suck in a breath and tell you, “It’s okay, I don’t even feel it anymore,” even though he clearly did.

“Trust me, Bob,” You said softly, your voice breaking the stillness in the room, “I’m okay. I don’t need as much sleep as you think…And regardless of that…I’m the only person that can control him if he comes out again. I need to be here.” He paused, halfway through shrugging off the hoodie. His jaw clenched for a second, then he slipped the rest of the fabric off, folding it slowly and neatly, hands still trembling slightly, before placing it on the dresser. You saw it in his face–there was something haunting him again. A question. A thought he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“…You never told me how you go-got me to come back,” He mumbled, voice quiet, strained, like it was raw just thinking about it. He stared down at the hoodie for a beat longer, rubbing the soft fabric, before wordlessly reaching for the hem of his shirt, turning on his heel to face you. He peeled the shirt off, the gauze clinging slightly to the inside of it. The amber glow of the bedside lamp casted long, soft shadows over his body, bathing him in warm light that didn’t hide a single thing.

The bruises and bandage were in plain sight again.

You had noticed them when you were patching up his hands after you calmed him down that day, but under this light they looked worse. Deeper. Like violet clouds blooming beneath the surface of his skin. The bruising stretched across his ribs, wrapping over his sides and spilling faintly along the edges of his abdomen, as though he’d been caught in a collapse and had barely crawled out from under it. There were a few patches of gauze as well, from where splinters of furniture had scraped and cut him.

He had told you, through clenched teeth, that The Void had made him hurt himself. That in the haze of it all–in the fog of darkness and sadness–he had taken the pain out on himself instead of the furniture around his room. He punched himself, or at least Bob said he did.

It hurt to hear, and it was even more painful to see, yet you still patched him up with such gentleness that Bob felt like he was going to pass out.

Seeing them again made your throat tighten.

He didn’t seem to notice your expression. He was too focused on the motion–folding his shirt with such neatness before throwing it into the hamper. Like it was the only thing he could really control.

”If I told you…” You began softly, your voice low, hesitant, “You wouldn't believe me, Bob.” He paused. Looked over at you, brows drawn in quiet confusion. His concern was already building, you could feel it.

“Tr-Try me,” He said after a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on top of the blanket. Your thumbs brushed against the constellation of beauty marks scattered along your skin—small, quiet things you’d never thought much of before. But now…

Now, they burned.

Not in pain, but in memory.

You thought of what The Void had said. What he knew.

How Bob looked at them when he thought you weren’t watching. How he had memorized them–every last one. How they marked where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you. That stupid piece of folklore you’d only ever half believed–until you saw what your kisses did to him.

The way the freckles had bled through the Void’s form like stars. Tiny galaxies lighting up the dark. One at a time. The shoulder. The spine. The base of his neck. His jaw. The more you kissed him, the more the darkness split open and Bob began to return–like you’d traced a map across his skin and led him home.

How were you supposed to say that out loud?

How were you supposed to tell him the most impossible thing you’d ever done felt like instinct? That somehow, without understanding how or why, your body knew the way back to him even when his mind didn’t?

So instead…You looked back up at him.

His eyes were on you, soft and waiting, concern already building in the faint knit of his brows.

“It’s really…” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, “…confusing, Bob.” That crease in his forehead deepened just slightly as he took a cautious step forward.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, once, immediately.

“No,” You said gently. “He didn’t. He can’t. He’s weak when he’s around me.”

You watched him exhale, the motion shaking slightly through his chest. His shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed shadowed with something heavier–dread, maybe. Guilt. You reached over and flipped the blanket open without a word, and with your free hand, flicked off the bedside lamp.

Darkness swept across the room like a curtain. Not suffocating. Not cold. Just soft. Gentle shadows broken only by the pale blue glow from the window, where moonlight cut through the glass in long, quiet angles and kissed the walls.

Bob stood there for a moment–hesitating. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, his gaze cast low like he didn’t quite feel worthy of crawling into the space beside you. You saw it in the way he lingered. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just about him. It was about you–what might happen if he let himself close enough to need this. To need you.

“I’m just…” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I’m wo–worried one day he’s going to come out…And he’s go-going to hurt you.” You saw it in his face then–clearer than ever. The helplessness. The guilt. The ache of someone who had come back from a nightmare and didn’t know how to live in the aftermath.

So you didn’t argue. You didn’t offer platitudes.

You just opened your arms.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And that was enough.

He sighed, almost like it hurt to exhale, and crawled into the bed beside you. His movements were slow, careful, like he was trying not to make a ripple in the space around you. Like he thought too much weight in the wrong place might send you drifting away.

You slipped down further against the pillows, welcoming him in without hesitation, your arms curling around his body as he eased closer–until his head found its usual place.

Right over your heart.

He settled there gently, cheek pressing to your clothed chest like he’d done every night for the past few days. His arm came up slowly, resting across your stomach, the other curling underneath you, tentative fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And you held him.

Without fear. Without judgment.

Your palm found the back of his head and slid into his soft light brown hair, your fingers already stroking the strands in a rhythm you’d learned by heart–slow, grounding, gentle.

He exhaled. You felt the breath fan across the fabric on your ribs, warming them slightly.

“He would never hurt me, Bob…” You murmured, your voice warm in the dark, your breath stirring his hair. “Because you would never hurt me.”

A silence fell then–full of trust.

He didn’t say anything, but his body responded. You felt the way he leaned in closer, his grip tightening around your waist, his weight shifting until he was almost curled into your side completely. Like he wanted to disappear into you. Like you were the only solid thing he trusted to anchor him back to himself.

“You don’t have to worry about me…” You added softly, pressing your lips gently to the crown of his head. He let out a small, shuddering sigh at the kiss. It was quiet–barely more than breath–but it echoed in the hush between you. His fingers twitched slightly where they clung to the fabric of your shirt, and then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

“…Okay,” He whispered, the word brittle and small. Like he wanted to believe it. Like he didn’t, but was choosing to anyway.

Then came the silence.

Thick and warm and filled only by the slow cadence of your breath and his. The soft weight of his body curled around yours. The bed creaked faintly as you both shifted, but nothing broke the stillness of the room. Just the hush of safety. The quiet rhythm of presence.

You knew the exact moment he drifted off.

The soft whistle of air from his nose told you. That tiny snore that only came when he was crushed into you like this–cheek against your chest, limbs tangled beneath the comforter. You smiled faintly and kept your hand moving through his hair, threading your fingers through in a slow rhythm. A grounding gesture, more for him than for you…But now, maybe it was both.

You lost track of time like that.

Until something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A coolness in the air under the blanket–not cold exactly, but different. A shift in pressure, like something holding its breath.

Your fingers stilled.

And then you felt it. The texture. The change in the strands beneath your touch. They slipped too easily between your fingers now–too smooth, too silent. They didn’t catch the way hair should. Instead, they moved like silk underwater. Alive. Shifting.

You looked down.

The crown of his head had gone black. Not just shadowed. Not just dimmed. Black. Lightless, hollow, impossible. The kind of darkness that felt sentient. The kind that could swallow stars.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t pull away. Just stared as the darkness spread, slow and sinuous–crawling down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, seeping into his skin like ink in water. The soft light from the window did nothing to touch it. It just disappeared into him.

And then, he moved.

Arms curling tighter around your waist, the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they’re afraid to wake from.

“No…” The voice came low and quiet. “…No, please. Do not stop suddenly because of me.” The Void’s tone was different from the last time you interacted with him. No malice. No venom. No harsh edge of control. It wasn’t a hiss–it was something closer to a plea. Gentle. Almost unsure. You froze. Heart pounding.

He didn’t move beyond that. Just stayed pressed against you, dark and heavy and cool, his face buried in your chest like nothing had changed at all.

“You…” He began, breath catching faintly, “You have absolutely ruined me.” Your hand hovered inches above where you’d been stroking his hair just moments ago, watching as tendrils of vantablack shadows exuded from his skin and crawled up your arms. Usually they recoiled when you were around, but not this time. It felt like a breeze. Cool and featherlight. Not invasive. Not consuming. Just…Explorative. Your breath hitched as they danced across your skin.

“…I didn’t do anything to you, Void.” You whispered, Your voice trembled, not from fear–but from the weight of the moment. From the ache in your chest that this darkness–the same darkness that once tried to devour the man you loved–was now wrapped around you like something desperate to stay.

He didn’t reply.

So you looked down.

And you saw all of him.

His entire form was draped in lightless shadow, vantablack and consuming, the folds of it shifting like living ink where he breathed against you. But within that sea of black, the constellations built from your kisses remained. Brighter now.

Over his shoulder, at his neck, on the dip of his spine. Every place where you had laid your lips to bring Bob back to you was shimmering. You had branded him, and it was evident by the way he was speaking.

”Where’s Bob?” You asked cautiously. The tendrils continued to slip up your skin, going beneath the sleeve of your t-shirt.

”He’s asleep…” The Void replied, the words soft, almost careful, “I promise…I’m not hurting him.” The tendrils continued to move beneath your shirt, curling gently along your ribs like they were memorizing you–your shape, your warmth. Not with hunger. Not with domination. But with need, and you allowed it…Because they hadn’t done anything to hurt you yet.

“Then…” You started, feeling your heart begin to pick up in pace, “Why are you here?” A silence stretched so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, with the faintest voice:

“…Because I needed to feel you again.”

Your breath caught.

You knew he felt it–your pulse thudding wildly beneath his ear. His head shifted slightly, like he was adjusting to the new rhythm. Listening to it. Drinking it in. You felt his face press even closer to your chest, like he was trying to lose himself in it. The tendrils climbed higher now, curling up your spine, slipping out from beneath the collar of your shirt like silk, wrapping around your shoulders, your throat–soft and slow, like they were bracing him for the words he hadn’t let himself say before.

“You…” He began, voice cracking slightly, “…Have taken me and ripped me apart–and you have no idea that you’ve done it. You closed your eyes tightly, chest tightening beneath the weight of that confession.

“Void, I–“ But he didn’t let you speak.

“I have never had my skin kissed…”

His voice was low and hoarse, but not from anger. It cracked with something deeper. Wreckage and worship all tangled together.

“I have never been treated with such gentleness in my entire existence,” He continued, lifting his head from your chest.

The weight of him shifted slightly, and you felt the cold brush of ink-light against your throat as he rose just enough to look up at you. His face was still veiled in darkness–no edges, no shape, just a silhouette of pure, living shadow–but those eyes…Those pale white pupils glowed like moons in an eclipse. Twin lights in the endless black.

His gaze bore into yours, not with fire, but with something aching. Broken. Like looking directly into grief that had finally grown too tired to be cruel.

“You marked me,” he breathed, and though his voice was still low, there was something fraying at the edges–tightness, tension, a tremble you didn’t often hear from him. “You’ve claimed what’s rightfully yours.”

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly as his eyes bore into you—those eerie, hollow white pupils that somehow shimmered with heat despite their cold hue.

“You have burned yourself into me,” he continued, and his voice cracked on the word burned, the sound splintering like the edges of a dam giving way. “Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, he moved.

His hand–shaped from shadow but solid, braced itself on the mattress beside your ribs, and he slowly climbed higher, crawling up your body with a grace that was too fluid, too precise to be human. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted, his form inching up until you were face to face–your back sinking deeper into the pillows while he loomed above, haloed in ink and moonlight.

The breath in your lungs hitched sharply.

He was so close now that you could feel the coolness radiating from him, his form drawing heat from the air around you. His breath–if it even was breath–fanned over your mouth in chilled waves. And yet somehow, it didn’t make you recoil. It made your skin spark. Tighten. Ache.

“I…” You whispered, but it came out barely audible.

His hand came up to your cheek then–tenderly. Not the shadow-tendrils this time. A hand. Cold. Unnatural. But steady. His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek, stroking slowly.

“…I woke something in you,” You continued, your own voice so fragile it nearly fell apart between syllables.

His touch faltered for half a second, but then he pressed his palm more firmly to your skin, as if grounding himself in it. Like he needed to feel you to keep himself from dissolving.

“I am cursed with the memory of your warmth, Y/N…” He admitted.

The way he said your name–it sounded like reverence and devastation folded into one.

“It has been plaguing me since you did this…”

His free hand reached across his body, brushing at the shimmering mark glowing faintly on his shoulder–right where you had kissed him first.

“Because I…” His voice dropped even lower, raspier, more ragged, “…I belong to you. And all I can have are these moments to admit it. These stolen minutes in the dark. And I can’t–I can’t take it anymore.”

You felt the mattress tremble faintly beneath his weight as another tendril slowly crept beneath the hem of your shirt. It slid along your skin with that same impossible gentleness, settling cold against the softness of your stomach. You inhaled sharply, your ribs stuttering under the touch. He noticed

“Void…” You murmured, a tremor slipping through your tone. “You can’t just come here and admit this stuff to me.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, slower now, and you saw his jaw tighten.

“…Why?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. But your eyes searched his, desperate for something to anchor to in the swirling dark. And then, quietly, you said the only name that ever broke him:

“Bob.”

He froze.

Swallowed hard. You watched the muscles in his neck twitch.

And then he spoke, each word like glass.

“Do you think Bob isn’t the main cause of all of this?” His voice trembled–not with anger, but something closer to despair. “Do you think my feelings are just… conjured up out of thin air?”

You didn’t breathe.

“We are connected,” He went on, more broken now, desperate. “His thoughts plague my mind just like my voice plagues his. His dreams. His love. I feel it. Every second. Every heartbeat he wastes on you, I feel it like a wound that never closes.”

The tendrils at your throat–already wrapped softly there–curled tighter. Still gentle. Still featherlight. Like hands cradling something delicate. Like the hands of someone scared to lose you.

“I can’t ignore the truth anymore,” He whispered. “Not when he dreams of you the way he does. Not when I dream of you now too. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, even though your breath still shook.

Even though your heart still pounded in your ears and your body felt caught between dread and something far more dangerous–want.

His hand cupped your jaw, the coolness seeping into your skin like mist through cloth, and he lowered his face even closer–so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Say it,” He whispered.

You swallowed.

“What?”

“Say you know,” He breathed, voice shaking now. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then quietly–so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a prayer–you whispered:

“…I know.” He didn’t move at first.

It was like the words had knocked the air from his lungs, like they’d rendered something inside him too stunned to function. You watched his mouth part slightly–lips trembling, breath shallow–and his pupils, those glowing pale moons, flicked down to your mouth.

And then…He leaned in.

So slowly. So hesitantly. As if he were expecting the moment to vanish before it touched him. His lips hovered a whisper above yours–cold, barely-there, and waiting for permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

So you gave it.

You tilted your chin, parted your lips just a breath–and then flicked your tongue out and lightly licked the soft curve of his bottom lip.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped him.

It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t a gasp. It was something more primitive–like something inside him cracked wide open. Like the memory of your warmth came rushing back all at once and hit him like a storm. His whole form shivered beneath your touch, like even that much gentleness was too much to bear.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Delicate. A press of lips that felt less like hunger and more like offering. A sacred thing. Like you were silently giving yourself to him–trusting him.

The tendril against your stomach quivered, then spread upward, curling slowly up your sternum. The coldness traced the line between your ribs with aching slowness, pulling goosebumps to your skin like the aftershock of a spell. Another tendril wrapped firmer around your back, pulling you upward, into him, and your hands moved before you could think.

You cupped his face.

Both palms against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as though trying to soothe the trembling that had begun shaking through his body. And he melted into it–like his form wasn’t solid anymore. Like the sheer weight of being held like this was more than he could survive.

He kissed you back–slowly at first, uncertain.

And then again. And again.

The whimper that escaped him was so raw it sounded like it hurt. Not from pain, but from feeling. From the overwhelming pressure of being kissed like this–like someone wanted him, all of him, even the parts he thought were unsalvageable.

You felt him shift.

The mattress dipped again as he leaned in heavier, his body pressing down into yours, his chest brushing yours. His weight was cold and foreign, but grounding. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just seeking. Wanting to be closer than was allowed.

Your legs parted instinctively beneath the blanket, and you wrapped them around his waist–lightly at first, tentative, as though testing if this was still okay. But when your calves settled around him, he let out another sound–a shaky, broken breath against your mouth that might have been the closest he could come to a thank you.

He deepened the kiss.

Not rough. Not fast. Just more. His mouth moved with such aching slowness against yours, lips cold but desperate to memorize you. He whimpered softly into your mouth, again and again, like the sound was being pulled out of him against his will.

Your hands kept moving. One stayed on his cheek, thumb stroking in soothing circles, but the other slipped down–over his neck, his shoulder, down along his ribs.

You felt him tremble.

Not from fear. But from need. That wild, hollow ache of something that had been starved of affection for so long, it didn’t know what to do with it now that it had finally been touched.

The shadows around you shifted, curling tighter around your form, but they didn’t hurt. They held. They cradled. They tethered. As though The Void himself couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. Of being separated by even a breath of air.

And still, his mouth stayed on yours.

Whimpering. Trembling. Kissing you like your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the body he’d borrowed.

He pulled back slowly–too slowly, like leaving your mouth was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When you opened your eyes, his were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged and shallow as if even the act of kissing had drained him. He was trembling–barely–but enough that you felt it through every place your bodies touched. You opened your mouth to speak, but then you saw it.

His lips.

Flecked with tiny white pinpricks of light. The same ones your other kisses had left in its wake. You reached up with slow fingers, reverent fingers, and gently traced the outline of his lips. His breath hitched violently, and his head dipped toward your palm like he couldn’t help it–like he was starved for it. Your thumb grazed the soft swell of his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

The sound was raw. Desperate. Almost painful.

You stilled immediately. “Void…?”

His eyes blinked open slowly–dim moons, fogged and trembling. His voice cracked as he whispered, “It…It hurts.”

Your heart clenched. “Hurts?”

He nodded faintly, almost ashamed. “I don’t…I don’t know how to process this. Being touched like that. Being kissed like that. It’s too much–” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then exhaled shakily, as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can stop,” You offered softly, your hand still cupping his cheek, your thumb now brushing beneath his eye instead. “Just tell me and I’ll–”

“No.” His hand caught yours–shadowed, trembling, cold. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Please. Don’t stop. I just…I need to feel it all.”

You nodded once, slowly.

Then, he shifted.

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still wrapped loosely around his waist. You followed easily, pressing your chest to his again, the blanket cocooning you both in warmth while his shadows curled tightly around you like a second skin. Your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling with his cool exhale.

Your hand slid down his jaw again, trailing lower this time–down his throat, over the defined line of his collarbone. Your palm remained splayed across his chest, cool beneath your fingers, rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths. His shadows still curled around you—gentle, clinging, trembling with a hunger that didn’t come from destruction, but from longing. From need. From the aching vulnerability of a god on his knees, cradled in human hands.

You tilted your head just slightly, forehead still grazing his, voice low and warm as you whispered:

“Tell me how it feels…”

Your thumb traced a soft arc over the center of his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

A breath hitched. A sound caught in his throat—like he was about to speak, but it took him a second to find the strength.

“…Please…” His voice cracked—barely above a whisper, “Please just…keep touching me.”

That was all he could say. All he could manage.

So you did.

You moved slowly like you were tracing stardust across him, like every motion was meant to tell him I see you. Your hand slipped from his chest and down along his side, curling around his waist to hold him closer. The other stayed between you, lifting just slightly to stroke your fingertips along the line of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then into his hair again–inky and cool and shifting beneath your hand like it responded to your touch.

He sighed, trembling, and his own hand came forward to find your thigh beneath the blanket. Slowly. Carefully. He rested his palm there, large and cool against the bare skin just above your knee, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He inhaled sharply at the contact, the breath catching at the top of his chest before shaking loose in a low exhale through barely-parted lips.

His thumb stroked once. Then again. Small, grounding circles against the inside of your thigh, before his fingers curled slightly and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone.

A kiss.

Then another.

Slower.

Lower.

You felt the exact moment he gasped–the motion rattling through his chest and into your mouth as you pressed another kiss just beneath the hollow of his throat. Light bloomed beneath your lips–those same soft pinpricks of white, growing like starlight across his dark skin.

“Oh god…” He breathed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. Inviting more of you.

It was a prayer and a confession and a surrender all at once.

You kissed higher, toward the edge of his shoulder, lips dragging softly along the cool skin, your nose brushing his throat as you whispered gently:

“You can have this…” Another kiss. “As long as you want.”

A low, broken sound escaped him–something between a moan and a whimper. His hand on your thigh tightened again, not roughly–just anchoring. Needing. Worshipping.

You moved back just enough to look at him again.

His glowing white eyes were glassy now, lids heavy, lips parted slightly. He looked completely undone. Not from lust. But from being seen. From being held.

Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing the hollow of his cheek.

“You’re not too much,” You murmured, answering the question he hadn’t dared ask aloud. “You’re not too cold. You’re not too broken. You’re not a mistake.”

His breath stuttered again. He blinked. You saw something fracture across his expression–something soft. Something grateful. Like you’d just rewritten a truth he thought he had to live with forever.

“Touch me again,” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please…”

You shifted closer until your chest pressed to his again, and your mouth returned to his neck. Kissing. Marking. Soft worship. Your hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers splaying wide, grounding him again. He whimpered, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips.

The shadows around you pulled tighter–still not hurting, still not threatening. Just holding. Like they were trying to remember this moment. To keep it somehow. Etch it into the fabric of reality before it could slip away.

His hand remained anchored on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into the warmth of your skin like he was committing it to memory. You felt him shift slightly–closer, heavier. His mouth brushed against your cheek.

And then came the question.

“Can I touch you?”

It was soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–those pale, glowing eyes dim and unsure, shadowed by something fragile.

“Where?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, his hand slid higher.

Cool fingers brushing up along your thigh, along the hem of your sleep shorts, until his knuckles just barely grazed the waistband. He paused there, eyes searching yours—studying. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And you saw it again–the way his breath caught. The tremble in his touch. The restraint of a creature that could ruin you in a heartbeat…but didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

You nodded.

And he moved.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

You gasped sharply.

The cold was immediate–like shadow-dipped silk gliding against your heat. Not harsh. Not jarring. Just the opposite. The contrast made your body tense, then melt. He felt it—how wet you already were for him–and his breath stuttered, just once.

“Oh…” You gasped.

His other hand rose slowly, almost uncertainly, and came to cradle the side of your neck–his palm cool and steady as his thumb stroked under your jaw, grounding you again. The feel of his fingers below was almost unbearable now.

“You’re so warm, Y/N…” He whispered, and it wasn’t just awe in his voice–it was longing. Worship. “So…So warm…”

His fingers moved gently between your folds, slowly, like he was learning you by touch alone. His middle finger dipped lower, parting your slick with a trembling kind of care, until he found the delicate ache at your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

He stroked along it once–soft and teasing–and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you. Your hips twitched forward, chasing the sensation, and he groaned low in his throat like the sound of your pleasure was more than he could bear.

“I want…” You breathed, voice trembling. “Guide me to you. I want to touch you too.”

There was no hesitation.

One of the tendrils–slow and patient–slid down your arm like ribbon, curling around your wrist. It coaxed your hand forward, easing beneath the blanket, through shadow and warmth and the press of his form, sliding beneath his waistband until–

You felt him.

Hard.

Straining.

Solid heat beneath impossibly cool skin.

You couldn’t see it. But you knew. The thickness. The weight. The need that pulsed there.

Your fingers curled instinctively around him, and he jolted–his whole body twitching with the contact, breath torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering gasp.

“Oh god…” He whispered, barely coherent.

You palmed him gently, dragging your hand along the length of him, feeling a wet spot already forming at the tip. His hips flexed forward into your touch. The tendrils around your wrist tightened–just slightly–like they couldn’t bear to let go.

And still, his fingers moved.

He slipped one inside you–slow, so slow–and you cried out, arching into him.

“Void…” You moaned, your voice breaking. “Your fingers feel so good…”

His mouth dropped open at the sound, and he groaned into your neck–low and trembling and desperate. His finger curled inside you, and then another joined–his thumb pressing up, slow and steady against your clit in small, precise circles.

His fingers thrust into you with more confidence now, the earlier hesitation melting away as he felt your heat clench greedily around him. He groaned raggedly against your skin, the sound low and fractured as he buried his face in your neck. Your wrist flexed in rhythm, stroking the length of him with slow, coaxing pulls, and his hips twitched forward again, seeking more.

“Fuck–” He breathed softly into your throat, reverence and disbelief tangled in the single word.

The slick sounds between your thighs were unmistakable now–vivid, shameless, echoing beneath the blanket like they were announcing just how wet you were for him. Every time his fingers curled just right, your hips rolled down into them, grinding against his palm, chasing that pressure. You could feel yourself dripping–your sleep shorts were clinging now, damp and sticky, soaked through as he thrust deeper.

Then he did it–he nipped at your neck. Gentle, testing, like he wasn’t sure how much you could take. His lips grazed your pulse point, breath cooling the heated skin, and then–he latched on.

You gasped sharply, your whole body arching into him.

“V–Void–” You moaned, a tremble shaking through your voice as your hand jerked on his cock, stroking him with firmer, wetter pulls. “That…Fuck, that felt–”

You didn’t even finish.

He groaned at your reaction, grinding his palm up against your clit harder now, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, slicker. The cold contrast of him inside you made the heat coil impossibly tight in your core, and your thighs began to tremble.

You moved your hand faster, too. Dragging your fist up the thick, throbbing length of him, curling your fingers tighter at the base, and then slipping upward, smearing the precum across the tip with your thumb. You could feel him twitching in your palm, feel how much it wrecked him to be touched like this–reverently, intimately, possessively.

“Please–” He rasped, breath hot against your neck. “I can’t–if you keep touching me like that–”

You clenched around his fingers hard, your hips grinding down with desperate rhythm.

“I know…I know…But please don’t stop,” You whispered.

And he didn’t.

He fucked his fingers into you harder–faster–his wrist snapping with a precision that felt unfair. You sobbed his name into his shoulder, your hand jerking reflexively on his cock as your thighs spread wider, desperate to keep feeling him.

Then–his thumb pressed up again, harder, tighter, and you shattered.

It wasn’t a soft climax.

It hit like thunder.

You gasped–a sharp, breathless sound–and your thighs clamped down around his wrist as your hand spasmed and gripped his cock tightly. Your whole body bucked as your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wet, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers as a gush of slick spilled into your shorts and soaked his hand.

“Oh, fuck–” He groaned, nearly collapsing into you, his voice broken with awe. “You–god, you just–”

Your hand slipped off him, limp with aftershock, and he kept his fingers inside you as you shook.

You were still gasping when he pulled back–just slightly–and looked down at you.

The mark on your neck pulsed dark in the moonlight.

He stared at it.

Then he leaned down again and bit you.

Not gently this time.

He sunk his teeth–sharp, deliberate–right over the place he’d already kissed, right over your pulsing artery. You gasped again, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips jerked.

When he pulled back, you were panting–and the look on his face…

Pure, holy vengeance.

The bruise he left bloomed immediately. Deep, dark, and possessive. A perfect mirror to the stars you had carved into his skin with your kisses.

He gazed down at it with a look of worship and darkness all at once.

“That,” He murmured, his voice low and ruined, “Is going to be very hard to explain tomorrow.”

And the smirk that curved his mouth was slow, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.

You leaned in first. Pressed a soft, breathless kiss to his parted lips, catching the last remnants of that smirk and stealing it right from his mouth. Your lips brushed, warm against his cold, a slow drag of reverence and claim. Then you whispered against him:

“It’s alright. I’ll figure it out.”

He barely had time to respond before you kissed him again–deeper this time, with heat that made his hands twitch on your thigh. His shadows curled tighter around your hips, bracing for something neither of you could take back.

When you finally pulled away, breath caught in the space between you, your voice dropped to a sultry whisper:

“Lay on your back.”

His pale eyes squinted, caught between suspicion and arousal. “Why?” He rasped.

You leaned close to his ear, let your lips ghost over the shell of it, and whispered:

“’Cause I want you inside me.”

You felt him shudder.

Hard.

The kind of involuntary, whole-body tremor that pulled a sound from his throat–quiet, ragged, and guttural.

Without another word, he obeyed.

The mattress shifted beneath you as he slowly laid back, shadows slithering and curling beneath his spine like smoke. His eyes never left you–not once. Even as your thigh slipped from around his waist, even as you reached down, dragging your soaked sleep shorts down your trembling legs.

You peeled them off inch by inch, slow and deliberate, the cool air grazing your slick thighs as you bared yourself to him. Then your shirt followed. Pulled over your head, discarded to the side.

You were completely bare now–bathed in moonlight, glowing like the stars that had once kissed his skin.

The Void’s body shifted beneath you, shadows writhing like living breath across the sheets. You heard fabric rustle faintly, and then felt it–the brush of his length against your thigh, already slick with precum, already straining.

You climbed over him slowly.

His gaze followed every motion, those glowing white pupils wide and ravenous. His chest barely moved with breath, but his body was tense beneath you–cold and waiting.

The second your knees straddled his waist, his eyes dropped to your chest.

And he sighed.

The sound was deep. Hollowed out. Full of awe.

“Dear god…” He whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

His hands rose almost reverently and cupped your breasts. He gave one a gentle squeeze, like he was testing its realness, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, cool and soft, sending a rush of heat straight through your core.

Around you, the tendrils stirred again.

They slipped along your sides, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. Cascading up your back and down your arms in slow, possessive strokes. Not gripping. Just…Holding. Just reminding you that he was everywhere.

You shifted above him, and he let out a low, ragged sigh at the feel of your soaked core dragging over the length of his erection. The contrast of temperature was almost unbearable–your heat against his endless cold.

His hands dropped to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

You rose up slightly, just enough to reach between you, guiding his cock with careful fingers. You lined him up with your entrance, already so wet and aching it made you whimper.

Then you began to sink down.

The stretch made your mouth fall open immediately–a burning, slow ache as your walls parted for him inch by inch. He was cold inside you. Not harsh. Not unnatural. Just…different. Like your warmth was the only thing tethering him to this plane.

He whimpered the moment your heat began to envelope him.

And god, it was a sound you’d never forget–wrecked and vulnerable, a gasp that trembled with disbelief.

You sank down slower, hands braced on his chest, shadows curling tighter around your back. The pressure built. The stretch deepened. The burn crawled higher. Your jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“F-fuck,” You choked softly, your voice breaking. “You’re…bigger than I thought.”

The Void whimpered again, trying not to move, hands gripping your hips like restraint was the only thing keeping him intact.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered hoarsely. “So tight. I–god, you feel like fire.”

You moaned at the way he filled you–deep and cold and aching. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him as you finally settled, fully seated on him, the stretch bringing on a delicious pulse between pleasure and burn.

He was still.

Too still.

Like if he moved too fast, this would all disappear.

So you leaned forward again, your palms sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his temple. He let out a low, airy sigh as you leaned forward again, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the ridge of his cheekbone. Another to the tip of his nose. You felt him shiver beneath you, his pale eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t bear the sensation of it–like he didn’t know how to accept being touched so gently, so freely. But still, he held perfectly still. Breathing shallow, jaw slack, letting you do it.

And each kiss left behind a soft gleam of white light.

Tiny constellations bloomed where your mouth had landed–stars flaring into life against the shadowed surface of his face. They shimmered softly in the moonlight, and when you pulled back to admire him, the image took your breath away.

He looked…Ruined. Worshipped. Unmade by your love.

“I’m not going to be able to strike fear into anyone,” He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, “If you keep kissing my face and marking me like this.”

You laughed–a soft, breathy thing that shook lightly through your chest. “Say it’s a birthmark.” His hands clenched at your hips in that moment–fingers digging in with involuntary need–and his hips shifted, just slightly, a subtle thrust upward from beneath you.

It was enough.

Your laugh caught in your throat and turned into a sharp gasp as he nudged deeper inside, your body seizing around him in a sudden ripple of tightness.

“Shit,” You breathed, eyes flying open, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes widened slightly–moons gone soft with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped, voice thin and stunned, hands relaxing on your hips like he thought he might’ve hurt you.

You shook your head immediately, one hand bracing against his chest, the other sliding up his jaw.

“No, no–it’s alright,” You murmured gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Then you leaned in slowly, mouth brushing along the edge of his jaw, your breath warming the cool skin as you whispered, “But…Does this mean I can start moving now?”

His response was instant.

A nod. Wild and desperate. Then another–faster, almost frantic. His eyes locked on yours, pupils wide and glowing as he whispered, “Yes. Please. I need you to.”

You smiled softly.

And then you moved.

The first roll of your hips was slow. Measured. A gentle pull upward, and then a careful drop back down. The stretch flared again, sweet and biting, your breath catching as you sank onto him fully, the thick weight of his cock dragging deliciously along your walls.

Beneath you, he groaned–low and guttural and barely restrained.

His hands clenched again at your waist, not guiding you, just holding. Just grounding himself. Like the pleasure was too much and he needed your body beneath his palms to remember he was still here.

You rocked again.

A slow, rhythmic grind of your hips that pressed him impossibly deep, the angle shifting just enough that the drag of his cock against your walls made you moan. The pressure mounted with every roll–an intoxicating, needy heat spreading through your core as he filled you, stretched you, worshiped you without even moving.

And he just lay there–utterly undone–letting you take him apart.

“Fuck,” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel…So good, Void.”

He whimpered.

That same raw, involuntary sound he made every time your body clenched around him. His breath trembled. His hands flexed.

And then the tendrils began to move.

They curled along your back first–sliding up your spine, cool and slow, trailing over your skin like ribbons of silk. Then two more snaked down your thighs, wrapping around them just beneath your hips. Not restraining. Just holding. Guiding. Supporting you where his hands couldn’t reach.

They moved with you.

Rising as you lifted yourself. Lowering as you dropped down again.

Like they were learning your rhythm.

Your pace quickened slightly, each drop down onto his cock making your thighs tremble, each upward lift a delicious drag of heat and friction. Your hands pressed harder against his chest now, fingers splayed, nails curling slightly into the shadows that made up his skin.

And he was gone.

Eyes wide open now, lips parted in breathless awe, head tipped back into the pillow as he took everything you gave him. Every roll of your hips, every breathless moan. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to the way it bounced with every motion, and he groaned aloud–his hips twitching up into you for the first time in response.

You gasped.

“Void–” You choked.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped again, but there was no restraint this time. His voice was wrecked with need. “I need to–I need to feel you more–”

You leaned down and took his face in your hands again, kissing him hard, your mouth sliding against his with heat and hunger as your hips began to move faster. The sound of your slick echoing now–wet and open and filthy–as he fucked up into you with trembling precision.

The tendrils climbed again.

They ghosted over your breasts, curling gently around them, cool and reverent as they cupped your weight. One traced the curve of your throat. Another danced down the arch of your back, grounding you through every bounce, every roll, every stutter of your breath.

You moaned into his mouth.

He caught the sound and swallowed it–his tongue slipping into your mouth with the most delicate desperation, kissing you like he was starved, like he’d never get to do it again.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pant against him, your forehead pressed to his as you gasped, “Push me down onto you.”

His breath caught.

And he obeyed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he braced you, holding you still against him–just for a moment–before he thrust up hard.

You cried out, the sharp pleasure of it shocking through your nerves like lightning. The tendrils cinched tighter, wrapping you in a cocoon of darkness as his pace began to build beneath you–slow but deep, precise, controlled only by the fragility of your body above him.

Your voice broke on another moan. “Don’t stop, please, I’m–I’m gonna–”

And then you shattered again.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, clenching tight around him, soaking him in wet heat as your nails dug into his shoulders and your head fell forward with a cry.

He gasped.

And then he came.

With a broken moan and a hoarse curse, his body convulsed beneath you, his hands yanking your hips down hard–burying you to the hilt–holding you there as he spilled inside you, cold and heavy and endless.

The tendrils trembled around you, tightening like a final embrace, like they were anchoring him to you while his body seized with pleasure. His mouth parted, breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered up one more time–and then he collapsed back into the bed, shaking.

You slumped over him, forehead resting on his shoulder.

Breathless. Glowing. Slick and ruined and full.

His arms came around you slowly, delicately–like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. But you did. You melted against him, chest pressed to his cool skin, the soft weight of your body settling atop his as you began to breathe in sync.

Your exhales mingled. Your heartbeats echoed, uneven but slowly evening out.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, quivering waves beneath your cheek, and beneath the chill of his skin, you could feel his pulse–faint, strange, but steady. You rested your palm just over it, grounding yourself there, listening to the rhythm until it felt like your own.

The tendrils around you loosened only slightly–enough to ease the tension from your limbs without breaking contact. They kept stroking softly along your back, trailing up and down your spine with gentle pressure, like they were comforting you…Or comforting him through you.

After a moment, you finally lifted your head.

And you stilled.

Your gaze caught the faint white gleam scattered across his face. Dozens of tiny marks, scattered like freckles–no, constellations. Traced by your lips. Etched like a map across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, across his temple, haloing his brow. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Jesus,” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, “I really did a number on you.”

He blinked slowly, still catching his breath, then smirked faintly. “Can’t pass it off as a birthmark anymore, hmm?”

You shook your head, amused, gaze tracing every speck of light you’d left behind.

“No… definitely not.” Your fingertips danced over them again, tender, reverent. “But they’re really pretty.”

His mouth quirked upward into something close to a grin–more tooth than smirk this time. You saw the faint flash of his teeth, sharp but clean, like fangs made for something more elegant than violence.

“Lucky it doesn’t pass off to Bob,” He said, voice still low, hoarse. “He’d have even more to explain than you.”

You snorted softly and shifted a little against him, letting your forehead rest beside his. “He’d never live it down. Walker would never stop asking questions.”

“Or Ava,” Void added. “She’d try to scrub them off with a washcloth.”

You both chuckled quietly, the sound soft in the quiet hush of the room. The tendrils still moved slowly across your skin–trailing along your lower back, curling gently around your ribs, one brushing softly against the back of your knee where it hooked loosely over his hip.

“I think…” He murmured after a beat, “he’ll definitely be happy tomorrow morning though.”

You looked at him, blinking slowly.

“But you will have to talk to him about this.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, you admitted, “The soulmate thing may confuse him though.”

The Void hummed softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest beneath you. “Leave that out,” He murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I think it technically applies to only you and I anyway.”

That made your heart thump–once, hard.

You swallowed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

A shimmer of light bloomed beneath your lips.

His whole body tensed.

Every tendril tightened slightly around you–not harshly, but as if the entire mass of shadows needed to hold you in place, needed to feel every second of that kiss, needed to memorize it.

You pulled back slightly and whispered, “Void…”

His head turned slowly toward you, that expression unreadable but open, mouth slightly parted.

“Yeah?”

You brought your hand up to his face again, palm cradling his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, breath hitching.

“I was really wrong about you.”

His jaw tensed beneath your palm. You felt it–just for a moment–before he whispered, “It’s okay… I made multiple bad impressions and you had a right to dislike me.” He takes a moment, and presses his cheek into your touch. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You leaned in slowly.

And kissed him again.

Right in the center of his lips.

Another star flickered into life.

His breath hitched audibly this time, chest quaking beneath you, eyes still shut like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you in that moment. Couldn’t believe he was being forgiven.

You rested your forehead against his.

And whispered, “And I’m glad you weaken me…”

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes brushing your cheeks from how close you were.

“…Because you make me feel a little more human.”

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, the tendrils coiled tightly around your back, around your thighs, around your shoulders–pulling you closer, tighter, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

And for the first time, The Void didn’t feel like a monster at all.

He just felt like a man who finally knew what it was like to be loved.

[rotapathetic]

could you write something where rafe is streaming and reader needs him to open a pickle jar? lol thought it would be cute xx

૮ ⎙ㅤ userrotapathetic ა i just rediscovered my pickle obsession so thanks for this made two versions because i had two in mind :p

Ი version one 𐑼

꒱ user can you say hi becca?

rafe messed with his lip, scrolling through his downloaded games, and glanced at the chat. “hi, bethany. okay, the options for today are either an indie horror game, chilla’s art, or outlast. those are all scary, great.”

user indie horror!! those are always so good ꒰ user how about my ability to fall asleep tonight user outlast because i know you’ll be scared

rafe didn’t expect any less when reading that chat, “banning whoever just prayed on my downfall for a week. i’ll put up a poll really quickly so you guys can pick.”

user ha ha user i know the mods feel bad doing that ꒱ user can i be a mod?

“don’t need any more right now. . i’ll tell you guys about my day while you vote. don’t care if you didn’t ask. had an abomination for breakfast but i swear it was good. my pretty girl helped me go over this deal i have and we finalized that. so, something pretty cool is coming out soon. .” rafe trailed off when he heard your soft foot patters.

he took his headphones completely off, turning his entire chair towards you. he looked to the jar in your hand, “hey, baby, what’s up?”

you tapped on the lid, wondering if you should even ask. you’d been building up the courage for five minutes after spending about ten trying to open this pickle jar without asking rafe. you knew he was streaming and did all you can to make sure you didn’t interrupt, no matter how many times rafe tells you he doesn’t mind, even wants you to interrupt his streams.

but you wanted a pickle and this jar was getting open. you walked forward, holding out the jar so only your arm was showing in the camera. you didn’t want the viewers to put their attention on you, but instead focus on rafe. “could you open this?”

user are those pickles user open it now user was not expecting that

rafe smiled, taking the jar and opening it, then handed it back to you. “thank you.” you scurried off, letting rafe continue his stream.

his smile remained as he turned back to the camera. “yep, that’s me. boyfriend. . jar opener. . personal wallet.” rafe shrugged nonchalantly, “i love what i do. you guys are mad,” he pulled a mock sad face, checking the poll results.

꒰ user ? right

Ი version two 𐑼

rafe frowned, seeing that outlast won the poll. “fine, freaks.” he started up the game. “you guys suck.”

he was twenty minutes in, already having been jump scared three times. the game was scary by itself, but as promised every time he plays a horror, his lights were also off, only the glow of his monitor providing light.

rafe blew out a breath, having to do another scene over again because of his character being caught. “i don’t know if i can do this again, this isn’t funny.”

꒱ user not even joking who is that behind you user you guys see it too?? ꒰ user nah it’s too late for this

rafe wasn’t paying attention to his chat as you appeared behind him. you already felt bad having to ask, but felt worse seeing that rafe was playing a scary game. you bit your lip, hoping this wouldn’t be a bother.

rafe flinched at another jumpscare as you stepped closer to his chair. “why did i play this. why did i play this,” rafe repeated. and with a tap to his shoulder, rafe jumped, throwing his headphones off with a yelp. he rolled his chair back, bracing for what could be behind him, paranoid enough to think it was a monster and not just you.

you rose your hands in mock surrender, holding in a laugh. “i’m sorry!”

rafe let out a breath, head tossing back against his headrest. he let his heart rate come back down, grabbing the remote to turn on his lights, hand slightly shaking.

user bro how did i jump user you don’t know how fast i just clipped that ꒰ user stopppp

“hi, sweetheart, what’s up?” rafe spoke with a slight voice shake. you held out the jar, “could you open this? sorry, again.”

rafe shook his head with a brow furrow at your apology, grabbing the jar, “you’re fine,” he opened the jar, handing it back. he cleared his throat, scratching a brow and rotating his foot, glancing up at you hesitantly. “i think i pulled something.”

user nice

[falesten-iw]

To Those Who Still Hold Onto a Shred of Morality and Humanity - Stand with Us and Don’t Forget Us.

Over 40,000 lives have been lost, with 70% of them being children and women. Among these numbers are my own family members—many of whom I’ve already lost.

My family, my cousin, aunt, their children, and grandchildren were all directly targeted by Israeli airstrikes. I’m sharing a video of my aunt and cousin to reveal the harsh reality we are facing in Gaza. In this video, my aunt bravely shares her story about how the Israeli army airstruck them along with their children and grandchildren. Even if you don’t understand Arabic, just watching her speak will help you grasp the immense suffering we are enduring in Gaza. You can see the vedeo in this post.

The few family members who remain are in grave danger, and I’m terrified of losing them too. We have a chance to make a real difference and give my 24 surviving family members a chance to live.

In Gaza, jobs are non-existent, and nonprofit organizations like the UN have drastically reduced their work on the ground. Basic necessities such as milk, food, and medicine are almost as expensive as gold. My family is struggling to afford even the essentials, and my mother urgently needs medication that we simply cannot afford.

I’m also sharing another video that shows the daily struggle people face just to get clean water. The suffering here extends far beyond my family; it’s a genocide affecting every aspect of life in Gaza.

Thanks to the generosity of those who have already donated, we’ve raised $535 toward our goal of $190,363- august 17th. I’m deeply grateful to each of you, but we still have a long way to go, and I need your help more than ever. Imagine if it were your family—how would you feel if they were in this situation?

For those who have created special posts or reblogged to amplify my voice, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support means everything to me and to my family. If you haven’t yet shared our story, please take just one minute to do so. Your voice could be the lifeline my family desperately needs.

You cannot continue to treat human lives as mere numbers. This is a genocide that demands immediate action. How many more should be killed before you all wake up? Will 40,000 lives be enough to stir us to action? 50,000? 100,000? 150,000?

Asking for donations and charity is something we never imagined having to do in Gaza before the war, and it’s heartbreaking that it has come to this. But if everyone who saw my last post donated just $10 or $20, we could reach our goal in no time. If you’re looking for a way to contribute, consider giving up your coffee, tea, or other “cup” for one day, one week, one month, or anything in between. Then, donate what you would have spent to help me. Please help us and donate now!

This is about more than just donations—it’s about preserving human lives and upholding our shared moral values. Your contribution can make a world of difference in our survival and ensure I don’t lose more of the people I love.

Demanding an end to this suffering is a matter of basic humanity. You cannot remain neutral in the face of such genocide. Please, let’s stand together. Enough is enough.

Every donation, no matter how small, brings us closer to hope and healing. Thank you again for your kindness and support. I will never forget it.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed even as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

Important note: ** 105 Swedish kr is just 10$ ** 1050 Swedish kr is just 100$ ** 10500 Swedish kr is just 1000$

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[neferaskingdom]

♡ You're Doing Amazing Sweetie | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: George finds out and the only thing Y/n can do is hide and pray that George doesn't take out Max on track.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Y/n paces anxiously near the monitors while Charles and Lando loiter as if they had all the time in the world. Charles had his arms crossed, his race suit tied around his waist, and Lando was demolishing a plate of snacks meant for the Ferrari engineers. Y/n had been hiding out in the Ferrari garage since the paddock opened to avoid crossing paths with George.

“Okay, tell me the truth—how screwed am I?” Y/n asks, whipping around to face them.

“Oh, monumentally,” Lando replies through a mouthful of cookie. “Like Titanic levels. Possibly Pompeii.”

Charles nods along solemnly. “Also George is definitely plotting something. He walked by earlier muttering to himself like a Bond villain.”

“Fuck” Y/n groans pacing faster.

“You do realize hiding here makes you look guiltier, right?” Lando says, biting into another cookie

Y/n glares at him. “What do you want me to do? Parade around the paddock with a sign that says ‘Yes George, I am the mother of Max Verstappen’s future spawn’?!”

Charles snorts so hard that his espresso nearly spills. “Please don’t. George would spontaneously combust.”

“Plus technically speaking this is your fault,” Lando says, jabbing a finger at her.

She raises an eyebrow. “My fault? I’m not the one who told the entire world, ‘If it weren’t for the baby.’”

“That part was clearly Max’s fault,” Lando interjects, not looking up from his plate. “But this whole ‘let’s date secretly’ thing? Yeah, I’m blaming you for that one.”

“Excuse me?” Y/n shoots back.

“Don’t get defensive,” Charles says, holding his hands up. “But we told you this would end in disaster. And now? Look at you. Hiding in my garage like some kind of fugitive because George looks like he’s ready to blow up Redbull’s hospitality. You should have told George the second you two realized your relationship was serious.”

Y/n groans, tugging at her hair. “What’s done is done and I can’t change that now can I? And I’m here because I obviously can’t stay at the Mercedes garage if I want to avoid my brother and staying at Redbull is a deathwish. Imagine what’ll happen if he catches us both in the same place. I just hope George doesn't do anything stupid in public”

“Why do you think we’re here?” Lando says, grinning as he gestures to himself and Charles. “We’re like the UN Peacekeepers of the paddock. We’ll keep them both separate and make sure nothing happens today.”

“Like that's very reassuring,” Y/n mutters.

As the drivers line up for the national anthem, Y/n stays glued to the monitors, trying to keep a low profile. George, however, was impossible to miss.

“Great,” she mutters to herself as the camera pans to him. His jaw was clenched, his expression thunderous. It looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Oscar was hovering near George, subtly blocking him every time he shifted toward Max. Y/n couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Aussie, who looked like he’d accidentally wandered into a battlefield.

From his other side, Lando was casually draping an arm over his shoulder as if trying to calm him down. Instead, it seems to piss off George even more as he tried to shrug him off with a sharp glare, but Lando remained latched on.

“Please let this be over,” Y/n pleads at the screen.

The tension only escalated as the drivers headed to their cars. George made one last attempt to corner Max, and Y/n’s heart leaped into her throat.

“Oh no. Oh no. Don’t do it,” she whispered at the screen.

Oscar, ever the unwilling mediator, once again intercepted George, his hands up in a placating gesture. Y/n let out a relieved breath as George backed off, though he still looked furious.

She slumped back into her seat, her nerves frayed.

“Just one race,” she muttered to herself. “One race without drama. Is that too much to ask for?”

The drivers climbed into their cars, and the screen cut to the grid formation. Y/n felt a brief moment of peace, knowing that for the next couple of hours, George and Max would be too busy driving to tear into each other.

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: Tensions are at an all-time high after today’s race! George Russell’s post-race interview took a dramatic turn when a journalist brought up Max’s cryptic baby comment and rumors about George’s sister. 😱 After repeatedly trying to dodge the question, George snapped, delivered a firm warning about personal boundaries, and stormed off.

The paddock drama just keeps escalating. Fans spotted George glaring at Max throughout the national anthem, and it seems like Oscar and Lando had to play paddock security to keep the peace. What’s your take on all this chaos? 🍼👀

Post-Race Interview Transcript:

Journalist: George, P5 today—a decent result to round out the season. Can you walk us through how you’re feeling about the race and the team’s performance?

George: (nodding) Yeah, it was a solid race. Not quite the result we hoped for, but the team worked hard all weekend. We gave it our best shot with the car we had. Of course, as a driver, you always want more, but I think we made the most of the opportunities we had out there.

Journalist: Fair enough. And, of course, today marks the end of an era with Lewis Hamilton’s final race for Mercedes. What’s it like to share this moment with him? Any reflections?

George: (pauses, visibly emotional) It’s bittersweet, really. Lewis has been such a huge part of the team and the sport as a whole. He’s not just a teammate but also a mentor and a legend in Formula 1. Sharing the garage with him has been an honor. I think I speak for everyone at Mercedes when I say we’re incredibly grateful for everything he’s brought to the team and wish him all the best for what comes next.

Journalist: Well said. Now, George, I have to shift gears a bit—there’s been a lot of chatter about some off-track tension. During the national anthem, fans couldn’t help but notice you glaring at Max Verstappen. Care to address that?

George: (stiffens, smile faltering) I wasn’t glaring at anyone. I was focused on the race, like I always am. People are reading into things that just aren’t there.

Journalist: Really? Because from the footage, it looked quite... pointed. And after Max’s comments yesterday about making peace with you ‘because of a baby,’ it’s hard not to wonder—

George: (cuts in, voice tight) I don’t see how that’s relevant to today’s race.

Journalist: (pressing) George, fans are speculating nonstop. Is it true? Is your sister having Max Verstappen’s baby?

George: (visibly bristling, voice rising) I think we’ve strayed far enough from the purpose of this interview. This is about Formula 1, about racing—not gossip or baseless rumors.

Journalist: With all due respect, George, Max’s words weren’t exactly cryptic. He was talking about a baby and making amends with you. Surely, you can understand why people are curious.

George: (snaps, voice sharp) Curious or not, it’s none of anyone’s business. This is supposed to be a post-race interview—not a soap opera recap. The media needs to learn where to draw the line. We’re here to race, not have our personal lives dissected under a microscope.

Journalist: But George, the fans—

George: (interrupts sharply) No. Enough. The media needs to maintain boundaries and stop meddling in our personal lives. I’m done here.

(George rips off his team cap, storms away from the interview pen, and disappears into the paddock, leaving the journalist and cameras stunned.)

Comments:

user: George was NOT here for the nonsense today. That ‘draw the line’ speech? ICONIC

user: Honestly, respect to George for standing up for himself. The journalist was pushing way too hard. Let the man race in peace user: Never seen George this mad before 😳 What is going on in the House of Commons???

user: Why do I feel like this confirms the baby news? Like he didn’t deny it, and his reaction was TOO intense

user: Respect to George for standing up to the journalist, but let’s not lie—he 100% confirmed the drama with that reaction. 🍼

user: Okay, but imagine George finding out about the baby at the same time as us 😭

user: George looked like he was going to deck Max during the national anthem. Thank you, Oscar, for literally being a human shield

user: No but why did George look like he was seconds away from body-slamming Max during the anthem? Lando had to literally hold him back 💀

user: Okay, but the real question is… what BABY? Whose baby? Did George even KNOW about this baby before today?!

user: Theory time! 1. Max and Y/n were dating in secret. 2. George didn’t know about the baby and is spiraling. 3. Netflix is eating GOOD

user: Imagine being George and learning about your sister’s alleged baby from Twitter

user: Lewis’ last race with Merc and THIS is what George has to deal with. Poor guy’s gonna need therapy after this season

user: The way everyone’s ignoring this is also Lewis’ last race with Mercedes 💀. George snapped so hard we forgot to be emotional

user: Lando probably whispered something dumb like ‘You’re doing amazing, sweetie’ while George was vibrating with rage

user: F1 isn’t just a sport. It’s a reality TV show with occasional car racing

Max stood under the glare of the cameras, trying to look composed despite the post-race fatigue gnawing at him. P6 wasn’t what he’d wanted, but at least he’d avoided the chaos brewing elsewhere in the paddock—or so he thought.

“So, the strategy was clearly compromised by the penalty,” the journalist asked, her tone probing. “Do you think there was any way to recover from that?”

Max nodded slightly, his words coming out measured. “Yeah, it was tough. We lost track position early, and once you’re in traffic—”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

The voice was eerily calm, almost polite, but it carried a weight that immediately silenced the conversation. Max turned to see George standing there, his posture casual but his jaw clenched tight.

The journalist blinked, clearly taken aback. “Uh, George? We’re in the middle of—”

“I need a moment with Max,” George cut her off, his tone civil but firm. He glanced at Max’s PR manager with an unnervingly calm smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

The PR manager hesitated, looking between Max and George. Max let out a quiet sigh, already resigned to whatever was about to unfold. He gave a small nod. “It’s fine. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Before anyone could say another word, George’s hand clamped onto Max’s shoulder. It wasn’t rough, but it left no room for argument.

Max allowed himself to be steered away, his body language slumping slightly as though accepting his fate. George didn’t say a word as he guided Max through the paddock, weaving past mechanics and team personnel. A few glanced their way, their curiosity piqued, but no one dared to intervene.

“Are you going to say something, or are we just walking in ominous silence?” Max finally muttered, keeping his tone light but knowing full well George wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

George didn’t respond, his grip tightening slightly as they turned into a quieter corridor behind the team hospitality units.

“Okay,” Max said with a dry laugh, “this is starting to feel like a bad cop drama.”

George stopped abruptly, spinning Max around and slamming him against the wall. The thud echoed in the empty space, and Max winced slightly but didn’t resist.

“We need to talk,” George said, his voice low and steely, every word laced with barely contained anger.

Max met his gaze, his usual unflappable demeanor faltering under the intensity of George’s glare. For a moment, the air between them was thick with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy in the silence.

Taglist: @ilovechickenwings @spooky-librarian-ghost @diaryofarandomkid @rd14 @hc-dutch @96mcobo @grussellsprout @tremendousstarlighttragedy @awritingtree @shelbyteller @diorbrxtz

@henna006 @freyathehuntress @nichmeddar @formulaal @sleutherclaw

@anilovessadbooks @mangotaitai @vtryy @finn-dot-com @sarahsobsession

[kanaria-a]

❝Come pull me close in the shadows, and bleed into me.❞

in which, your relationship with various twst characters are portrayed as ship tropes…

ft. everyone that isn’t Jade or Lilia

$RIDDLE — Childhood Marriage Pact

The rain comes down in a fine, misty veil as you stand in the rose garden, the scent of damp earth mingling with the fragrance of freshly bloomed petals. Time appears to have folded in upon itself—the present bleeding into the past—when a small, red-haired boy with a too-serious face and a heart full of rigid rules took your hand beneath this very arbor. "Then it's decided," he'd said in that careful, clipped tone of his. "When we grow up, we'll get married. You’re the only one who understands the rules properly." You had laughed—light, naive. "Alright, Riddle. I promise." Neither of you knew, then, what promises truly cost. Now, years later, Riddle Rosehearts stands before you, the very image of elegance and exactitude. His uniform is immaculate, every button gleaming. His crimson eyes, once wide with boyish certainty, now sharpen with something more complicated—guarded affection, perhaps. Or guilt. "You remembered," he says softly, looking past your shoulder, as if the hedge behind you might give him courage. "I could hardly forget," you reply. "It was the most serious promise you'd ever made. You threatened to put me in a collar if I broke it." A faint flush spreads across his cheeks, though his posture remains rigid. "I was... a rather severe child." "You still are." His lips twitch—perhaps almost a smile, but not quite. Silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of shared history. You wonder if he, too, is reliving those sun-drenched days of childhood, the ones spent with hands stained red from rose petals and scraped knees from climbing the hedges he’d later decree off-limits. "Back then," Riddle begins, voice low, "you were one of the only ones who didn’t look at me with contempt when I quoted my mother. You listened. Even when I was insufferable." You raise a brow. "You still are." This time, he actually does smile. Brief. Wry. Aching with something unspoken. “I never took it as a joke,” he continues, eyes lifting to meet yours at last. “That promise. I know children say foolish things, but I didn’t consider it foolish. Not with you. Not ever.” You feel your heart clench. There is something devastating in the sincerity of his words, in the way he so rarely grants you this side of himself—unshielded, trembling at the edge of vulnerability. "I kept the ribbon," he murmurs, barely audible over the soft patter of rain. You blink. "What ribbon?" "From that day," he says, slipping his gloved hand into his coat pocket. He retrieves something small, and when he unfolds it, you recognize the faded strip of red silk you had tied around your wrist as a makeshift ring. "I kept mine too," you admit, reaching into the inner lining of your uniform and withdrawing a second, slightly more tattered piece. "Yours was too loose, and it kept falling off." He stares at your ribbon as if it were some sacred relic. Slowly, carefully, he takes it from your hand and presses it to his chest. “I was told that such things are sentimental nonsense,” he says. “But I no longer believe that. Not when it’s tied to you.” You open your mouth to speak, but his next words steal the breath from your lungs. “If you were to accept that pact again, here and now—not as children, but as the people we have become—I would consider myself...” He swallows. “Honored. Fortunate.” You stare at him. At the boy who once declared tea parties mandatory, who recited regulations like gospel, who locked up his heart behind the steel bars of obedience. And you see the man he is becoming—a boy no longer—but still reaching, yearning, hoping. "Riddle," you say, stepping forward until the space between you is nearly nonexistent, "do you remember what I said to you when you made that promise?" "You said 'alright,'” he recalls with a faint, hopeful smile. You lean in, forehead nearly brushing his. “What I meant was ‘yes.’ I still do.” The silence that follows is not empty—it is filled with the roaring hush of relief. Of held breath finally released. He lets his eyes flutter closed for just a moment, as though committing this moment to memory.

When they open again, he offers his hand—not as a command, but as a quiet invitation. “Then let us begin again,” he whispers. “Not bound by rules or childish declarations. But by choice.” And you take it. Of course you do. Because some promises aren’t made—they're simply meant to be kept.

$ACE TRAPPOLA — Second Chance Romance

The first time you met Ace Trappola, he was all sharp smiles and mischief, the kind of boy who spoke in riddles and flirted like it cost him nothing. He teased you endlessly, poked fun at your seriousness, and acted like every rule was a challenge crafted just for him. And still—you loved him. Or perhaps, more truthfully, you chose him, day after day, until one day he stopped choosing you back. So when it ended, it didn’t explode. It fizzled. Like a joke left hanging in a room gone quiet. Now, standing once more beneath the shade of twisted heart-shaped topiary in the Heartslabyul gardens, you find yourself face to face with him again. Older. Taller. Still grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. “You really came back,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he used to when he got nervous. “Wasn’t sure you would.” You cross your arms, lips pressed into a line. “I wasn’t sure either.” Ace huffs a soft laugh. “Guess I deserved that.” You say nothing. The silence that follows isn't like the comfortable quiet you used to share when his head rested in your lap and the stars overhead bore witness to secrets spoken half in jest. No—this is something tighter. Heavier. “I never thought you’d leave Night Raven,” he says suddenly, eyes flicking toward you. “You just vanished. No note. No ‘see ya.’ Nothing.” You exhale slowly. “Because you were the one who stopped showing up. To our meetings. To our talks. You stopped being there, Ace.” He winces, not from anger—but from guilt. It sits heavy on him, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak he never took off. “I got scared,” he admits. “You were real. Too real. And I—I didn’t think I deserved something like that. Someone like you.” His honesty stuns you more than any apology might have. You had come expecting the Ace you remembered: all charm and arrogance, cocky confidence masking anything soft. But now, he looks at you not as a game to win—but as something he lost. And still mourns. “Why now?” you ask. “After all this time.” He steps forward, hesitantly. “Because when you left, I thought I could move on. I thought I’d forget eventually. But no one ever laughed at my dumb jokes like you did. No one ever fought with me like you. Everyone else just... played along.” He meets your gaze, something fragile and true shining behind his normally impish expression. “You weren’t just someone I dated. You were my person. And I ruined it.” A part of you wants to throw his words back at him, to remind him of the nights you waited and the messages he never answered. But another part—the part that once loved him without reservation—recognizes that people change. And sometimes, they grow up the hard way. “I didn’t come back for you,” you say, voice level. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m still here for you. If you’ll let me be.” You study him. The way his eyes don’t dart away like they used to when he was lying. The way his posture is no longer casual for show, but weighted by sincerity. Finally, you sigh and reach into your pocket. He watches, puzzled, as you pull out a playing card—a battered old thing with a hand-drawn heart on the back. He stares. “You... kept it?” “You left it in my bag,” you say. “The day after we stopped talking. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.” Ace takes the card in trembling fingers. His grin returns—not wide and cheeky, but soft, reverent. “I always figured if I ever saw you again, I’d ask for a second chance,” he says, voice hoarse. “Didn’t think I’d actually get one.” “I haven’t said yes,” you reply, raising a brow. “But you haven’t said no either,” he counters with a glimmer of that familiar bravado. You roll your eyes. “Don’t push your luck.” But your smile, reluctant and unguarded, is all the answer he needs. He laughs, a little breathless. “One step at a time?” “One step,” you agree. And as he reaches for your hand—tentatively, like he’s afraid it might vanish—you allow your fingers to curl around his once more. After all, not every story ends with a perfect ending. Some simply get the chance to begin again.

$DEUCE SPADE — Mutual Pining

You are the first to arrive at the courtyard that evening, summoned for a group project that everyone else conveniently forgot. Or perhaps they remembered, and simply decided they had better things to do. You remain regardless, unwilling to abandon commitment. You’re not surprised when only one other person shows. “Hey,” Deuce Spade calls, jogging over with his usual earnestness. “You’re early.” You arch a brow. “You’re on time. That already puts you ahead of the others.” He chuckles, hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Classic Heartslabyul punctuality, I guess.” You say nothing, though you both know the real reason he came. Not the assignment. Not the grade. But you. He takes a seat on the stone bench beside you, leaving precisely enough space for modesty—and not quite enough for comfort. You are acutely aware of how his knee nearly brushes yours, how the warmth of his presence seems to radiate like sunlight through his uniform. “So, uh…” he begins, fumbling with the edge of his notebook. “How have you been? I mean, aside from being ghosted by the rest of our group.” You smile faintly. “Tired. But you already knew that.” He does. He always notices. There are a thousand things you want to say—casual, simple things, the kind you’d say to anyone else without a second thought. But not with him. Not when every word feels like it teeters on the edge of becoming something more. You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched, his brows knit together in that familiar look of quiet struggle. Deuce thinks too much and says too little. A knight in training with a scholar’s heart—and a boy’s fear of ruining everything. “You’ve been distracted lately,” you murmur. “Something on your mind?” He stiffens, not from the question—but from how well you know him. “I’ve just… been thinking about things. People,” he adds hastily. “Stuff I should’ve said.” Your pulse flutters. “To someone specific?” He hesitates. “Maybe.” The silence between you grows thick with unsaid truths. You could cut it with a blade—or a confession. “Must be someone important,” you offer. He laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “They are. But I don’t think they see me the same way.” Your throat tightens. “How could they not?” He turns to you then, eyes wide and startled, as if you’ve said something dangerous. And perhaps you have. “People don’t always notice what’s right in front of them,” he replies carefully. “I’ve noticed you.” He freezes. “I notice everything about you,” you admit, the words escaping before you can stop them. “You walk me to class even when we’re not in the same one. You always carry two snacks just in case I forgot mine. You ask me if I’m alright when I’ve said nothing’s wrong. I’ve noticed, Deuce.” His mouth opens. Closes. His heart is practically pounding out of his chest. “I didn’t think you felt the same,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think you did.” He stares at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time, and also like he’s been looking at you this whole time, but only now dares to speak it aloud. “I thought… if I told you, I’d mess it up,” he says honestly. “You’re someone I can’t afford to lose.” Your gaze softens. “Then maybe we stop trying to avoid the risk. Maybe we trust each other not to mess it up.” Deuce swallows hard, and for once, he doesn’t overthink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches for your hand—tentative, trembling. When your fingers intertwine, it’s not perfect. It’s not cinematic or sweeping or grand. But it is real. And you both smile, finally, finally free of the ache that comes from wanting someone in silence.

$CATER DIAMOND — Fake Dating

It begins as a joke. You’re complaining under your breath in the cafeteria, tray in hand and patience worn thin, when Cater Diamond—effortlessly charming and three steps ahead of your thoughts—slides into the seat across from you. “Whoa, what’s with the long face?” he chirps, chin propped on his hand. “You look like someone just asked you to host a Unbirthday party without tea.” You sigh. “It’s worse. My ex is transferring into NRC next week. Rook’s already teasing me about it, and rumor’s spreading that I’m ‘still not over them.’” Cater hums sympathetically. “Yikes. That kind of drama’s totally exhausting.” “Tell me about it.” Then—casually, far too casually—he grins. “So fake date me.” You blink. “Excuse me?” “Come on,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Let’s give them a show. You and me—campus power couple. Pictures, public hand-holding, the whole deal. We’ll shut everyone up and boost my Magicam followers. Win-win, right?” You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue. Because it’s Cater Diamond. He’s popular. Playful. Everyone likes him, but no one seems to know him. And here he is, offering you a mask to wear beside his. You should say no. You don’t. The first “date” is at the botanical gardens, carefully staged for maximum exposure. Cater poses beside you, all photogenic smiles and easy laughter, his phone tilted just so. He loops his arm around your shoulder, warm and close. “Act natural,” he says under his breath. You do, mostly because pretending is easier than acknowledging the flutter in your chest. Later that night, he tags you in three pictures. One is captioned: "First date vibes 🌱💚 #Taken #LuckyMe #Don’tStealMyCutie" It garners over 900 likes in an hour. The second week, he surprises you with coffee before class. “Boyfriend perks,” he says with a wink, handing you your exact order. The third week, he drapes his blazer over your shoulders when you forget yours, right in front of your ex. You catch the flicker of surprise on their face. Cater catches the moment on camera. “Daaamn, we make a convincing couple,” he says later that night, scrolling through his feed. You nod, though something clenches in your chest at the word convincing. Eventually, you stop noticing the cameras. Cater’s presence becomes second nature—his laughter, his perfume, the way he checks in on you before you’ve even had a chance to message first. He remembers your favorite snacks. Sends you memes at 2am. Complains about Heartslabyul’s rules while making sure you drink enough water. And you start to wonder when pretending began to feel so real. It’s subtle at first. He lingers longer during “casual” arm touches. His smiles soften when he thinks you’re not looking. He brushes hair from your eyes like it means something. You don’t know when your heart starts to race for real. But it does. And that terrifies you. One evening, you're studying in the library when Cater finds you. His expression is unreadable—no filters, no winks, just quiet. “You free this weekend?” he asks, slipping into the seat beside you. You nod slowly. “Why?” “I thought... maybe we could do something. Just us. No photos.” Your fingers still on the page. “No photos?” “No posts. No audience,” he says, voice gentle. “Just us. If you want to.” You search his face for some tell, some glimmer of jest. But there is none. “…Sure,” you say softly. “I’d like that.” That weekend, he takes you to the edge of the woods, where fireflies gather in the fading light. It’s peaceful. Private. Real. You sit beside him, backs to the mossy bark of an old tree. “So,” you say, voice barely above the crickets, “what happens when this ends?” Cater’s shoulders tense. “What do you mean?” “When the charade’s over. When we’re no longer fake dating.” He’s silent for a moment too long. Then: “That depends on whether or not it’s still fake.” Your breath catches. He turns his head toward you, expression solemn for the first time in weeks. “It’s not fake for me anymore.”

You swallow. “Then why didn’t you say something?” “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.” He laughs quietly, bitter. “Everyone likes ‘Cater Diamond.’ The filters, the sparkle, the edits. But you saw past that. And I was scared that if I told you how I actually felt, I’d ruin the only thing that’s ever felt real.” Your heart aches. He continues, “It started as a game. But somewhere between staged selfies and Magicam captions, I started wishing it wasn’t pretend. Wishing you’d hold my hand even if no one was watching.” You reach for his hand. This time, there are no cameras. No audience. Only him. And you. And the truth. “You didn’t ruin anything,” you whisper. “I’ve felt the same.” His eyes widen, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. “You... do?” You nod. “It stopped being fake for me a long time ago.” For a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he exhales—relieved, stunned. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. The kiss is soft. Uncertain. Real. The next morning, Cater posts a single photo: the two of you laughing beside a lake, hair messy, sunlight casting gold over your cheeks. The caption is simple: “Not pretending anymore. 💛 #FinallyReal” And for once, it’s not for likes. It’s for you.

$TREY CLOVER — Childhood Friends to Lovers

The scent of sugar and cinnamon hits you the moment you step inside Clover Bakery. It’s warm in the way that memories are—soft edges and golden light, and the familiar echo of your footsteps on the creaky wooden floor. You pause at the threshold for just a moment, letting it all wash over you. "Back for another tart?" a familiar voice calls from behind the counter, amused and unmistakably gentle. You glance up to see Trey Clover, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands dusted with flour. He offers you a smile you’ve known since you were too small to reach the cookie jar he always snuck down for you anyway. You match his smile without thinking. “Maybe. Depends if you made the strawberry ones.” “They're cooling on the rack right now,” he says. “Just like old times, huh?” And there it is—that flicker of something unspoken. Always there, just beneath the surface. It’s been like this for years: growing up beside him, knowing the weight of his silences, the steadiness of his hands, the way his laughter turns soft when it’s just the two of you. You take a seat at the corner table—the one you always used during long summer afternoons when you’d hang your legs over the side and watch him work, too shy to say what you felt, too comfortable to ruin it with something as fragile as a confession. He joins you moments later, two strawberry tarts plated neatly, a delicate dusting of powdered sugar glistening like frost. You hum appreciatively at the sight. “You always make it look easy.” Trey chuckles. “Guess that’s what happens when you start learning the trade before your hands are big enough to hold a rolling pin.” You pick up the tart, take a bite. It's perfect, of course. Light, flaky, sweet in all the right ways. “You’ve gotten better,” you say, and mean it. “And you still talk with your mouth full,” he teases. You nearly choke on a laugh. Some things never change. But some things have. He’s taller now, his shoulders broader, his gaze steadier—but the look he gives you remains the same. Kind. Patient. Like he's always waiting for you to catch up to something he's already accepted. You glance down at your plate, suddenly shy. “Do you ever miss it?” “Miss what?” “Being kids. When everything was simpler.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I miss not having to measure every word.” You look up, startled, but his expression is unreadable—just the softest curve of a smile and something deeper in his eyes. “I think about those days a lot,” he adds, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “You and me. Spending every summer in here. You always begged me to save you the last tart.” “I didn’t beg.” “You pouted.” You roll your eyes. “You were the one who said I could have anything I wanted.” “And I meant it.” The words hang in the air—gentle, serious. Your breath catches. For a moment, all you hear is the quiet hum of the oven, the ticking of the old wall clock, and your own heart pounding somewhere in your ears. “…Trey.” He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly, like he’s held this in longer than he should have. “I thought I could just let it stay the way it’s always been,” he says. “Safe. Comfortable. But every time you walk in here, looking at me like I’m just your childhood friend, I—” He breaks off, then looks you straight in the eyes. “I want more.” You sit there, stunned. He continues, quieter now. “I love this bakery. I love the flour on my hands and the smell of cinnamon in the walls. But you… you’re what makes it home.” Your throat tightens. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” He offers a lopsided smile. “Because I didn’t want to lose you. I thought maybe… maybe if I just stayed close, that’d be enough.” You reach across the table before you can second-guess yourself, your fingers brushing his. “You’ve always been enough,” you say softly. “But I think I’ve spent so long pretending it was just friendship that I didn’t realize how much more it’s been all along.” His hand turns to hold yours. It’s warm—steady. Just like him. “You’re sure?” he asks.

You nod. “Completely.” He smiles—not the teasing kind he shows the world, but the real one, rare and quiet and full of relief. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been saving the last tart for you since the day you left for NRC.” You blink. “Seriously?” He stands, walks behind the counter, and returns with a small, delicately wrapped box. Inside is a single strawberry tart—your favorite, nestled like a treasure. But there’s something else tucked beside it: a note. Folded carefully, your name written in Trey’s neat, unmistakable script. You glance up at him. “I was going to give it to you before you left that summer,” he admits. “But I chickened out. Figured if the time was right, I’d know.” You unfold the note. One sentence, written simply: “When you’re ready to stop pretending it’s just friendship… I’ll still be here.” You look up, heart in your throat. “I’m ready,” you whisper. He smiles again—relieved, radiant. “Then welcome home.”

$LEONA KINGSCHOLAR — Slow Burn

It begins, as many things at Night Raven College do, with an argument. “You always sleep through class,” you mutter, arms crossed as Leona Kingscholar lounges beneath the shade of a tree in the Botanical Garden. “You’re barely passing Alchemy. How long do you think you can coast on raw talent and a bad attitude?” He doesn’t even open his eyes. “I didn’t ask for a lecture,” he says, voice low, lazy—like a lion toying with the idea of rising, but not yet hungry enough. “No,” you reply, tone clipped, “but you’ll hear one anyway if you keep dragging our group project down with you.” At that, his eye cracks open. Golden. Sharp. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says. “And you’ve got all the potential in the world, but not enough motivation to use it.” Something flickers behind his gaze, and—for a moment—he looks like he might bite back. But then he smirks, slow and smug. “You're interesting,” he mutters, stretching like a sun-drenched predator. “Annoying. But interesting.” You don’t dignify that with a response. Weeks pass. Leona does the bare minimum. But when you talk, he listens. He never shows up to class on time, but your assignments bear the unmistakable signs of his input—complex phrasing, a sudden leap in logic you know you didn’t come up with alone. “You’re helping without helping,” you say one day. He shrugs. “I’m not doing it for the grade.” “Then why?” He looks at you, unreadable. “You’re less insufferable than most.” Somehow, your conversations grow longer. The arguments taper into dry banter. You learn his tells: when he’s serious, when he’s dodging, when his silences mean “drop it” and when they mean “ask again.” He never invites you to sit with him. You always do it anyway. And he never tells you to leave. One afternoon, you find him not in the garden but in the far edge of the training yard, ears flattened against the sunlight, one arm draped over his brow. “You look like death,” you say mildly. He grunts. “Headache.” You pause, then set your bag down. “You want me to come back later?” His eyes open, and something in them—something small and tired—makes you sit beside him instead. “Stay,” he says. Quiet. Uncharacteristically soft. So you do. You don’t notice when it starts to shift. It happens in pieces. He starts walking you back to your dorm when the hallways grow too quiet at night. “Coincidence,” he says when you call him out. “This place is a labyrinth.” He takes your side in a duel during Magical Shift—nearly flattens a third-year who aimed too close to you with a reckless spell. “They were sloppy,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes. You catch him watching you sometimes—not with hunger, not with mischief—but with a frown, like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve. Or maybe won’t. And always, always, he stays two steps away. Close enough to touch—never reaching. “You always hold back,” you tell him one night, seated together beneath the stars. The rest of the dorms are asleep. He’s sprawled out beside you, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded. “Tch. You don’t know anything about me.” “I know you could be anything you wanted,” you say. “And I know you keep choosing nothing.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t act like you understand.” “Then let me,” you say. “Help me understand.” Silence. And then, almost too low to hear: “No one ever stays. Not when they get a real look.” Your chest aches. “I’m not going anywhere, Leona.” His eyes close again. But his voice is soft. “…Then don’t.” It’s slow, after that. Painfully so. You exchange more than just barbed words—now there’s trust. A flicker of warmth. A rare smile that isn’t smug, just quiet and real. But still no confession. No touch. Just proximity and tension and everything almost. One day, you don’t show up. You’re sick—nothing serious. But you're gone long enough that Leona notices. He visits the infirmary at dusk, when no one will see. Grumbles about “checking up on a partner, that’s all.” Drops off your favorite snacks and doesn’t meet your eyes when you thank him. The next day, you find a single stem of king protea on your pillow. You don’t ask.

He doesn’t mention it. But the message is clear. You are seen. The breaking point comes months later. You’re cornered by a group of students sneering about favoritism. They spit your name like a curse, imply your rise through the ranks has been too fast, too easy. That it’s because Leona protects you. He hears about it before you even have to tell him. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t roar. He stares them down in a hallway thick with silence, golden eyes hard as flint. “If you have a problem with them,” he says, voice low and measured, “you have a problem with me.” No one dares speak after that. Later that night, you find him in the gardens again. This time, it’s you who speaks first. “Why did you do it?” He scoffs. “Thought it was obvious.” You take a step closer. Then another. “Say it.” He looks at you—really looks at you. And finally, finally, he stops retreating. “I wanted you to be mine,” he says. “For a long time now.” Your breath catches. “Then why wait so long?” “Because I was afraid,” he admits. “That you’d see the mess. The bitterness. The weight of everything I carry.” You place your hand over his. “I see it all, Leona,” you whisper. “And I still want you.” His expression shatters—sharply, silently. And when he pulls you into his arms, it’s not as a prince, or a lion, or a second son desperate to be more. It’s just him. And he is yours

$RUGGIE BUCCHI — Frenemies to Lovers

The first time you met Ruggie Bucchi, he stole your lunch. Not out of cruelty, but out of practiced efficiency—grabbing the last sandwich off the tray with a grin too sharp to be innocent and a wink that somehow made it worse. “You snooze, you lose,” he said, biting into it without shame. “Fast hands win the feast.” You glared. He laughed. From that day forward, you became enemies. Or something close enough. He teased. You retaliated. He schemed. You one-upped him. The two of you danced on the edge of rivalry like it was a game, keeping score in glances and pointed remarks. And yet, somehow—somehow—he kept showing up. “I know what you’re doing,” you said once, catching him lurking behind the greenhouse with a sprig of stolen herbs and the guiltiest innocent expression imaginable. “Yeah?” Ruggie drawled. “Think you’re smart enough to figure me out, huh?” “I don’t have to figure you out,” you replied. “I already know you.” He froze—just for a second. Then he grinned. “You sound like you’ve been watching me,” he teased. “You’re hard to miss.” That time, you were the one who walked away first. It became a habit. You’d argue over the best shortcuts on campus. Bicker during group projects. Pass each other in the halls only to exchange fake insults and real smiles. But under all the banter, something shifted. You started noticing things. The way Ruggie always saved a piece of bread for one of the younger Savanaclaw students who never brought lunch. How he checked in on others while pretending not to care. How he smiled with his whole face when he thought no one was watching. And how your heart started to stutter in his presence—soft and traitorous. The realization struck during a club event, when someone accidentally tripped you in the crowd. You hit the ground hard, hands scraped, pride bruised. Before you could even stand, Ruggie was there. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. He knelt beside you, his voice low with worry. “You good?” You blinked up at him, stunned. “Yeah,” you managed. “I just—wasn’t expecting that.” He helped you up, his grip firm but gentle. “Neither was I.” You stared at him. He stared back. And then he let go like your skin had burned him. After that, everything was different. The teasing still happened, but there was a weight beneath it. A pause in his voice. A flicker in his gaze. Like he was holding back. So were you. Until one night, when the moon hung low and the campus was still, you found him alone by the reflecting pool, throwing breadcrumbs to a lazy swan. “You’re avoiding me,” you said. He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I am.” You walked closer. “Why?” He threw another crumb. “Because I’m not supposed to like you.” Your heart skipped. “…But you do?” He finally looked at you. His usual grin was nowhere to be found. “Yeah. I do,” he said, like it hurt. “And that’s the problem. You’re sharp, you’re stubborn, you’re in my head all the time—and I can’t stand you. But I also can’t stop thinking about you.” You were quiet for a beat. Then: “I can’t stand you either.” That got a crooked smile out of him. “Guess that makes us even.” “Not quite,” you said, stepping close enough that he went still. “Because I like you too.” Ruggie blinked. “…Say that again?” You didn’t. Instead, you kissed him. He tasted like laughter and trouble and something so achingly familiar it hurt. He kissed back with a sigh, like he’d been waiting for it all along. When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “You know,” he murmured, “this doesn’t mean I’ll stop messing with you.” You smirked. “Wouldn’t want you to.” “Good,” he said, lips brushing yours again. “’Cause I plan on keeping you on your toes.” Enemies. Rivals. Something in between. Now? Something more. And neither of you would ever admit it first, but maybe… you’d both been falling for a long, long time.

$JACK HOWL — He Falls First

It starts with your laugh. Not the polite kind you give professors or classmates—but the real one. The rare one. It echoes across the training field like sunlight, and Jack Howl hears it even over the sound of his own heartbeat. He pauses mid-stretch, tail giving a single, startled flick behind him. You’re standing off to the side, talking with someone else, oblivious to him. And he shouldn’t be looking. He knows he shouldn’t. But he does. It happens again. And again. In class, in the halls, during group drills. You move through the world with a kind of ease Jack finds... difficult to ignore. You're thoughtful in quiet ways—holding the door open without fanfare, lending your notes without hesitation, helping a struggling first-year with a gentle hand and no expectation of praise. You are, in short, the kind of person Jack tells himself not to get close to. And yet, his gaze always seems to find you. At first, he tells himself it’s admiration. Respect. A recognition of strength and integrity in someone else. But then you smile at him—just him, one afternoon after you’ve both finished laps around the field—and Jack’s entire world folds in on itself. His ears turn red. His throat goes dry. “You okay?” you ask, offering him a bottle of water. He nods stiffly. “Fine. Just—warm.” You blink. “It’s freezing.” “…Yeah.” He spends the rest of that practice internally berating himself. He tries, at first, to keep his distance. What else is he supposed to do? You’re kind. Funny. Strong. He sees how others look at you, how easily you talk with people, how much brighter the space feels when you’re in it. He’s just… Jack. Not suave. Not charming. Just reliable. But despite his best efforts, he keeps noticing the little things. The way your hair falls when you’re concentrating. The way your laugh changes when it’s real. The way his name sounds when you say it—like it matters. It’s not long before others start to notice. Epel snickers every time you and Jack end up paired for anything. “Yer crush is showing,” he says once, elbowing Jack in the side. Jack scowls. “What are you talking about?” “Y’look at ‘em like they hung the moon.” Jack grits his teeth. “It’s not like that.” But it is. And the worst part? You don’t seem to know. You thank him often. For the smallest things. Holding your place in line. Lending you a pen. Carrying something heavier than expected. And each time, Jack mutters “no problem,” and then spends the next ten minutes staring at the floor because your smile won’t leave his head. One day, you compliment him outright. “I like training with you. You push people to be better.” Jack goes rigid. “Thanks.” You laugh. “That’s it? Just ‘thanks’?” “…I don’t know what else to say.” You tilt your head, amused. “You’re sweet when you’re flustered, you know.” His ears practically catch fire. He falls first. Hard. Quietly. In the space between drills and casual conversation, in moments you don’t think twice about. He commits them to memory like they're sacred. You, laughing under the trees in the courtyard. You, asleep at your desk, head pillowed on your arm. You, sticking up for a classmate who didn’t have the words to defend themself. He watches. Listens. Remembers. And still says nothing. Because you’re too important to lose. Because he wants to be worthy—ready—before he dares speak your name with anything other than respect. But you notice. Of course you do. One day, when you're walking back from lecture, you fall into step beside him. “You’re quiet today,” you say. “I’m always quiet.” “Quieter than usual, then.” He hesitates. “…I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” Jack exhales. Looks at you like the truth might burn, but holds your gaze anyway. “You.” Your breath catches. “Me?” “I like you,” he says, voice low and sure. “More than I should. More than I planned to.” The silence is thick with your heartbeat. Then—gently, carefully—you smile. “I was starting to think you’d never say it.” His tail swishes once, stunned. “…Wait. You knew?” “I’m not that oblivious, Jack.”

You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it. And when you smile at him again, it’s even brighter than he remembered.

$AZUL ASHENGROTTO -- Rivals to Lovers

You had never liked Azul Ashengrotto. The very sight of his polished spectacles, the meticulous way he adjusted his gloves, the infuriating calm with which he recited contractual clauses—it all ignited a fire in your chest. Not a passionate one. Or so you told yourself. It was rivalry, pure and untainted. He represented everything you opposed: underhanded dealings, serpentine smiles, and a knack for winning that grated against your pride. Yet, here you stood, once again opposite him at the debating podium, heart racing not just from anticipation but from something more—something unspoken and dangerously persistent. “Do try not to stutter this time,” he murmured, too softly for the audience to hear, his lips barely curling in that calculated smirk. You rolled your eyes, meeting his gaze with a sharp one of your own. “Perhaps you could dazzle us with a new argument instead of recycling your usual drivel.” A flicker of amusement passed over his face. "Touché." Every interaction between you two was a game, a match of verbal chess with no guaranteed victor. You kept each other sharp—relentlessly so. Professors had long since stopped trying to separate you; they learned, as others had, that the competitive spark between you was inevitable. Still, you never imagined that spark could shift in temperature. It began subtly. A rainy afternoon in the library where you found him, not hunched over business plans or negotiating favors with a desperate first-year, but asleep among worn-out textbooks. The furrow between his brows had vanished, replaced with an expression so serene it stole your breath. You should have walked away. Instead, you lingered. Then came the moment he cornered you outside Mostro Lounge, voice low, gaze intense—not with disdain, but with something else. Something warmer. "You know," he had said, "for someone who claims to loathe me, you certainly find yourself in my presence often." You narrowed your eyes. “Maybe I just like reminding you someone’s still better at strategy.” "And yet here you are, still trying to outmaneuver me." He took a step closer, the scent of sea salt and cologne wrapping around you. "Tell me, what exactly are we trying to win from each other anymore?" The question had left you speechless. Because for the first time, you weren’t certain of the answer. Now, it has come to this: the closing gala of the academic year. A formal affair. Even Azul looks slightly out of place, not in his usual lounge uniform but in tailored midnight-blue robes, silver embroidery catching the chandelier light. He approaches you with the same poise as always, but something has changed. "You look… acceptable," he says with mock detachment, though his eyes say otherwise. You incline your head. "And you look insufferably smug, as usual." "How comforting that you remain consistent." He offers you his arm. You stare at it, then at him. “This isn’t another negotiation, is it?” “No,” he replies, uncharacteristically soft. “Not unless you require written proof.” You hesitate, just for a heartbeat, then place your hand in the crook of his arm. It’s a simple gesture, yet it shifts everything. As the music plays and you navigate the ballroom together, something unspoken takes root between you—no longer rivalry, but recognition. Mutual respect laced with something that frightens and excites in equal measure. Azul leans close, his breath brushing your ear. “You know, I never disliked our rivalry.” You raise a brow. “Because you enjoyed winning?” “No,” he says quietly. “Because it meant I had your attention.” The honesty disarms you more than any of his contracts ever could. “And now?” you ask, curious despite yourself. “Now,” he says, “I’d rather have your trust than your ire.” You’re silent for a moment. Then, with deliberate calm, you reply, “Then you’ll have to earn it.” He smiles, not with triumph, but something gentler—almost reverent. “Then allow me to begin.”

$FLOYD LEECH — Idiots in Love

To say that you and Floyd Leech have a normal relationship would be a lie on every conceivable level. He sneaks up behind you when you’re least expecting it—flings his arms around your shoulders, sometimes upside-down from a tree branch, and yells “Shrimpy!” loud enough to startle every living creature in a three-mile radius. You retaliate by hiding all his mismatched socks, calling him “eel boy,” and threatening to replace his lunch with broccoli. Your classmates call it dangerous. Jade calls it “predictably chaotic.” Azul calls it exhausting. But you? You call it comfortable. Familiar. Yours. Even if neither of you is willing to admit what’s really going on. “I’m not flirting,” you say one day, after Floyd nearly crushes another student who so much as looked at you. “Sure ya aren’t,” he says, lips stretched in a grin just a shade too sharp. “But they were. And I don’t like when shrimp-stealers get too close.” “Shrimp-stealers?” “You’re my shrimpy.” Your heart does a concerning sort of thing, but you cross your arms anyway. “You say that like it means something.” Floyd’s eyes glimmer. “Maybe it does,” he hums, then swims away—literally, because he drops into the fountain to avoid further questioning. You hate how often he does that. You hate how much you smile after. He picks fights on your behalf. Drops out of the ceiling during exams. Walks you to class by draping himself dramatically over your shoulders like a living scarf. Sometimes he tosses you into the lake. Sometimes he offers you sea glass like it’s currency. Once, he painted a rock to look like your face and declared it “Shrimpy 2.” You keep it on your desk. You tell yourself it’s ironic. It isn’t. People ask, often and with increasing desperation, “Are you two together?” You laugh. Floyd grins. “No way,” you both say at once. “Why would I date Shrimpy?” Floyd adds, flinging an arm around you. “They’d never survive!” You elbow him in the ribs. “You’d cry the moment I went a day without paying attention to you.” His eyes light up. “Aww, you do pay attention to me.” You flush. “That’s not what I said.” “That’s exactly what you said.” And so the cycle continues. What no one knows—perhaps not even you—is that Floyd fell first. Hard. He noticed you before you ever noticed him. You’d caught his attention not with a scream or a fight, but by stubbornly ignoring his initial attempts at chaos. He’d pinched your cheeks. Flipped your books. Sat on your desk. And you’d looked him in the eye and said: “You’re very annoying. Are you proud of that?” And he was. Proud, and instantly smitten. Of course, he couldn’t just say that. That would be boring. So instead, he made you his favorite toy. You let him. And now you’re both stuck in this tangled, ridiculous dance of affection disguised as antagonism. One day, he tries to hold your hand. You’re walking back from lunch, and he simply reaches over, laces your fingers through his, and hums like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t a declaration. Like it doesn’t crack open something vulnerable in your chest. “Floyd?” “Yeah?” “You’re holding my hand.” “Yup!” “…Why?” He pauses, tilts his head, eyes curious. “You don’t want me to?” Your mouth opens. Closes. “I didn’t say that.” He grins wide. “Heh. You’re blushing.” “I’m not.” “You so are.” “You’re the worst.” “I’m your worst,” he corrects cheerfully, swinging your hands between you. It’s not until later, when you’re alone in your room, that you realize: you never let go. Feelings become harder to ignore after that. He starts giving you things. Shells. Trinkets. A piece of candy shaped like a squid. A carved bone knife you’re 90% sure he made himself. “Treasure for my favorite shrimpy,” he says, shoving it into your bag. “Favorite?” you ask. “Only,” he replies, and his tone is surprisingly serious. Your heart does the thing again. You try to talk to him. Once. “Floyd, what are we?” He blinks. “People.” “No, I mean us.” “Oh!” He lights up. “We’re in love!” Your brain stutters. “We’re what?” “You heard me, shrimpy!” And then he skips away, singing your name like a sea shanty.

It takes a while for you to catch up. Not because you don’t care—but because you do. Floyd is unpredictable. Untamed. A storm in technicolor with far too many teeth. But he is also loyal. Attentive. Honest in a way most people are afraid to be. And he chose you. You just hadn’t realized it yet. The next time he throws himself at you in the hall, you catch him. You kiss his cheek. He goes silent for a full three seconds—a record. Then he beams. The kind of smile that could drown stars. “Took you long enough, shrimpy.” You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Shut up and hold my hand.” He does. And for once, he doesn't let go first.

$KALIM AL-ASIM — Opposites Attract

If sunlight could take the form of a person, it would be Kalim Al-Asim. He radiates joy, warmth, and sincerity in a way that borders on reckless. He greets each day like it’s a celebration, and each person like a lifelong friend. Where he walks, laughter follows. Where he speaks, attention gathers. And where he shines, you are always standing in his shadow. It isn’t envy. You simply live differently. You are measured. Private. Composed. Your words are chosen, your gestures restrained. Not cold, not unkind—but certainly not the kind to call attention to yourself. You prefer silence where he adores song, solitude where he gathers crowds. It is precisely why you avoid him, at first. “Hi!” The first time Kalim greets you, it’s with a grin so wide it feels like a sunrise aimed directly at you. You blink, mildly stunned. “I’m Kalim! Kalim Al-Asim! I’ve seen you around! You don’t talk much, huh? That’s okay! I can talk enough for the both of us!” You stare at him for a beat too long. “…Hello,” you manage, as levelly as you can. His grin only brightens. “Wow, even your voice is calm! You’re like a pond! You know, those quiet, still ones that reflect the sky? I like that.” You have no idea what to do with that information. He starts greeting you every day after that. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with food. Once with an elephant-shaped balloon, which floated just above your shoulder all through your alchemy lecture. “I thought you might like company,” he said, looking so pleased with himself you didn’t have the heart to reject it. Eventually, you stop trying to avoid him. Because somehow, it’s easier to accept the chaos than to resist it. Kalim treats friendship like it’s a law of nature—unchanging, constant, absolute. He decides you’re someone special without asking permission. And you, baffled but not ungrateful, find yourself following his lead. He invites you to Scarabia constantly. You decline… frequently. He invites you again anyway. Eventually, you relent. One visit becomes two, then three. You learn to sidestep the occasional indoor fireworks and avoid Jamil’s death glare. You sit at Kalim’s side, answering his dozen questions with half-smiles and quiet nods. You begin to see what others miss beneath his golden exterior. He is not naïve. He is kind. There is a difference. “You’re always thinking,” Kalim says one afternoon, lounging beside you on a sun-drenched veranda. “Your eyes get all… focused. Like you’re a thousand miles away.” You don’t deny it. “I like that about you,” he says. “Why?” you ask, genuinely curious. He stretches, arms flung behind his head. “Because you help me slow down. I don’t do that on my own very well.” You glance at him. He’s glowing in the sunlight, smiling easily, utterly unaware of the weight he carries without complaint. And for the first time, you wonder— Who helps him? Your relationship isn’t linear. He confuses you. Exhausts you. Frustrates you with his constant energy and endless warmth. He gives freely and receives joyfully, but never seems to want anything in return. And you? You give cautiously. Deliberately. But for him, you start to make exceptions. He teaches you how to let go—just a little. You teach him how to sit still—just for a while. He speaks in exclamation points. You speak in ellipses. And somewhere in the middle, something delicate begins to grow. It takes a while to recognize the shift. You start noticing the way your eyes search for him in a crowd. The way your thoughts drift to him between tasks. The way his laughter, once too loud, now feels like something you miss when it’s gone. You are still quiet. Still contained. But around him, you begin to smile more easily. And when you do, Kalim lights up like he’s won a prize. Then one day, the world turns sideways. A minor spell gone wrong—an accident, nothing dangerous—but it sends you crashing hard to the ground in a shower of sparks and smoke. Kalim is at your side in seconds. “Hey! Are you okay?! You’re not hurt, are you?! Look at me—please?” You blink blearily. “Just winded…”

His hands are on your shoulders, gripping too tight. His expression is wrong—frantic, worried. No smiles. You sit up slowly. “Kalim. I’m fine.” He exhales shakily. Then, in a voice smaller than you’ve ever heard from him: “You scared me.” You freeze. He pulls back, but not far. His hands linger. His eyes are wide and honest. “I didn’t like not knowing if you were alright. I—” He swallows. “I think I like you. A lot.” The world goes very quiet. You aren’t sure if your silence hurts him—but you see the flicker of fear in his eyes all the same. So you take his hand. You’re trembling. “I… I think I like you too.” His face breaks into a smile so brilliant you forget how to breathe. You do not fall the way he does. Kalim falls like a child into water—reckless, headlong, laughing the entire way down. You fall like a tree shedding snow—quiet, inevitable, changing shape without even realizing it. But you do fall. He teaches you how to feel things out loud. You teach him how to listen in stillness. He kisses like everything’s a celebration. You kiss like it’s a secret you’ve finally dared to share. And in time, you learn to meet in the middle. Dating Kalim is not easy. He gives with abandon—his time, his affection, his love—and you find yourself overwhelmed more than once. But he learns. He listens when you need space. He tempers his excitement with patience. And you, in turn, reach for him more often. Let him see your softer moments, your uncertain ones. You stop hiding every smile. You say “I missed you” when he returns from a trip. You take his hand in public without being asked. It takes time. But the balance is real. You wake one morning to find him fast asleep beside you—face buried in his arms, sun painting gold into his hair. He talks in his sleep. Mumbles your name. You reach for him without thinking. He stirs, bleary-eyed, and smiles up at you. “Good morning, love,” he says, voice rough with sleep. You blink, startled. He doesn’t seem to notice. Just yawns and snuggles into your side. You don’t correct him. And when you whisper, “Good morning,” into his hair, you think he smiles again. The Kalim you knew at the beginning—the one who was too much, too fast, too bright—is still there. But now, you see the depths beneath his joy. And he, in turn, sees the warmth beneath your quiet. You are not alike. But you are aligned. Two constellations orbiting one another—not mirrors, but reflections in reverse. And if love is anything, it is this: Choosing, again and again, the person who terrifies you with how deeply they see you. And knowing—without question—that they will choose you back.

$JAMIL VIPER — Best Friends Brother

You’ve known Najma Viper since the summer you both turned twelve. She was bright and daring and unapologetically sharp, the kind of girl who laughed with her whole chest and walked into rooms like she owned the floorboards. You became fast friends—not because you were alike, but because something about your differences made the bond solid. But from the beginning, there was always a shadow in the background. Jamil. Older. Quieter. Always watching with that unreadable expression of his, always just out of reach. At first, you didn't pay him much attention. He was Najma’s overprotective brother. That was all. Or at least… it was supposed to be. “Don’t mind him,” Najma said once, when Jamil offered a barely murmured greeting before disappearing into another room. “He’s a little... broody. Thinks being quiet makes him mysterious or something.” You snorted. “It kind of does.” She gave you a look. “Please. He’s just allergic to fun.” But even then, even back then, you wondered. Not about whether he was cold—he wasn’t. He was polite, considerate, even helpful when Najma inevitably roped him into her chaotic plans. But there was a certain weight in his gaze. A quietness that felt purposeful. Guarded. You noticed. And you shouldn’t have. The first time you realized Jamil might have actually been watching you just as closely came on a late summer evening, years later. You and Najma were on the rooftop, stretched out on cushions, throwing popcorn at each other and laughing so loudly the neighbors probably considered filing complaints. Najma slipped away to get drinks, and you stayed behind, watching the stars. “You’ll fall,” came a voice from behind. You turned, startled. Jamil stood near the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed slightly in that disapproving way of his. You blinked. “I’m not even near the edge.” “Not yet,” he said dryly. “But I’ve seen how you two handle snacks.” You chuckled, expecting him to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and joined you—sitting just far enough away to be proper, just close enough that your shoulder felt warm from his presence. “You spend a lot of time here,” he said after a while. “She’s my best friend,” you replied. “Of course I do.” He was quiet for a long beat. “Still,” he murmured, “not many people would be that patient with her.” You smiled. “I don’t think she needs patience. She needs someone who sees her. Who doesn’t treat her like an accessory.” That made his head turn, just slightly. His expression softened. “…You do that.” You met his gaze. “So do you.” He looked away. But his hand brushed against yours once before he stood to leave. Things shifted after that. Barely. But enough. Jamil stopped avoiding you. He still never spoke much—his nature wasn’t built for casual chatter—but when he did speak, it was with more intention. More awareness. You began to find him appearing in the background more often—making tea, adjusting curtains, watching quietly from the kitchen as you and Najma sparred or debated. He listened. He remembered things you said offhandedly. And sometimes—just sometimes—when you laughed too hard or looked too long, you’d catch the faintest upward curve of his lips before he looked away again. The problem was Najma. Not her, precisely. But what she represented. Because as your feelings began to bloom, stubborn and traitorous, the guilt grew with them. This was her brother. Her precious, emotionally barricaded older brother. The one she always insisted you didn’t need to impress. The one she warned would “eat you alive” if you tried to understand him too deeply. You didn’t try. It just happened. And now it was a secret you carried like a glass figurine—carefully, cautiously, terrified it might shatter. The tipping point came during one of Najma’s infamous “I’m bored and it’s 2 a.m.” excursions. She’d dragged you through the silent streets, laughing into the darkness, until the two of you were panting and exhilarated beneath the arches of a shuttered bazaar. You collapsed onto a bench together, giggling and breathless.

“You know,” she said, catching her breath, “I’m glad you never fell for Jamil.” Your stomach plummeted. You tried to keep your voice even. “Why would I?” “Because he’s impossible,” she said, waving a hand. “All that brooding? He doesn’t let anyone in. And you deserve better than a locked door.” You swallowed hard. “…Right.” She leaned her head on your shoulder, unaware of the way your pulse roared in your ears. “You’re the best thing I have,” she murmured. “You’re family now.” You said nothing. You couldn't. Because the weight of that truth—and the betrayal you felt simply for wanting him—pressed into your ribs like a stone. You tried to put distance between you and Jamil after that. Tried being the operative word. But he noticed. Of course he did. “You’re avoiding me,” he said one evening, catching you in the kitchen during a visit. You didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve been busy.” “You were never too busy before.” You turned, trying to be firm. “I think it’s better this way.” “…Why?” You hesitated. “Because Najma matters.” Jamil’s gaze darkened—not with anger, but with something closer to sorrow. “She does.” You nodded. “So I can’t—” He stepped closer. “You think I haven’t spent every second thinking about that?” You stilled. He looked at you then—really looked at you, with all the weight of his restraint splintering in real time. “I tried not to care,” he murmured. “Because she’s your friend. Because I didn’t want to complicate what you have. But I can’t stand watching you slip away like this.” Silence stretched between you like a wound. And finally, in a voice just above a whisper: “I love her,” you said. “But I… I think I might love you, too.” He flinched—like he hadn’t dared hope to hear it. You looked away. “And I don’t know what to do with that.” Jamil exhaled like the truth hurt more than silence ever had. “…Let me help you figure it out.” When you told Najma, it didn’t go as expected. She blinked at you across the kitchen table, spoon paused mid-air. “You and Jamil?” “…Yes.” A beat. “Huh.” You braced yourself. “I mean, I figured,” she said, shrugging. “He’s always acting weird when you’re around. I just didn’t think you’d make the first move.” “…I didn’t.” Her eyes widened. “He did?” You nodded. She stared for a long moment. Then, to your great surprise, she smiled. “Well, I hope you’re ready to be the reason he actually smiles at dinner now.” You blinked. “Wait—you’re not mad?” She snorted. “Mad? No. Grossed out? Maybe. But also…” She grinned. “About time.” Dating Jamil is not loud. He doesn’t send you flowers or sing in the rain or shout his love across rooftops. He just shows up. He notices when you’re tired. Makes you tea before you ask. Carries you gently through moments you didn’t know were heavy. He learns your rhythms like a language. And in return, you show him how to rest. How to trust. How to be loved without needing to earn it. You still love Najma. But now, you love her brother, too. And it no longer feels like betrayal. It feels like coming home through a different door.

$VIL SCHOENHEIT — You Fall First

It starts with admiration. How could it not? Vil Schoenheit is composed of flawless lines and deliberate grace. He moves like a blade too polished to be anything but beautiful. When he walks into a room, conversations still. The air shifts. People become quieter, less certain. And you—simple, steady, unremarkable—can only watch from your place behind the crowd. You tell yourself it’s just respect. That it’s his discipline you admire. His precision. His conviction. But the truth settles in your chest the longer you’re near him: You’re falling. Falling in silence. Falling without permission. Falling while he looks past you like you’re part of the scenery. You learn his schedule by accident. Not because you’re trying to—but because you notice. You begin passing the Mirror Chamber at just the right moment to catch a glimpse of him on his way to rehearsal. You know when he prefers tea over coffee. You notice which books he sets aside for himself in the library and quietly avoid touching them. He does not notice you. Or perhaps he does—but not in any way that matters. He is polite. Civil. Sometimes even complimentary in that effortless, impersonal way of his. “You have a good eye,” he says one day, when you recommend a fabric swatch for a costuming project. “Refined. Not as dull as I expected.” It’s the kindest thing he’s ever said to you. You carry it for days. Everyone wants a piece of him. Some crave his attention. Others, his approval. Most, his beauty. You’re not like them. You want his tired sighs at the end of the day. His stories, the ones he never tells. The rare softness that flickers behind his eyes when he thinks no one’s watching. But those things aren’t yours to want. So you keep your distance. And you ache, quietly, where no one can see. The worst part is knowing he doesn’t see it. Not truly. Vil is not unkind, but he is demanding. He expects excellence, polish, poise. You have learned to provide those things. You speak with precision around him, walk with care, dress with thought. Not to impress him. But because being near him makes you want to be better. Still, he remains unchanged. Unaware. He gives you assignments. Approves your work. Calls you by your full name in that crisp, deliberate tone of his. And every time he says it, it feels like a glass of cold water thrown against a flame you’re too afraid to let burn. “You’re always quiet,” he remarks once, during a rare afternoon with the two of you working side by side. You shrug. “I don’t like wasting words.” He glances over. “A commendable trait. But silence can be a mask. And masks, darling, only serve those who have something to hide.” You meet his gaze, just for a moment. “I suppose that’s true,” you murmur. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what you’re hiding. But you wish—just for a heartbeat—that he would. There are moments when you think he might see it. A lingering glance. A softened word. A pause where once there would’ve been dismissal. But then it’s gone. And you’re left wondering if it was real, or if your heart simply imagined it into being. You never confess. Of course you don’t. Because love, when it is one-sided, is a quiet, humiliating thing. It swells and curls and gnaws, but it does not shout. So you smile. You nod. You serve. And Vil continues to glide through your life like a sculpture made of sunlight and judgment, always just out of reach. But one day, the pattern shifts. He pulls you aside after rehearsal. His tone is unreadable. “You’ve been steady,” he says. “Reliable. And lately… different.” You freeze. “Different?” He steps closer. Not intrusively—but closer than he’s ever stood before. “Softer,” he says. “Gentler. Like someone who’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.” You don’t breathe. He watches you carefully. “You never speak what you feel. But you wear it.” Your voice is small. “And what do I wear now?” He studies you. Then, with uncharacteristic quiet: “Longing.” Your heart stops. He doesn’t say more. But his hand brushes yours—barely. And that, for now, is enough.

$EPEL FELMIER — Unexpected Match

You weren’t supposed to be his type. That much was obvious from the beginning. Epel Felmier was sharp edges and buried frustrations—small-town grit dressed in designer fabrics. He hated being coddled, hated being underestimated, and above all, hated being told what he could and could not be. And you? You were calm. Reserved. Neat where he was unruly. Polished where he chafed against refinement. If Epel was a wild apple orchard clinging to a mountain cliff, you were the well-tended garden below—predictable, quiet, managed. In short: you didn’t make sense. To others, at least. But Epel never did care much for what “made sense.” Your first real conversation wasn’t even supposed to happen. You’d both been assigned to the same lab partner rotation in alchemy—some tragic twist of fate that left you with a boy who scowled every time he had to read instructions. “You’re just gonna follow the steps like a recipe?” he scoffed, arms crossed. You blinked. “That’s what a potion is, Epel. Precision matters.” He rolled his eyes. “Tch. No wonder everything around here’s so uptight.” You bit back a sigh. “Well, I like doing things properly.” “Yeah? Bet you’ve never broken a single rule in your life.” You looked him in the eye. “I have. I just don’t announce it like a parade.” That made him pause. Then he grinned. “Alright. I’m listenin’, now.” From that day on, something shifted. He still grumbled, still picked little fights for the sake of it—but they were directed at you, and only you. Not out of cruelty. Just to see how far he could push before you pushed back. Which, to his apparent delight, you always did. You didn’t laugh at his accent, or treat him like a child. You didn’t flinch when he got defensive, didn’t pat his head when he stood straighter in an effort to seem taller. You didn’t try to “fix” him. You let him be. And in return, he started waiting for you after class. “People are talking,” Vil remarked one afternoon, eyes narrowed. You raised an eyebrow. “About what?” “About you and Epel.” His tone was cool. “It’s unexpected.” You resisted the urge to smile. “Unexpected doesn’t mean bad.” Vil sighed. “No. But it does mean scrutinized.” You already knew that. You heard the whispers. The way others blinked when they saw the two of you seated together in the lounge, or how Epel's voice softened—not a lot, but noticeably—when he spoke to you. The contrast was jarring. You, composed and exacting. Him, prickly and passionate. But it worked. Strangely. Effortlessly. Like your calm gave his chaos space to breathe. Like his fire lit something quiet and forgotten in your chest. One evening, after a late study session, Epel walked you back to your dorm. You strolled in silence for a while, the moonlight softening the world around you. “You’re weird,” he said at last. You blinked. “Thanks?” “I mean—you’re different,” he clarified, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Not what I expected to like.” You turned to him, expression carefully unreadable. “You like me?” He flushed to the ears. “Tch. Knew you’d make it a thing.” You smiled, quiet and certain. “It’s okay. I like you too.” Epel stared at you for a moment, expression flickering between disbelief and pride. Then he grinned. “Guess we’re a weird match.” “Unexpected,” you corrected gently. “Unexpected,” he echoed, brushing your hand with his. And this time, you didn’t pull away. Dating Epel means long walks with few words and thoughtful silences. It means watching him uncurl from defensiveness like a flower turned to the sun. It means being patient when he flares up and knowing when to meet him at eye level instead of trying to pull him down. It means hearing him defend you—once, fiercely—when someone said you were “too uptight” for him. “Don’t matter what they say,” he told you afterward, voice firm. “You’re steady. You keep me grounded.” You didn’t have the words for it then. But your hand found his without hesitation. And that was answer enough. You weren’t supposed to be his type. But in the end, that’s what made it perfect.

Because Epel didn’t need someone who fit a mold. He needed someone who saw beyond the surface. And you, for all your calm and your quiet, loved him loudly—not in volume, but in depth. And when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, well— Everyone else finally understood: Sometimes the most unexpected matches… Are the ones that last.

$ROOK HUNT — Love at First Sight

The first time Rook Hunt sees you, he stops mid-sentence, the rest of the conversation falling from his lips like scattered petals. It is not a slow realization, not a bloom of affection that unfurls over time—it is instantaneous, like a bowstring released, like a revelation etched into bone. You have done nothing extraordinary. You are merely entering a room, adjusting the strap of your satchel, glancing toward the far window with that practiced detachment of someone used to passing unnoticed. But to Rook, that simple motion, that ordinary presence, is everything. He watches, momentarily silenced by the certainty that he has just witnessed something sacred. His heart declares it without permission: you are beautiful—not in the polished, symmetrical, textbook sense—but in the way mountains are beautiful, in the way shadow clings to stone at dusk, in the way a single heartbeat can change the course of a man’s life. He approaches with a composure that masks the storm beneath, his words already woven with poetry before you even hear his voice. “Bonsoir, mon trésor,” he says, and though you blink at him with polite confusion, he smiles as if your hesitation is the finest response he’s ever received. You do not know what to make of him—the way he speaks as though each word is chosen from a bouquet, the way he looks at you as though you’ve ruined him with a glance. He asks for your name. You offer it cautiously, and he repeats it like a vow, cradling the syllables with reverence. You wonder if he’s like this with everyone. You hope he isn’t. He doesn’t leave your side after that, not out of arrogance or entitlement, but because he has found something he was never meant to lose. He is everywhere—at the edges of your vision, in the curve of a shadow, in the hush that settles behind you just before you turn and find him already watching. His questions are strange, almost intimate in their specificity: what scent you associate with nostalgia, whether you prefer dawn or dusk, what you think a silence means when shared between two people who haven’t yet spoken the truth. You give half-answers, unsure how to name the way he makes you feel, unsure if you want to name it at all. He never pushes, but he remembers everything. You mention once that the cold makes your fingers stiff—he brings you gloves the next day, lined with soft velvet. You complain about the harsh lighting in a classroom—he lends you a tinted glass charm “for serenity,” he says, placing it in your hand like a secret. You are not used to this kind of attention—especially not from someone who commands rooms with his gaze, someone who sees more in one glance than most do in a lifetime. And yet, he sees you not as a conquest, not as a trophy, but as something rare and unknowable. One day, you ask him why. Why the attention? Why you, when there are others who shine brighter, speak louder, stand taller? He smiles, softly, and says, “Because I have hunted beauty across continents and stages, and yet nothing has unsettled me like the stillness of your eyes.” You feel his sincerity, terrifying in its quiet certainty. You have done nothing to earn his devotion, and yet he loves you as though it is already a foregone conclusion. It is, perhaps, the most disarming part of all: not his charm, not his words, but the way he never once doubts what he feels. You, who never expected to be the object of such fierce regard, who kept your head down and your heart tucked away, find yourself reaching for him one breath too late. But he is there. Always. Waiting. Watching. Wanting. And when you meet his gaze—truly meet it—you understand: love did not arrive gently for him. It struck like a storm. And he has never once wished to be dry.

$IDIA SHROUD — Secret Relationship

No one knows—not a soul, not even Ortho, which is perhaps the most unthinkable part of it all—but you and Idia Shroud have been quietly, unmistakably, deeply entangled for months. It started unexpectedly, a series of late-night conversations over glowing screens, DMs turned game nights turned whispered video calls where neither of you dared to look directly at the screen for too long, lest it feel too real, too raw. Idia was hesitant at first, nearly skittish, the embodiment of digital shyness wrapped in a cloud of blue fire and barely-suppressed panic, but beneath his hasty deflections and self-deprecating muttering was someone who actually listened—someone whose jokes aligned with yours with startling ease, whose silences didn’t demand to be filled, whose way of caring manifested in oddly specific gift links and quietly coded charm boosts tucked into your devices like love letters. It was awkward. And sweet. And addictively comfortable. So when it shifted—when his voice cracked while telling you he liked you “in, like, a weird heart-palpitating, nonsensical anime-protagonist kind of way” and you laughed and said “I like you too, you hopeless disaster,” something unspoken locked into place. But with that came the question: now what? Because Idia didn’t want people to know. Not out of shame—never that—but because he didn’t trust the world with something this fragile, this soft, this yours. So you agreed. To secrecy. To silence. To a version of your life where longing had to live behind locked doors and firewalls. In public, nothing changed. You were a familiar presence in Ignihyde, often waved off as someone who hung around for tutoring or tech support, and Idia remained as elusive as ever, hidden behind his floating screens and pixelated snark. But in private? It was different. So painfully different. Your fingers brushing under dim monitor light. His hoodie loaned to you with dramatic reluctance and then immediate panicked texts asking if it smelled weird. Late-night gaming marathons that ended with quiet breathing on opposite ends of a call, the digital connection the only thing between you and a longing you didn’t quite know how to voice. He would press his forehead to yours sometimes, trembling with the weight of it all, and whisper, “No one’s ever made me feel like I’m not… broken.” And you’d hold him, as tightly as he’d allow, whispering back, “You’re not broken. You’re just scared.” But secrecy has claws. It drags at you in moments you don’t expect—when you catch him watching you from across the dining hall but have to look away, when someone jokes about Idia dying alone and you laugh along too loudly, pretending it doesn’t hurt. You want to scream that he’s not some pitiful background character, not some internet ghost—they don’t see the way he smiles when he’s sleepy, or the way his voice softens when he talks about games that mean something to him, or the way he stutters “I love you” like he’s afraid the words will glitch if he says them too fast. You want to be proud. Loud. Visible. But you also understand. This is how he survives: in the background, in safety, in the hush. So you let the world believe you’re nothing. And you make your peace with the fact that your happiest memories are screenshots saved under nondescript file names. Still, sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes you sit beside him, both of you pretending to watch a cutscene while your hands rest too close and your hearts beat too fast, and you wonder how long this secret can be sustained before it starts to fray. But then he looks at you—really looks at you—with that rare, searing honesty that breaks through his fire-lit hair and his anxious eyes, and he says your name like it’s a password, like it unlocks something only the two of you were meant to share. And for that moment—for that single breath—you remember why you agreed to keep it secret in the first place: because some things are so precious they deserve to be protected, even from the light.

$MALLEUS DRACONIA — Soulmates

You never expected to have a soulmate, let alone him. The very idea had always felt like something written for storybooks or sung in lullabies—romantic, yes, but distant. Unreal. The world you knew was one of choice and coincidence, not fate. But then Malleus Draconia walked past you for the first time, and something ancient and wordless in your chest cracked open like a sealed tomb. It wasn’t love at first sight—not in the way fairytales would suggest. It was heavier than that. Older. His gaze, cool and unreadable, met yours only for a second as he strode past in his long coat and elegant disdain, but in that second, the world seemed to hush. Not just grow quiet—but stop. As if time itself had turned to listen. As if the air between you had been waiting to be breathed since before either of you had names. You felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the pull behind your sternum that whispered his name before you ever learned it. And he—he stared. Not out of surprise. Not even suspicion. But recognition. Like a king returning to a land he had only seen in dreams. You told no one. What were you meant to say—that your chest felt warm when he passed near? That his presence made the world too large and too close all at once? That you heard bells in your head when he looked at you like that? It sounded like madness. Worse, it sounded presumptuous. After all, who were you to be fated to someone like him? He was the crown prince of Briar Valley, a fae with magic old enough to lull the stars to sleep. You were… you. And yet. He kept finding you. Always in small, subtle ways. A shared silence beneath the thorns of the gardens. A single question in class he directed only to you. The way he stood close—not too close, but intentionally—as if to test some invisible thread between you. He did not speak often, but when he did, it was with a calm gravity that pulled your attention like a tide. “You feel familiar,” he once said, voice soft as dusk. You nodded. “I know.” Neither of you asked how. You didn’t need to. You could feel the connection now—stronger with each passing day, thrumming gently beneath your skin like a living sigil. When he looked at you, the sensation became almost unbearable, not painful, just—intimate. It was as though the very core of you was being seen, recognized, claimed, without so much as a touch. And touch, when it finally came, was a revelation. His fingers brushed yours one evening, unintentional—or so you thought—and your breath hitched so hard you felt your lungs revolt. A rush of warmth flooded through your limbs, and you turned to find him already staring, pupils slit and glowing faintly, mouth parted like someone beholding a miracle. “Ah,” he whispered, as though he had solved a riddle written across lifetimes. From that moment, something shifted between you. He became more direct—not possessive, never—but undeniably aware. When he walked with you, others moved aside. When he listened, he listened like your words were the only sound worth hearing. The entire castle could have burned around you and he would not have blinked. “I have waited centuries for this feeling,” he admitted once, his voice quiet, reverent. “And now that I know it, I fear I am far too greedy to share it.” You understood. Because it was the same for you. He did not rush things. Fae do not hurry love. But neither did he allow you to doubt. He made it clear in every word, every glance, that this—you—were not a passing infatuation, not an accident of chemistry or circumstance. You were chosen, not merely by him, but by the fabric of magic itself. And while the world around you might scoff at the notion of soulmates, dismiss it as fantasy or foolishness, you had only to stand at his side—his shadow brushing yours, his magic echoing in your veins like a song you had always known—and you remembered: some stories are not written; they are etched into stardust and bone, destined to find their way home, again and again and again.

$SILVER — Friends to Lovers

You’ve known Silver for so long, you almost forget there was ever a time before him. He was always just… there. Reliable. Steady. A soft, calming presence who never needed to speak loudly to be heard. The sort of friend who remembered your favorite tea without asking, who always offered his coat when the wind got sharp, who could fall asleep beside you without pretense or performance because your presence was one of the few places he felt safe. And in return, you offered him that safety freely. You looked after him when the world asked too much. You woke him with patience, not judgment. You sat with him when he was quiet, trusting that if he had something to say, he would. The two of you became something wordless over time—a quiet rhythm that neither of you disturbed. He trusted you with his silences, and you never tried to fill them with noise. Others mistook it for passivity, but you always knew better. Silver felt deeply. He just didn’t announce it. And for the longest time, you didn’t either. You told yourself it was just friendship—the kind built on shared peace, on small, considerate gestures that don’t need to be explained. You didn’t question the way your heart softened when he smiled, or the way you’d glance at him during slow moments just to see if his eyes were open. You didn’t think about how natural it felt to lean into him when you were tired, how your steps always found his pace without trying. It was just comfort. Familiarity. Safety. Until the day you realized you would never be satisfied with “just friends.” It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t wake up one morning with a revelation, didn’t sit bolt upright in a flash of epiphany. It happened in the middle of an ordinary afternoon—Silver half-asleep beneath a tree, his hair glowing in the soft dappled sunlight, one hand unconsciously reaching for where you’d sat minutes before. Something in your chest twisted, not painfully, but with a strange kind of clarity. You didn’t want a life that moved away from this. You wanted to stay—always. You wanted to be the reason he smiled without opening his eyes, the one he reached for not just in sleep, but in waking. But it was terrifying. Because to speak that truth aloud meant risking the quiet world you had built together, risking the gentle friendship that had grown slowly and patiently over time. You kept it to yourself at first, letting the feeling settle into your bones, hoping it would pass. It didn’t. It deepened. Every time he looked at you with that soft, trusting expression, it bloomed stronger. And perhaps he sensed it before you said anything. Because one evening, as you sat watching fireflies drift over the grass, he spoke—quietly, without ceremony. “You’ve been distant lately,” he said, not accusing, just concerned. You hesitated. “I didn’t mean to be.” “Are you afraid?” he asked, and something about the way he said it made you wonder if he already knew the answer. So you nodded. And then, after a long pause, you whispered, “I think I love you.” He didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched—gentle, thoughtful, not cruel. And then, finally, he said, “I’ve loved you for longer than I understood it.” Your breath caught. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable, but his hand reached for yours like it always had, like it had never stopped. “You are the peace I’ve always been searching for,” he murmured, “and I think I knew that long before I knew what love was supposed to feel like.” You didn’t kiss—not then. You didn’t need to. You just stayed there, hands intertwined, your hearts pressed into the quiet space between you, no longer hiding what had always been growing. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t loud. It was simply the next chapter in something already cherished. And when he rested his head on your shoulder that night, sleep tugging gently at his thoughts, he whispered, “Don’t go far.” And you promised you wouldn’t. Because you never really had.

$SEBEK ZIGVOLT — Enemies to Lovers

You and Sebek Zigvolt have never gotten along, and that is putting it mildly—the very first time you met him, he accused you of disrespecting Lord Malleus simply because you didn’t bow deeply enough, and from that moment onward, he decided that you were an insufferable, insolent, utterly frustrating presence whose mere existence seemed designed to test his patience, and you, for your part, found him loud, overbearing, and tragically incapable of minding his own business; it began with barbed remarks and rolled eyes, snide corrections and exasperated huffs exchanged across classroom rows or beneath shared group assignments, every encounter sharpened like a blade and drawn without hesitation, and yet, no matter how often you clashed, no matter how loudly the arguments escalated or how many times a teacher had to sigh and separate you, there was something about it all that felt—charged, almost too much so, like fire pressed beneath glass, too volatile to be ignored, too potent to be dismissed as mere rivalry; he made you furious with his rigid rules and fanatical devotion, the way he treated every minor disagreement as a matter of grave offense, how he refused to let a single thing go if he believed it challenged his ideals, and yet, you found yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, if only to anticipate the next quarrel, to feel the pulse of something that ran dangerously close to adrenaline whenever he leaned across a table and hissed your name like it was both a curse and a challenge, his green eyes narrowed, voice vibrating with righteous fury and the kind of unwavering focus that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world—just for those brief, volatile moments; you told yourself it was hatred, that it had to be, because no one else made your blood boil like he did, no one else could drag you into a ten-minute shouting match over something as trivial as seating arrangements or hallway traffic, and yet, when he stormed away with his jaw clenched and cape flaring dramatically behind him, you always stared a moment longer than you meant to, your chest uncomfortably tight, breath caught in the strange echo of his voice still ringing in your ears; it came to a head during a group project for History of Magic—just the two of you, of course, as fate would cruelly arrange it—where you bickered over everything from structure to citations, voices rising until you were both nearly shouting in the library, leaning in too close, your hands slamming the same parchment at the same time, glaring with barely bridled fury as something inside you cracked wide open and he growled, “You’re so infuriating,” to which you replied, “Then stop looking at me like that if I’m so intolerable,” and he froze, lips parted, fire flashing behind his eyes like lightning in a storm, and for one breathless second, neither of you moved, as though even the air had gone still, then he stepped back abruptly, muttering something about decorum and responsibility, face flushed to his ears, and you didn’t push—not yet—but something fundamental had shifted; after that, the fights changed—they didn’t stop, of course not, but they sharpened, refined themselves into something almost deliberate, like a secret game only the two of you knew how to play, and between the barbs were moments: his hand catching yours to keep you from slipping down the dorm stairs, a brief, scowling “Are you injured?”

Paired with averted eyes, your coat draped over your chair after you forgot it in the rain with no explanation, the way his voice dropped in volume when he used your name, low and quiet and only for you; you noticed the way he stared when he thought you weren’t looking, not with contempt, but with something tangled and intense and confused, as if he were fighting a battle with himself each time your sleeve brushed his, and one day, when he snapped at you during a sparring exercise, accusing you of being distracted, of growing soft, you snapped back with equal force and fire, and he grabbed your wrist mid-sentence, pulled you close, teeth bared, and said, “Why do you always make me feel like this?” and your retort died on your tongue because you didn’t have the answer either, not until that moment, not until his hand was warm against your skin and his breath was fanning across your cheek and your heart was hammering wildly behind your ribs, and instead of pulling away, you stared at him and whispered, “Because I make you feel something you don’t know how to name,” and he didn’t deny it, not this time, just stood there frozen in his own stubborn silence, expression warring between fury and fear and something else—longing, perhaps, and when he kissed you it wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet, it was fierce and trembling and desperate, like a dam finally broken, like months of fury and denial and unbearable restraint all collapsing at once, and when you kissed him back, he exhaled a sound that made your knees weak, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until it was happening; after that, nothing was ever quite the same—you still argued, of course, still fought like fire and flint, but now your quarrels ended in breathless kisses instead of silence, in hands grasping the fabric of each other’s sleeves like anchors, and though he still called you reckless and stubborn and intolerable, he said it now with a kind of reverence, with a strange pride, with his fingers entwined in yours beneath the table and a protective instinct even fiercer than before, because now you weren’t his rival or his burden or his irritation—you were his, and no matter how much he grumbled or growled, it was written in every glare that lingered too long, in every whispered reprimand that ended with his hand brushing yours under the cover of night, in every battle he waged not against you, but for you.

GOD THANKKK YOUUU, IM FINALLY DONE. someone sedate me.

no Jade or Lilia cuz i lowk gave up on looking for tropes 💔. But if yall can recommend some, i’ll give them their own parts <3

[cowboybeepboop]

Hunted

"What are you doing to me, little one? You're driving me insane.."

Pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x fem! Reader 

Genre: Smut

Word count: 4.5k 

Summary: Sergei finds you lost in the woods, comes to your rescue, and seduces you all in one day. 

Warnings: Mentions of being chased/harassed by men, being hunted, uses of “little one”, a size kink, unprotected sex, oral (both receiving)

a/n: Guys I’m so obsessed with Kraven omg, since I’m on break right now I’m grinding the fuck out of writing. also, I didn't proofread (per usual) I hope you all enjoy and send any requests you might have my way

You’re a little lost, well more than a little. Somehow you ended up being taken by a few strange men, and managed to get free but what good does that do if you’re lost, cold, alone, and limping in the Siberian forests? 

You drop down to rest, wrapping your arms around your body as the cool air assaults you. Trying to think of what to do next, while keeping in mind that there are three crazed men on the hunt for you. 

Kravinoff observes silently as he watches you drop to the ground, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep warm. His expression remains stoic, his eyes taking in every little detail about you. As he watches you shivering, he can't help but feel a small pang of...sympathy? No, that can't be right.

After a few moments of silent observation, Sergei finally breaks the silence, his voice gruff and blunt. "Lost, little one?"

You flinch at the sound of his voice, immediately reaching for a branch to attempt to defend yourself. "G-go away.." you murmur weakly, teeth chattering as you speak, your eyes trained on the floor. 

Kravinoff raises an eyebrow at your display, his lips twitching into a slight smirk as he sees you reaching for a branch to use as a weapon. 

He slowly takes a step closer, his heavy boots crunching in the snow as he does so. "You're a feisty one, aren't you? But that weak voice and shivering body are hardly intimidating."

"Please.." you murmur, eyes watery as you gaze up at him with puppy dog eyes, reminiscent of something his younger brother would do. "Please don't hurt me.." 

Sergei's expression softens for a moment as he looks down at you, the puppy dog eyes tugging at a very small part of his heart that he's long since tried to bury. "Hurt you? You think I'm going to hurt you?"

He takes a few more steps towards you, his eyes roaming over your form, taking in the sight of your shivering and shivering body. "You're trembling, little one. And that limp, you're hurt."

"It's not that bad, I can walk," you whisper, watching as he approaches you slowly. 

"Not that bad, hm?" Sergei lets out a scoff, his dark eyes flickering over your body. "You're shivering from the cold, and you're clearly hurt. You can barely stand, let alone walk."

He crouches down in front of you, his large frame towering over you. "Tell me, what's your name, little one?"

"My name is Y/N.. there's these guys, they're hunting me. I don't, I don't know what to do." Your expression is pleading as you weakly stand up, shakey voice matching the trembles of your body. 

Sergei's expression darkens at the mention of other men hunting you. He glances around, his eyes scanning the area like a predator watching for prey.

"Hunters, huh? And they're after you. Interesting." Sergei's eyes return to you, his hand instinctively going to rest on the handle of one of the knives holstered on his belt.

"Why are they hunting you? What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," you lean toward him, seeking the warmth that's radiating from his body. "At least I don't think I did? All I remember was waking up in a tent, they said that we were going to play a game.. I-" you trail off, a small tear falling down your cheek. 

Sergei watches as you lean towards him, a small pang of sympathy shooting through him again when he notices the tear rolling down your cheek. He's not used to comforting people, but something about you triggers a protective instinct within him.

"A game... What kind of game, little one?" He asks, his voice gruff but surprisingly gentle. He gently reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder to steady you.

"He said they would hunt me.." you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as a whistle sounds through the air. You press your body to his, eyes wide with fear, "i.. think they're getting close." 

Sergei's expression hardens as he hears the whistle through the air, his hand instinctively tightening on the handle of his knife. He glances around once more, his senses on high alert.

"Shhh," he murmurs, his other hand gently reaching out to hold you closer to him. "Stay quiet. They won't find you."

He pulls you to his chest, his large frame shielding you partially from view as he scans the woods once more.

You bury your reddened face into his chest, breathing in his musk and seeking safety in his grasp. Your arms move to cling to his waist, holding yourself closer to him. 

Sergei's nostrils flare as you bury your face into his chest, the scent of your skin, mixed with the musk of the forest, filling his senses. He can feel your arms clinging to his waist, the feel of your body pressed against his stirring something deep within him. He slowly reaches up and rests his hand on the back of your head, gently holding you against him.

"Don't worry, little one," he murmurs gruffly, his eyes still scanning the woods. "You're safe with me." You nod against his chest, too tired to speak. 

Sergei can feel the exhaustion radiating off you, your weary body leaning heavily against him. His fingers gently brush through your hair in a small, comforting gesture.

"You're exhausted," he murmurs, his voice still gruff but softer than before. "Let's find somewhere we can rest and get you warmed up."

Sergei shifts ever so slightly, his large frame adjusting so he's able to lift you gently into his arms, cradling you like a child.

You gasp as he effortlessly picks you up, arms instinctively going to his neck. "Where will we go?" you murmur.

Sergi glances down at you, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, and a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He enjoys the feel of you in his arms, the way your body fits snugly against his.

"Somewhere safe," he replies, his voice gruff. "Somewhere these 'hunters' won't find us."

Carefully, Sergei begins moving through the forest, his powerful legs carrying both of you through the deep snow with ease. You nuzzle your face against his shoulder, finding him comforting in the vast forest. 

As you nuzzle your face against his shoulder, Sergei can't help but notice how much he's enjoying the feel of you in his arms. Your warmth against his chest, the soft sound of your breathing, and the gentle feel of you nuzzling against him.

He continues to move through the forest, weaving through trees and navigating the deep snow like a natural tracker. Every now and then, he glances down at you, his eyes taking in your tired, but now tranquil face.

You drift to sleep in his arms, body going limp as he continues to trek toward his home. Bringing you closer and closer to a warm safe shelter. 

Sergei feels your body go limp in his arms, signaling that you've fallen asleep. His arms instinctively tighten their grip on you, holding you securely against his chest as he continues to trek through the snowy forest.

Each step brings you both closer to his home, a small cabin nestled deep in the forest, away from the chaos of the outside world. As he approaches the cabin, Sergei can't help but feel an odd sense of protectiveness over you.

He gently pushes open the door to his cabin and steps inside, careful not to wake you. The cabin is warm and cozy, illuminated by the soft glow of a fireplace in the corner.

Sergei carries you over to a large, comfortable armchair and carefully sets you down, ensuring you're settled and comfortable. He takes a moment to gaze down at you, his eyes roaming over your tired face as you sleep.

He sighs deeply, his hands resting on the arms of the chair as he contemplates what to do next. You stir slightly at the lack of his body against yours, your arms reach out, seeking him once more. 

As you stir and reach out for him, searching for the warmth of his body, Sergei can't help but smirk to himself. He's not used to being sought after like this, and it brings an odd feeling of satisfaction to him.

He steps closer, gently taking hold of your seeking hands and holding them in his own large, calloused ones.

"I'm right here, little one," he murmurs gruffly, his voice low so as not to startle you.

As the morning sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the cabin in a warm, golden light, you stir in the soft, comfortable embrace of the armchair.

Sergei, who had spent the night keeping watch by the fireplace, notices your movements and rises silently from his chair. He watches as you pull the soft cloth blanket up to cover your face, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

He takes a step closer, leaning against the back of the armchair, and speaks in a low, gruff voice. "Morning, little one."

"You never told me your name.." you murmur, sliding out of the chair and sleepily moving to his side. 

Sergei's eyes roam over your sleepy form as you move to stand beside him, a small chuckle escaping his lips as he hears your question.

"I suppose I didn't," he says gruffly, his eyes watching you with a mixture of amusement and something else, something he can't quite place.

He lifts a hand and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, before replying, "My name is Sergei. Sergei Kravinoff."

"Sergei.." You repeat, settling onto the ground next to him, basking in the heat of the flames.

As you say his name, a small shiver of satisfaction runs through Sergei's body. He can't remember the last time anyone has spoken his name with such soft, sweet lips.

He watches as you settle onto the floor next to him, your body seeking the warmth of the flames. He can't help but admire your small, fragile form, your skin flushed and weary but still so very beautiful.

He glances down at you, his voice still gruff but softer than usual. "You should eat something, little one. You must be hungry."

Your face lights up at the mention of food, your stomach growling as if on cue. "I am a little hungry.." 

A small, satisfied smile tugs at the corners of Sergei's lips as he watches your face light up at the mention of food, and hears your stomach growl in confirmation.

"Looks like that settles it," he says gruffly, pushing himself up off the floor. "I'll fix you something to eat. Stay there and warm up."

Without waiting for a reply, he strides over to the small kitchen in the cabin, starting to prepare a meal.

You turn to watch his movements, craving his company at your side once again. A feeling of heat rises in your stomach as you gulp, eyes glued to his muscular frame. 

Sergei can feel your eyes on him as he moves around the kitchen, his muscular frame easily handling the preparation of the simple meal. He can't help but detect a hint of something in your gaze, a heat that he's not sure he quite understands.

He glances over at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he meets your gaze. "What is it, little one?" he asks gruffly, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement.

Your cheeks flush a bright pink, causing you to shake your head. "Nothing.. it's nothing." you reply softly.

Sergei's smirk grows wider as he notices the bright pink flush on your cheeks, knowing that he's caused a reaction in you. He can't help but be captivated by the innocent, shy look on your face.

He lets out a gruff chuckle, returning to his task of preparing the meal. "It's not nothing," he says, his voice holding a hint of playfulness. "You're staring at me, little one. I can feel your gaze on me. What are you thinking?"

"You're just very big.." you whisper, shocked by the words coming from your mouth. Clenching the blanket tight around you, you carefully adjust your clothes, feeling your panties becoming wet.

Sergei's eyes widen slightly at your words, a soft chuckle escaping his lips at the innocent bluntness of your statement. He can't help but be amused by your shyness, your flushed cheeks, and the way your body fidgets under the blanket.

He turns to face you fully, his eyes roaming over your form, drinking in the sight of you. He can sense the change in you, the heat in your body, and he can't help but wonder if you're even aware of it. 

"Is that so?" he asks gruffly, his voice holding a hint of something else, something deeper.

You nod, mind wandering to.. other parts of him, and how big it might be. "Mhm.." you murmur, looking up at him as he brings you a plate of food.

As you nod and confirm his words, Sergei can't help but notice the way your eyes wander over his frame, lingering on certain parts of his anatomy. He knows what you're thinking, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

He approaches you, holding out the plate of food. As he does, his eyes lock onto yours, his voice gruff as he speaks again. "Eat up, little one. You need your strength."

"Thank you Sergei.." you smile up at him, taking the plate and beginning to take a few small bites, your mind still focused on him. 

Sergei watches as you take the plate and begin to eat, his gaze studying you intently. He notices the small, subtle things, the way your eyes wander over his form, the way your lips move as you chew.

A small, amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches you, his own thoughts wandering to the same subject as yours.

"You're welcome, little one," he grunts, his voice gruff and low. "Make sure you eat all of it. Can't have you wasting away on me."

"Yes sir," you murmur between bites. Comfortable silence fills the air as he takes a seat next to you, his shoulder lightly brushing yours.

As you finish your meal, the silence of the cabin is filled with a comfortable stillness. Sergei lowers himself down to sit beside you, taking a moment to admire the sight of you as you finish eating.

His shoulder lightly brushed yours, the contact sending a small shiver through his body. Despite his gruff and stoic exterior, he can't help but be drawn to you, your innocence and vulnerability stirring something deep within him.

"Feeling better now, little one?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly murmur.

"Much better," you grin, leaning against him, your hand falling to his lap. You're craving more, more of his touch, more of him, you just need him. 

As you lean against him and your hand falls to his lap, Sergei's body tenses momentarily, his breath catching in his chest. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, the slight weight of your hand on his thigh, and it awakening something within him.

He can't help but glance down at your hand, then back up at your face, a mix of surprise, desire, and a hint of hesitation in his gaze. "Little one..." he growls, his voice deep and hoarse.

"Yes, Sergei?" you breathe out, biting down on your bottom lip with desire. 

Sergei's eyes are fixated on your biting your lip, the sight sending a wave of heat through him. He can feel his body reacting to your closeness, to the desire in your voice.

He leans closer to you, his breath tickling your ear as he speaks, his voice a low, gruff whisper, "What are you doing to me, little one? You're driving me insane.."

You gasp as his voice sends shivers down your body, leaning closer to him you find a small amount of confidence. You slide your hand up his though, nearing the place you're most curious about. "Sergei.. I'm curious about something.."

As your hand slowly slides up his thigh, nearing a sensitive spot, Sergei's body tenses once more, his breath catching in his throat. He can feel the heat of your touch, the desire in your movements, and it's driving him wild.

He glances down at your hand, then back up at your face, his eyes dark and intense. "What is it, little one?" he growls, his voice thick with desire. "What are you curious about?"

"How big is it?" you gulp, looking up at him through your lashes as you settle between his legs. Almost salivating at the thought of seeing his cock.

As your words sink in, and your body moves between his legs, Sergei's breath hitches in his chest, a low growl escaping his lips. He can feel the heat in your body, the desire in your gaze, and it's driving him crazy.

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and ravenous, as he responds in a low, guttural tone, "Are you sure you want to know, little one?"

"Mhm, I'm really curious," you whisper, hand sliding to the buckle of his belt and slowly maneuvering to remove it. "Is this okay?"

Sergei watches as your hand moves to his belt, slowly working to undo the buckle. Your touch is innocent yet filled with a desire that he can't deny.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he contemplates your question. "You're very forward, little one," he says gruffly, his voice thick with a mix of desire and surprise. "But yes.. it's okay."

You slowly remove his garments, moving to free his hardness. Your body trembles in anticipation, desire coursing through you.

As you remove his garments, revealing his hardness, Sergei's breath hitches in his chest, his body trembling slightly as you bare him to your gaze.

He watches you, his eyes roaming over your face, studying the mix of desire and innocence in your expression. He can feel his own desire growing stronger by the second, a mixture of primal need and unexpected gentleness.

"Look at you..." he mutters gruffly, his voice thick with want. "You're so, so curious.."

Your hand wraps around his thick hard dick, eyes wide as you take in the sheer size of it. "I want to taste you," your gaze is focused on his length as you stick your tongue out, licking his tip slightly.

As you wrap your hand around his length, a low, guttural moan escapes his lips, his body tensing at the feel of your touch.

He watches as you lick his tip, your gaze fixed on his manhood, and it drives him crazy. The heat in your eyes, the desire in your movements, it's driving him to the edge.

"Is that so, little one?" he growls, his voice thick and strained. "You want to taste me, do you?"

You nod, lips wrapping around his throbbing cock. Your mouth is full of his manhood, eyes fluttering shut as you moan at the taste of his precum.

With a deep, shaky breath, Sergei allows you to continue, his eyes fluttering shut as he feels the warmth of your mouth engulfs his cock. The sensation sends waves of pleasure through his body, his muscles tightening and his heart racing. 

His hands instinctively move to the back of your head, guiding your movements gently as you take him in deeper, your soft moans muffled by his flesh. The feeling of your wetness and the gentle suction as you work your mouth over him is almost too much to handle, and he has to fight the urge to thrust into you.

Sergei's eyes snap open as your eager mouth continues to explore him, his grip on the back of your head tightening slightly as he watches you with a mix of hunger and amazement. "You're a natural, little one," he grunts, his voice strained as he feels himself getting closer to the edge. 

His hips begin to move almost imperceptibly, matching the rhythm of your mouth. The warmth, the wetness, the way your tongue swirls around his head – it's all too much for him to handle. He can feel his orgasm building, the tension coiling in his stomach and balls, begging for release. But he doesn't want this to end yet. He wants more of you, all of you.

With a sudden urgency, he pulls you off his cock, panting heavily. "Not yet," he growls, his eyes burning with desire as he looks down at you. He lifts you up and carries you to the bed, laying you down gently before climbing over you, his large frame looming over you protectively. 

His hand moves to the hem of your shirt, sliding it up to reveal your soft, pale stomach. His lips follow the trail of his hand, kissing and nibbling gently, leaving a path of heat in their wake. 

You gasp and arch up into his touch, your own desires spiraling out of control. His rough hands begin to unbutton your pants, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly reveals your most intimate secrets.

As he unbuttons your pants, Sergei's eyes are dark with need, watching your every reaction with a predatory focus. 

He can feel the heat between your legs, smell the sweet scent of your arousal, and it's all he can do to not rip the rest of your clothes off in one swift move. But he holds back, enjoying the slow, methodical unveiling of your body.

He slides your pants down, his calloused hands brushing against the softness of your skin. His eyes are drawn to the small, lacy underwear you're wearing, the stark contrast to the ruggedness of the cabin and his own attire not lost on him. 

With a smirk, he hooks his fingers under the elastic and pulls them down, revealing your bare, shaven pussy.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. His eyes roam over the delicate folds of your sex, the sight of your wetness making his cock throb even more. He leans down and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

You whimper at his gentle touch, your body quivering with anticipation. "Sergei," you breathe out his name like a prayer, your legs falling open wider to give him better access. You can't believe this is happening, but all you want is for him to keep going.

His mouth follows the path of his kisses, moving closer to your core. When he reaches your pussy, he lingers for a moment, his breath fanning over your sensitive flesh before his tongue darts out to taste you. The sensation is electric, sending bolts of pleasure shooting through your body as he explores you with the same curiosity and hunger he had when you first touched him.

"Oh god," you moan, your hands fisting in the sheets as his tongue delves deeper into your wetness. He licks and sucks, his beard scraping gently against your thighs, sending sparks of pleasure through you. Your hips buck against his mouth, seeking more, begging for it.

Sergei growls in satisfaction, the sound vibrating against your clit, sending you spiraling closer to the edge. His hands move to grip your hips, holding you in place as he devours you, his tongue swirling and flicking with expert precision. You're lost in the feeling, your world narrowing down to the warmth of his mouth and the exquisite pleasure he's giving you.

And as your orgasm builds, he slows down, teasing you, making you beg for release. "Please," you whine, your voice desperate and needy.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with lust and something else, something that makes your stomach flip. "Please what, little one?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that resonates through your core.

"Please, make me cum," you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a smirk, he goes back to work, his tongue and lips bringing you closer and closer to the precipice until, with one final, hard suck, you're tumbling over, your body shaking with the intensity of your climax. You cry out his name as waves of pleasure wash over you, leaving you trembling and breathless beneath him.

Sergei watches you come with a fierce satisfaction, his cock pulsing with his own need. He moves up your body, his eyes locked on yours as he positions himself at your entrance. "Are you ready for me, little one?" he asks, his voice a gruff whisper.

You nod, your eyes glazed with passion as you reach up to pull him closer. "Yes," you pant, your body arching up to meet his. "I need you inside me."

And with that, he pushes in, filling you up with one long, slow stroke that has you gasping for air. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces finally coming together. He begins to move, his thrusts deep and measured, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes you, claiming you as his in this moment of raw, primal passion.

With a fierce growl, Sergei slams into you, his cock stretching your tight pussy as he takes what he's craved since the moment he laid eyes on you. The feeling of you, warm and wet around him, is indescribable, and he can't hold back any longer. 

He begins to pound into you, each stroke hitting just the right spot, making you scream out in ecstasy. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his muscular back as you meet his rhythm, urging him to go faster, harder. 

The bed beneath you creaks and shakes with the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming into the wall in a steady rhythm that matches the beating of your heart. The room is filled with the sounds of your passion, the slapping of skin on skin, the harsh breaths, and desperate moans that fill the air like a symphony of desire. 

Your nails dig into the smooth skin of his back, leaving swollen red marks on his tanned skin, your pussy clenching around him as he continues to thrust into you. With each move of his hips, you become more and more needy, gasping and moaning his name. 

Sergei’s movements stutter, his hips pushing flush against yours, his head digging into your g-spot. His thick cock swells inside of you as your grip around him, your body coaxing his orgasm out of him. 

He buries his face into your neck, moaning lowly as he fills you with his warmth. You arch up into him, spasming around his still-hard length. 

“Fuck, oh fuck…” you whine, eyes fluttering shut as he collapses onto the bed next to you, pulling you to his chest. 

[rhaenyratargcryen]

you're my shotgun lover and i want it all | tyler owens (twisters)

masterlist ❈

summary: Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells. author's note: i...wrote this...in one.......single......afternoon. my fingers hurt anyway he's so hot i have had a crush on glen powell since 2018 (set it up supremacy) but this movie reawakened something in me. i should probably watch top gun now

pairing: tyler owens x f!reader word count: 9,123 (...oopsie) warnings/tags: pWp (with, y'all!), alternate universe: canon divergence, friends to lovers, friends with benefits

also cross-posted to ao3 okay love you bye xoxo your comments and reblogs are appreciated but not required i will love you all the same i hope u like !!!! <3

all characters are 18+ these are 18+ activities minors pls do not interact my eye is twitching as i write this 

It has been one hell of a week.

The tornadic activity has been off the charts – more storms built up under ideal conditions for weather hell-bent on destruction in a multiple-day stretch than you can remember ever tracking before. Your team had obviously been up for the chase, but now that the storms have passed, and the sun shines on the cleanup efforts, you can’t help but wish you’d chosen a different life path. You love what you do, but God, were you tired. Blisters have formed on the palms of your hands despite the gloves you’d donned. You could practically feel the knots forming in your neck. You shovel one more load of leaf litter before heaving the blade into the ground and leaning against it. Across from you, a backhoe is demolishing and excavating the remains of a house.

You close your eyes and try to just let the sun warm your face, thinking about how fast it can all just be gone. Mother Nature’s a beautiful force, but she can be cruel.

“Hey, don’t be slowin’ down on me,” Tyler jokes, clapping a hand between your shoulder blades. You hadn’t heard him approach, and his voice has startled you, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’re ‘bout halfway done with our part, I think.”

“No,” you reply, swiping the back of your arm across your forehead, trying in vain to clear your bangs from your eyes, but they won’t budge. Tyler reaches up and, almost as if he isn’t even thinking about it, takes the unruly pieces of hair between his thumb and forefinger and tucks it behind your ear, underneath the temple of your sunglasses, to make sure it stays this time. The action is so intimate it sends a flush crawling up your neck. You chance a look around to make sure no one else has seen. “Not slowin’ down, I promise. Just thinking about how lucky we are to be alive. How sad it is that all these people just lost everything.”

You’ve known Tyler since the two of you were in college together, fast friends who’d stuck together through a lot that could've put a strain on any other relationship, although you hadn’t studied meteorology – you’d been in school to be a librarian. 

One night, he’d asked you to stay up and help him with a lab he’d missed for one of his classes, and he loves to say he knew it then – that you were hooked – but you were too far along in your degree to do anything about it now. Switching from an arts degree to one in STEM? You’d have had to start over from scratch. 

Tyler had formed his team while you were in grad school and he was working as a cowboy for the rodeo back home, and you’d dropped out without a second thought when he asked you to be a founding member, to travel the country with him every tornado season. Said he wouldn’t – couldn’t – think about doing it without you. You’ve been riding with him ever since.

The two of you share everything, always have, and sometimes you wonder if it might be too much for the professional relationship you’re supposed to have.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Tyler grins, the hand still glued to your back rubbing gently, sending goosebumps across your skin under your shirt. “To help ‘em feel like their luck is turnin’.”

Always the optimist, Tyler Owens. He clears his throat, the hand on your back pulling away, and steps slightly closer to you.

“One of the folks over there gave these to me,” he says, gesturing to a group of people gathering in front of a house that looks like something had tried to suck it into the ground from dead center. “I saved their cat from their screened-in porch, poor thing had been yowling all night apparently. Know these’re your favorite, so, here you go. I think you earned it.”

You take the tin from him and open it, your mouth instantly watering at the sight of the small, round butter cookies inside. “God,” you groan, picking one up and taking a bite, savoring it over your tongue. You can feel Tyler watching you carefully. “Thank you. You get me.”

“Do we get cookies, Tyler?”

Lily’s voice sounds from your left, and you glance over at her. The shit-eating look on her face tells you she did see Tyler fix your hair for you. Your stomach somersaults.

“If you’re good,” Tyler says, smirking, “after the sun sets, we can head back to the motel, find some shitty bar, and drinks’ll be on me, okay? How’s that sound?”

Lily whoops, turning to Dani, who’d since appeared beside her, and the two snicker and fist bump. 

“You need any help over here?”

You look back at Tyler, cupping one hand above your eyes to shield them from the sunlight. Despite your glasses, it shines bright from directly behind him, and you can hardly stand to look at him. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” you murmur in reply, bending down to toss some siding that had been blown off one of the houses on this street into the wheelbarrow you’ve been using. “You should go see what Boone’s up to – I don’t think anyone has seen him in a minute.”

No doubt Boone was hiding somewhere with one of the breakfast burritos Lily and Dani have been rolling since early that morning, seeing how long he can get away with not doing his part. He’s a good guy, but the manual labor side of the job isn’t really his thing.

“Eh, he’s better off wherever he is,” Tyler laughs, and a small smile takes over your face, too. “Hey, you sure you’re okay? You don’t need a break? You can take a minute to yourself, no one’ll judge. I know how this can all get to you a little more than it gets to everyone else.”

You know him well enough to know he’s not calling you weak-stomached, that he’s genuinely concerned for how you feel, but he’s right. It does all get to you. Settling in to help survivors of these natural disasters is just something that comes with the chasing – there isn’t one without the other for you and the rest of the crew. You nod, glancing back up at him. 

“I’m okay, Tyler. Go off and be the face of the operation – you don’t have to worry about me.”

Tyler’s eyes narrow, his gaze shifting between your eyes, trying to find evidence you’re withholding the truth from him, but he seems to find nothing. With a minute tip of his head, he turns to resume working through a long-term plan for rebuilding the town with the mayor and some other members of the local government. 

This is something else you know he loves to do – shmooze with higher-ups, show off his people skills. Not only are they higher-ups, they’re small-town folk. His kind of people. He knows how to get through to them, how to get them to trust him. You love that about Tyler. He’s never condescending – he always has a genuine desire to help. He’s been through this hundreds of times, and these people may only have been through it this one time. You look around at them, at the people of all ages picking up the pieces that remain of their community, then cross your fingers and send a thought out to anyone listening:

Please let it be the only time.

After a few more hours of genuinely back-breaking work, you hear Tyler’s sharp whistle and know it’s time, meandering over to his truck where it’s been parked for almost eighteen hours. Using your teeth, you pull your gloves from your hands and hiss. They’ve been rubbed raw, the skin blistering where each finger meets the palm. You try to ignore the throbbing sensation, leaning against the passenger side door and closing your eyes. The rest of the crew sidle up to you, taking long drags from water bottles and cigarettes and trying to make peace with how you’re leaving this place tonight.

“Does anyone else want to break off to shower first?”

It seems Dani’s the only one, and they shrug, putting their hand out, palm up, to Dexter, who hands them the keys to the RV.

“Meet y’all there,” they say, stifling a yawn, and you know it’ll be a bit before you see them. The rest of you will have to pile into Tyler’s truck, and before you can object, the other three crawl into the back seat and leave you on the front bench with Tyler. You let yourself in and close the door behind you, buckling and watching as Tyler shakes someone’s hand and hustles to meet the rest of you. His Texans cap hits the bench before he does, between the two of you, and he turns his keys in the ignition, buckling his own seatbelt.

“Where we headin’?”

“There’s a place with a mechanical bull nearby. I vote there.”

“How nearby is ‘nearby,’ Boone?”

“Uh,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, does a quick Google to double-check. “Forty-five minutes?”

Dexter leans over and grips Boone’s phone, reading the screen. “In the opposite direction of the motel, Boone.”

Everyone groans, objecting, and you press your hand against your temple to alleviate the pressure there. The noise, God, the noise.

“Could we go somewhere closer to the motel, maybe?”

“It’s got a mechanical bull,” Boone stresses, and everyone rolls their eyes.

“Boone, you know damn well we’re not making it back to the motel if we go that far away.”

He groans, and you pull your own phone out, checking Maps to see what’s around the motel.

“This one’s three minutes from where we’re stayin’,” you say, showing Tyler your screen, and he nods, shifting into reverse, backing out, and starting down the one lane of the street that’s been cleared of debris. 

“Hey Boone,” you toss over your shoulder as Tyler shifts into second gear. “By the way. Long time no see.”

Lily snorts, smacking you on the shoulder to let you know she thought that was a good one. Boone shakes his head. 

“Hey, just because you didn’t see me all day doesn’t mean I wasn’t out there, too. How do I know you were workin’, weren’t sitting on your ass in the shade somewhere, hm?”

You hold your raw, red palms out for him to inspect and that shuts Boone up quick. Tyler whistles as he gets an eyeful of your skin.

“God damn, girl,” Lily murmurs. “That looks like it hurts. I think I might have Aquaphor in my bag back at the motel if you want some.”

“I’ll be alright,” you reply, knocking your elbow against her knee behind you in thanks. “Appreciate you.”

The rest of the drive is taken mostly in silence, everyone in the backseat trying to rest their eyes, but you stay up, your eyes on the road, so Tyler isn’t the only one making the thirty-ish minute drive back to where you’re staying, where you checked in only after it’d been decided which towns had been hit the worst, so you could reach all of them easily by truck.

“What’s goin’ on in your head? Hm?”

You turn to look at Tyler and he glances at you from out of the corner of his eye, then at your lap, at the fingernails you’ve picked down to the quick. “Real quiet over there.”

“Nothing,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t let Boone get to you,” Tyler says, tapping his right fist on your thigh once, twice, then letting it rest there. You brush your knuckles against his and he opens the fist immediately, taking your hand in his but not squeezing, careful not to put pressure on the blisters on your palms.

“It’s not that,” you start, then realize your mistake, your admission. “I really – I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”

You’re acutely aware of your hand in Tyler’s. It’s not like you’ve ever been shy around him – your cheeks flush at the thought – but this is…different. Sweet. More.

“Yeah, that it has,” he sighs, adjusting his left hand on the steering wheel so he can drive a little more comfortably, but his right hand stays in yours. 

You settle back into silence, Tyler seemingly having dropped the subject, and your eyes return to the road, but you feel him looking over at you, checking on you, every once in a while. You try your hardest not to meet his gaze. 

Soon enough, Tyler is putting the truck in park, then shutting the thing off. The noise – or lack thereof, you guess – wakes Dexter in the back, then Lily, who snorts when she sees your hand in Tyler’s. You pull away and unbuckle your seatbelt, watching as Tyler, with a hurt look on his face, wipes his hand on his jeans and swings himself down and out of the truck.

“C’mon, Boone,” he shouts, slapping a hand on the door that Boone has his head resting against, and the man sits up straight, wiping sleep from his eyes. “The sun hasn’t even gone down yet. Drinks on me, pal!”

The motel really is that close to the bar, so you all decide you’ll leave the truck parked there and walk home at the end of the night. The unspoken verdict is that you will all be getting shitfaced tonight.

The lingering smell of cigarettes in the air seems to rejuvenate everyone and Lily pumps a fist when she spots the old-fashioned jukebox across the room, then claps a hand over her mouth when she realizes there’s a TouchTunes sitting right next to it.

“Oh, I am so forcing you fuckers to listen to Chappell Roan all night,” she says gleefully, and you laugh along with her, looping your arm in hers and letting her pull you across the room while the boys settle in at the bar.

“So what was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” You play dumb, shrugging when Lily gives you a hard look and unhooks her arm from yours.

“Girl, seriously,” Lily scoffs, bumping your hip with hers and slipping a twenty dollar bill into the TouchTunes. Evidently she wasn’t joking when she meant you’d be listening to Chappell Roan all night. “I saw that thing earlier, the hair thing, don’t think I didn’t. And y’all holding hands in the truck. What’s going on there?”

You shake your head but she grabs your wrist. “I’m serious, Lil. Nothing’s going on. We’re friends – good friends. He noticed I was having a hard time today, and wanted to make sure I was alright. That’s all.”

You can tell she doesn’t fully believe you, and when she opens her mouth to object, you cut her off.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom, okay?”

Lily watches you, trying to read the small line between your eyebrows, but eventually she nods and lets go of you, letting you turn away from her. You push through the door to the women’s restroom, your nose wrinkling at the smell, but you ignore it. Standing in front of the sink, you watch yourself, hands shaking. This isn’t you. You’re better than this at shoving these feelings for Tyler down, way down – or, rather, you had been, up until this week broke you, apparently. Turning the knob for the cold water to the left, you let it run over your sore hands, hissing at the feeling. Carefully, you cup your palms and watch them fill, then splash the water onto your face, soothing the flush. There. That should help.

There’s a cold bottle of Coors in front of the seat next to Dexter when you arrive back to the group, “Red Wine Supernova” playing from the speakers. You almost snort at all the old men – regulars, no doubt – groaning out their distaste for whoever chose the music all across the room.

“Thanks,” you toss over your shoulder at Tyler, sitting on the other side of Dexter and Boone. He nods and nurses his own. You frown and settle onto the stool, leaning an elbow on the bartop so you can turn and face your friends. The cold beer against the palms of your hands feels so nice.

What’s wrong with him? He won’t make eye contact with you, and you notice his jaw clicking as he grits his teeth. What’s got his panties in a twist?

As the night unfolds, you find yourself laughing more and more, loosening up, letting the stress of the last week fade into memory. Someone has produced a deck of cards from God knows where and Dani – who did join the group eventually – is showing off card tricks you didn’t even know they knew. You feel a warmth spreading through your body, and you can’t stop thinking about how much you love all of these people. Your friends. Your family. Empty bottles are swiftly replaced with full, cold ones without notice, and everyone is languid, relaxed, unburdened by the work that you’re all doing.

You take a pull from your drink, using the cover of the bottle to risk a glance to Tyler three seats down from you to find that he’s already watching you, and the look in his eye tells you exactly what he’s thinking. That somersault-y feeling is lower than your stomach now. You’re only three beers deep, but the air in your head reminds you that you’ve barely eaten all day, so you’re a little more affected by the alcohol than you’d usually be. Impolitely, you reach across Dexter next to you to grab a handful of peanuts from the basket to his left.

Glancing back up at Tyler, you meet his heady gaze again, and he smirks around the lip of the bottle against his mouth. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you. You swallow nervously around another sip of beer.

Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells.

“Alright, y’all,” Lily says, slapping a hand on the bar, startling you out of your thoughts. You watch her, popping a nut into your mouth. “Think I’m gonna head out. I suggest you all do, too, fuckers, it’s late.”

Everyone starts to protest, but one glance at the clock tells you you’ve all stayed much longer than you thought – it’s a quarter past midnight, and you’ve got to be up with the daylight. You balk, but if you want to talk to Tyler tonight, you know you’ve got to shoulder your exhaustion and stick it out a little longer.

“I think I might stay for a bit,” you murmur, watching everyone stand and gather their things. You glance over at Tyler, who you can see clearly now that everyone’s out of their seats, and he’s watching you, too. The look on his face reads plain, now – he wants you.

“I’ll stay with her,” he says, eyes on yours. The green in them has disappeared almost completely, you notice, his pupils blown wide. “Walk her back. Y’all head back if you want.”

“I might stay, too –” Boone’s voice cuts off, coughing as Lily elbows him in the stomach, maybe a little too hard. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re going to bed, too, Boone,” Dani interrupts, a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the door. They poke him once when he starts to protest. “C’mon, now.”

Everyone shuffles out the front, Dexter calling good night, and all of the sudden, it’s just you and Tyler. You don’t know why, but your palms begin to sweat at the thought of being alone with him again. He stands, palming his drink, and slides onto the seat next to you, his body angled towards yours.

He’s never made you nervous like this. You don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you.

“So,” Tyler starts, grinning at you. “You come here often?”

You snort, emboldened by the booze, and he chuckles in response. “Idiot.”

“God, but I do love making you laugh.”

You blush under his scrutinous gaze, and take a quick swig of the dregs of your drink, unsure what to say to that. He mirrors you, taking a sip of his own while his eyes bore into yours. Accusatory.

“You don’t do it much anymore, you know that?”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

You press your fingertips to your mouth and Tyler’s eyes follow your hand. “I guess I just haven’t had much to laugh about lately,” you start, sighing deeply. “Tornado season’s been hard this year, and you know how much that – it gets to me. As much as I love what we do. You know. Remember that family a couple weeks back whose daughter was stuck under her bunk bed when it pressed on her too long, lost her leg below the knee? That got to me, Tyler. It did.”

“It gets to me, too,” he murmurs, knocking his knee against yours. “I guess I’m just better at hiding how bad it affects me. You can talk to me about it, though. You can talk to any of us.”

“I know I can,” you breathe, trying to keep your hands from shaking. “I know. Sometimes I don’t know what to say, though, you know, what is there to say? It’s not fair to complain about how sad it makes me to watch these people lose everything.”

“You’re allowed to feel sad. And to feel frustrated. It’s not fair, you’re right, but we’re doing good work, yeah? Fighting the good fight. Figuring out what makes these things tick, how to warn people when they’re in the path, get them outta the way and safe. Maybe they lose their house, their car, but they won’t lose themselves, or each other. That’s what matters most. Just remember that.”

You look up at him, set your elbow on the bartop, and prop your chin on your open palm. Your hands don’t hurt so bad anymore, you notice. “Thanks, Tyler.”

“Anytime,” he smiles, but you shake your head. 

“Seriously. You always know what to say.”

A look crosses his face then, too quick for you to read, and he sets his drink down, flagging the bartender over to close out the team’s tab. You frown, wondering if you’d, ironically, said the wrong thing.

“What’s up?”

Tyler looks back to you, and this time, the look in his eyes is unmistakable. It burns. “Taking you home, sweetheart.”

The walk back to your motel is done in silence. Tyler’s hand swings next to yours, and you feel it searching for yours more than once, but you don’t take it. You climb the stairs together, slowly, and he walks you to your door. His room is one more floor up.

You can tell he thinks you won’t invite him in, that you’ve changed your mind – or maybe that you never made it up. He hadn’t, after all, told you plainly that that was why he’d stayed with you at the bar. You unlock the room with your key card and step inside, opening the door only far enough for you to fit through it. You turn back to look at him, his face awash in the street lights shining into the hallway. You flip the lightswitch on next to you, illuminating the room behind you, too.

“Well,” he murmurs, making to head back down the stairs. “Good night.”

“Tyler?”

His head turns back to look at you, watching as you hold out one hand and he takes it, letting you pull him closer to you. You press yourself into him, push your whole face against his chest, your hip keeping the door from closing on the two of you. You inhale deeply, the smell of him overtaking your senses. His cologne, yes, but underneath that, the smell of dirt, earth. Home.

You feel his arms wrap around your back and you turn your head to the side, press your ear to his heartbeat. Your hands come up to scratch down his back and you feel it when he shudders.

“Stay?”

You hear his breath hitch in his chest, then the deep rumble of his voice as he says, “Alright, baby.”

With a short inhale, your eyes flutter, nearly closing at the term of endearment. You step back, pulling him with you, and as you close the door behind you, he pushes one hand up into your hair and pulls your head toward his.

“I, uh,” you whisper against his lips when they get close enough to yours, “I think I might shower first, if that’s okay with you?”

“Alright,” he murmurs, unlacing his hand from the strands of your hair before toeing his boots off and carefully setting them under the chair next to the front door. “You want company?”

You swallow. You’ve never done anything like that before. It’s always been quick. When you do this with him, you hardly ever have time for a chat before he’s got your shirt over your head and his mouth on your skin.

“Sure,” you reply. You feel him watch as you turn around and pull your shirt off, reaching back to unclasp your bra. The modesty feels redundant, but you can’t help it.

“Not gettin’ shy on me now, are you? S’not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he chuckles, and you throw a look at him over your shoulder just as he’s pulling his own shirt over his head. He left his hat at the bar, you think. You’ll have to go back in for it when you pick up the truck.

“Tyler,” you scold, and he laughs at you, steps across the room to wrap an arm around your torso and press a kiss to where your neck meets your shoulder. The place he knows makes you melt. You sigh and push back against him, the feeling of his hard chest against your bare back a welcome one. This feels more like what you know, what you’re used to.

“Shower,” you remind him, and he nods, his forehead pressed into that spot now, and he pushes his fingers underneath the waistband of your jeans, running them along the bit of skin there around to the front, where the fabric splits at the button. He pops it undone, then uses his thumb and forefinger to grip the zipper and slowly – so slowly – pulls that down. He can’t help himself, you know that, and so you hold your breath and wait for him to push his hand into your panties. Ever a predictable man, he does just that, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm hand against you.

“Are you sure?” Tyler’s breath against your neck makes you shiver, and you press your ear to the side of his chin. He runs his fingers along the seam of you, finding first your clit, your legs twitching at the sudden rush of pleasure when he brushes his hand against it, then pushing down to find you wet and wanting. You cry out softly. “You don’t sound sure. You don’t feel sure.”

You hum, your neck stretching back until your head is pressed to his chest, and he pulls his hand back up to start working small circles on your clit, your wetness on his fingers allowing for smooth movement, with just enough friction to have you panting for more. 

“Sounds more to me like you kinda want me to fuck you with my fingers.”

“Tyler,” you whimper, telling him with just his name that you are getting close. He smiles against the side of your neck, pulling his hand away and shoving your jeans and underwear down just enough that his hand has room to smack your clit lightly. You squeal, right leg kicking out at the feeling, and he continues moving his hand in circles to soothe the hurt.

Your breath is coming out of you in short huffs, and before you can come, Tyler takes his hand off of you and wraps it around your stomach to join the other. You pant and whine, rubbing your thighs together to chase the feeling he’d had you practically pressed up against, now ebbing with the loss of his fingers.

“You said you wanted to shower,” he whispers in your ear, pulling your panties back up, and you scowl, pushing away from him. He laughs and holds his hands up in defense as you pick your t-shirt up off your bed and crack it at him like a whip. “Let’s shower, baby.”

“I might kick you out right now, Owens,” you snark, but the small smile on your face gives you away, and Tyler unbuttons his own jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor at the end of the bed. Your jeans join his, and you’re both left in your underwear.

“You wouldn’t,” he replies, pulling his briefs off slowly, biting his bottom lip as you watch him. “You like this cock too much.”

You can’t help laughing at him, but the sight of him bare in front of you does have you biting your lip. You step forward to cup his growing length in your hand. Before you can move it, Tyler puts a hand on your wrist.

“How’s your hand?” He makes to pull it away, presumably to turn it over and appraise your blisters, but you shake your head.

“S’fine,” you whisper, tightening your grip. You tug once, twice, and press a kiss to his bare chest, then tip your head back to search out his lips. He leans down to oblige you, his lips parting against your mouth as you twist your fist. You love these moments you share with him, when you’re both bare, physically, emotionally, away from the real world, and you can pretend this is an everyday thing. When you’re not trying to tell yourself you feel nothing for him. Like this is just how it is between you.

Tyler groans when you pull your hand away from him and you click your tongue, press that same hand against his bicep.

“Doesn’t feel so good, now does it?”

Before you even know what’s happening, Tyler is picking you up, one arm underneath your back and the other around the backs of your knees. You look up at his face and laugh. “Put me down, Owens!”

He grins and carries you the few paces into the bathroom, placing you on your feet in front of the tub. Tyler leans down and pushes his thumbs underneath the waistband of your panties, waiting for you to put your hands on his shoulders and step out of them.

He lets you pull away from him to turn the hot water on, adjusting the cold side until the temperature is perfect, before pulling you against his chest once again. This time, you can feel his hard cock pressed against your backside, and you hum appraisingly. You reach behind you to fist him again, but he shakes his head – you feel his chin brush against the top of your head – and he groans out, “Mm-mm.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna shower, baby, c’mon.”

You glance back towards him and watch as he flicks the overhead light on. “So we don’t slip and die,” he says, and you laugh, pushing the shower curtain to the side. Holding Tyler’s hand, you step over the lip of the tub and under the steady stream of warm water, inhaling deeply when it hits the sore muscles in your shoulders and back. Tyler groans at the feeling, too, when he steps in behind you.

“Here, switch with me,” he murmurs, guiding you by your waist until you’re the one underneath the water. You let it fall onto the top of your head, over your face and down the back of your hair, for a moment, eyes closed, relishing the feeling. Tyler reaches both hands up and brushes the water out of your eyes, runs his hand over the top of your head. 

“Shampoo?”

You open one eye, the other shut against the water, and nod. You gaze up at him, heart squeezing at the way he’s watching you. His smile widens and he takes the tiny bottle in his hand – it looks even more comically small now – and dumps the product into his other palm, setting the bottle down onto the edge of the tub and rubbing his hands together.

“Turn around.”

You do as he asks, inhaling sharply through your nose when you feel his hands run through the hair at the crown of your head. Your stomach aches with longing as you register how unnaturally intimate this is. His fingers feel so good against your scalp, which is slightly sunburnt, you’re now realizing. He massages the shampoo further into your hair, running his fingers down the back of your neck and across the tops of your shoulders. When he’s satisfied with his shampoo job, he steers you by your arms to face him again, then carefully helps you tilt your head back and rinses it all from your hair.

You watch him pick up the other small bottle from the shelf, warm water still running down the back of your head. 

“I’ll do my conditioner,” you murmur, taking the bottle gently from his hands. “It’s a – it’s a science.”

“I am very good at science, if you can recall.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s something I’ve gotten perfectly right. It’ll take just a sec.”

So you work the conditioner through the ends of your hair, avoiding his gaze as he watches your hands first coat your hair in the product, then rinse it out. He reaches forward to run his own fingers across it, as gently as he can.

“Hm,” he makes the noise in the back of his throat, pulling his hand away. “Soft.”

You can hardly look at him, the twisting feeling in your stomach shifting to something warmer, something further from apprehension, something that feels a lot like want. “You?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’m good. Here,” he says, rubbing his hands across the plane of your upper back. “You’re tense. You worked hard today. Let me help.”

You weren’t going to protest, but before you can, Tyler guides you forward and out of the direct spray of the shower, then presses his thumbs into your muscle. You groan, your head falling forward onto his chest at the feeling, and he chuckles at you, continuing with his hands. “Feel good?”

“So good,” you whimper, and you feel his cock twitch against your stomach.

“You fucking dog,” you joke, and Tyler laughs against you, pushing your hair off the back of your neck and pressing his thumbs in there, too.

“Hey, what can I say? I like making my girl feel good.”

You freeze. His girl? His girl. He hasn’t noticed your reaction, and he keeps pressing his fingers into your sore muscles, pulling one hand away briefly to push the showerhead down and away from the two of you. You glance up, already missing its warmth, but you find that the steam rising around you is doing a good enough job at that.

“Here, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead and guiding you to press your hands against the tiled wall to your left, running his hands down your back.

“What are you –”

Before you can finish the thought, you feel Tyler’s fingers parting the seam of your cunt from – from behind, and you groan at the feeling of his middle finger slipping inside of you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans, his knees hitting the floor behind you. You toss a glance at him over your shoulder and your own knees nearly buckle at the way he’s looking up at you – with hunger, and with reverence, and with something else entirely unrecognizable. He looks wild. He looks in love.

One of Tyler’s hands clamps down around your hips and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh as his finger starts to shift in and out of you. You shiver and push your face into the cool tile, groaning softly when he finds that rough bit of flesh inside of you, the one that makes you come undone if he works it long enough.

“Yeah?” Tyler sounds fucked out already, his voice breathy against your skin, and you can picture the look on his face, the concentrated expression he gets when he’s trying to make you come. You try to focus on the feeling of the shower’s spray where it hits the edge of your foot rather than how good his finger feels inside you because if you think too closely about how good it feels, you’ll get lightheaded. And nobody wants that.

“Yeah,” you reply weakly, and for a few minutes it’s just like that, the only sound in the bathroom the shower, your panting moans, and the noise your pussy makes as he pulls his finger in and out.

“Sound so good for me, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh again, and you whine, trying to protest when he slips his finger from you. He laughs deep in his chest and lightly smacks the swell of your ass.

“Don’t complain when I’m doin’ somethin’ nice for you,” he jok, and you can feel then that he’s shifting himself around. You want to look over your shoulder, want to see for yourself what he’s doing, but freeze when you feel his palms cupping your ass, his nose pressing against the inside of your thighs.

Your mouth forms the word oh, but no sound comes out until you feel his mouth press against your cunt, tongue pushing inside of you, and then you cry out, chest heaving, when he presses a sloppy, wet kiss to your clit. You pull your face from where it’s still resting against the tile and look down at Tyler to find he’s already looking right up at you. His grip on your ass tightens when you make eye contact with him, and he spreads you open wider for him, eyes narrowing as his tongue flicks again, and again, and again.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he moans against you, the vibrations causing your legs to twitch. You already thought you were going to burst, the steam from the shower, the way he’d washed your hair, the fact that he was in your room at all – it all made you feel slightly insane. To add insult to injury, he’s just pushed two fingers inside of you and immediately found the spot that takes you out, and you start to shake a little.

“Tyler,” you whine, pushing one hand down to grip his hair. He groans when you tighten your hold on it, fucking into you a little faster. “Tyler, fuck, gonna come.”

“So come, baby,” comes his reply, and you do, you come so hard that the toes on your right foot curl until you’re on tiptoe and Tyler has to reach up and grip your waist to steady you. You feel it crest, and peak, then subside, but he keeps working you through it, his mouth moving against you still, and a second, smaller – though still good – orgasm wracks your body right after the first.

You breathe through it, push your foot down so you’re standing flat on the surface of the tub again, and wait for Tyler to pull his fingers out of you. 

“Baby,” Tyler groans, squeezing your hips, his fingernails biting slightly into your skin. “You gotta let go’a me, if you want me to get up.”

His voice, fuck, his voice, you think, releasing your grip on his hair and turning to watch him rise from his knees, the tile cold against your back. You surge forward to kiss him square on the mouth and he catches you, smiles against you when you part your lips to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Was that good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, pressing one, two, three more quick kisses to his mouth, before he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “So fucking good.”

Neither of you bother with a towel, instead opting to stumble toward the queen bed in the middle of the room and climb right underneath the covers.

“Hi,” you whisper when you’re settled in, the duvet pulled up under your chin. Your eyes rove over his face, then glance over to the alarm clock behind him. 1:56 in the morning. “You still wanna fuck?”

Tyler snorts, reaching over to poke you in the side, gripping the skin there until you start to laugh. “You still wanna fuck?”

“Yeah,” you reply, grinning, when you catch your breath. “Wanna?”

He’s quiet for a second, watching the duvet rise and fall with each breath you take, before he peels it off of you, using his elbow to push himself up until he’s leaning over you. There’s a rosy flush on your chest, your breasts heaving and it’s all he can do not to lean down and take one of your nipples in his mouth, the one closest to him. Instead, he runs the back of his other hand across your chest, catching against the hard peak, and watches your breath stick to the inside of your throat. You feel yourself subconsciously leaning toward him as his face comes toward you. You want him to kiss you, but instead, he angles his mouth to kiss the skin below your chin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your neck, pressing his open mouth to you there, and you gasp at the feeling – of his mouth against you, and of his praise. It all feels so nice. He just made you come in the shower, and now he’s going to make you come in this bed, hopefully more than once. 

You wrap your hands around his back and pull him toward you, watch as he settles in between your thighs. You can feel his thick cock, heavy, insistent, where it presses against you, and you want to take him into your hands, but he has other plans. 

With one hand pressed into the pillow on either side of your head, Tyler uses his knees to knock your legs out further, sitting back against his heels when he’s satisfied. He wraps his big hands around your thighs and pulls you closer, smiling down at you. “You’re so beautiful.”

You blush when he repeats himself, suddenly feeling very bare. He’s just as naked as you are, but you can’t help but feel like he’s seen your whole hand, meanwhile you hardly have any idea what cards he might hold. In the dim light from the lamp beside your head, you notice that you can see the green of his irises again. It seems like the shower sobered the two of you up very quickly.

His gaze locked on yours, Tyler takes himself into his hand, groaning at the pressure of his grip after neglecting his own want for so long, but he suddenly curses, pausing just as he’s about to press inside of you.

“What?”

“I don’t have a condom,” he breathes, sitting back again. He runs one hand through his hair, visibly weighing the options.

“It’s okay, Tyler,” you murmur, leaning up onto your elbows. “It’s okay. I have an IUD, and I got screened after the last time I was with someone. I’m good. I’m good if you’re good.”

Tyler heaves a heavy sigh, running his hands up your thighs. “You’re sure? I’m clean, too, cross my heart. But only if you’re sure.”

You nod. “My head is clear. I think I shook off my drunk an orgasm or two ago.”

A grin crosses his face, and you roll your eyes at him before he even opens his mouth. Two? he mouths, then whistles lowly. You smack his stomach, and he grabs your wrist in his hand, lightning quick, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there. Your jaw falls slack, and you go all soft and pliant, letting him pin your hands above your head. His body comes down over yours, and his mouth presses to your cheek, then your forehead, and when your eyes flutter shut, the ghost of a kiss crosses them, too.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, and normally if a man were to say that to you, you would immediately regret letting him into your bed. But for some reason, when Tyler says it, it sends that familiar warmth spiraling down into your gut. You know he means it.

Slowly – too slowly – he guides himself back to your entrance, shifting his hips so they’re resting comfortably against yours, and he presses himself inside of you. You hiss; the girth of him, although a welcome stretch, is also a bit of an uncomfortable one. He leans down to kiss you, working you through it with a thumb pressing circles into your clit, sliding himself in bit by bit until he’s fully seated. 

A groan pushes out of him when you clench around him, testing the waters.

“Careful,” he murmurs, easing his hips back. “I’d like it if this lasted longer than ten seconds, please.”

You laugh against the side of his head, pull your hands down from where he’d left them above you and wrap yourself around his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Tyler grips your thighs and starts to work himself in and out of you, carefully, gently, but you squeeze his waist with your knees. Encouraging him. Asking him to pick it up. You can handle it.

His hips start to pull back and snap against yours quicker and quicker, Tyler panting in your ear, lifting up onto his palms and pushing himself off of you. He sits up onto his knees and tilts your hips up for a different angle, one that sets sparks dancing in front of your eyes. You groan, head tossed back, and dig your nails into his thighs as his pace picks up.

“Fuck, yeah, that it, baby? I can feel you – fuck, feel you squeezin’ me.”

You hardly have a voice with the rate he’s slipping in and out of you, barely enough to squeak out, “Fuck,” before your cunt has him in a vice grip, working through another orgasm.

“Ohhh, that’s it, huh, that’s it.” His mouth is going a mile a minute, neither of you really paying much attention to anything he’s actually saying. You’re both focused on his own mounting orgasm – you don’t feel like your body is capable of much more than that – and you weakly clamp down around him once more. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips stutter, and he grits out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck,” before he slots against you and you feel him filling you. You run a hand down his back, soothing him as he comes, biting your lip at the feeling, foreign but enjoyable.

Tyler groans and glances down to where his cock is softening inside of you. He eases his hips back, cupping your face and pressing a kiss to your forehead as he does. “Shit, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

You nod meagerly, pressing the back of your hand against your warm cheek. He watches you and, assured that you’re not going to pass out on him or anything, stands and hobbles into the bathroom. The sink turns on out of sight, and you close your eyes, listening to the water run. Tyler returns with a warm, wet towel and wipes the inside of your thighs, swiping gently across your cunt, before folding the towel and letting it fall to the floor at your bedside.

You feel loose, calm. Safe. You hardly notice him turn the light off, but you do feel the bed dip beside you as he rejoins you under the covers and pulls you into his arms. You melt against his sturdy chest, his heartbeat under your face a comfort, the rhythmic tick tick tick of it lulling you to sleep. But there’s still one thing you have to know before you can relax completely.

His breathing has started to even out, but he hasn’t snored yet, so you know he’ll still hear you when you ask, “Are you gonna leave?”

He grunts an acknowledgement of your question, nuzzling down into the top of your head.

“Do you want me to stay?”

You know your answer, but you still bite your lip, considering the question. You hadn’t thought before that maybe he left after every night you spent together because he thought you didn’t want to wake up with him. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then I’ll stay.”

If he’s at all worried about what will happen when you wake up tomorrow, he doesn’t show it, but anxiety courses through you at the thought of anyone finding out. Does he want the others to know? Because that’s what it feels like.

“Stop thinking about it,” he whispers, like he can hear your thoughts racing. “It’ll be fine. Just go to sleep.”

Easy for him to say. He’s out like a light. And you’re left alone with your thoughts until you fall into fitful, dissatisfying sleep sometime around when the world outside starts to turn blue.

A pounding on your door wakes you from deep sleep – the deepest you’d gotten all night, at least – and you try to sit up but find there’s a heavy weight on your chest blocking you. You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing down at the sleeping body next to you. It takes a second for it to register: Tyler’s here. 

Tyler’s here. Sidled up against you, arm thrown over your stomach like this is where he belongs. He didn’t leave. He stayed, like he said he would. His face looks so peaceful – so beautiful – you almost hate to wake him.

“Come on, sleepyhead! Time to get a move on!”

Almost. You scramble to push Tyler off of you, ignoring his noises of protest, jumping out from under the covers and grabbing various articles of clothing off the floor to pull over your naked form. You plop back down on the bed, this time on his side, right next to where he’s starting to wake.

“Dude, get up, they’re gonna know you’re not in your room. They’re gonna know you’re in here.”

“So what,” he grumbles, rolling over as you push him and settling deeper into the bed. “Let ‘em.”

You sit up straight, one hand on his arm. “You mean that?”

He hums and turns his neck to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course I do. You’re my girl.”

Your face flushes a deep pink and Tyler grins, reaching over to wrap an arm around you and drag you back down into the bed, pinning you under him and peppering an assault of open-mouthed kisses all over your face. You grin, thinking that you could get used to this – just not right now.

“Seriously, Tyler,” you laugh, pushing a hand against the side of his face. He squeezes your hip. “We have to get up. We gotta get back out there.”

Tyler sighs, loosening his grip on your body and kneeling over you. “Yeah, you’re right. Alright, alright.”

He stands and takes the top sheet with him, wrapped around his waist, and heads to the bathroom. To brush his teeth, you hope. God.

“You know,” he says, head popping back out into the room, mouth full of toothpaste. “Yesterday. I wanted them to see us holding hands.”

You watch as he smiles at you and disappears back into the bathroom, then fall back onto the bed, hands pressed over your eyes. 

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are dressed, teeth brushed, hair taken care of, day packs slung over your shoulder, and you’re pulling the door closed behind you when you hear a whistle that pulls your attention to the parking lot.

“Damn, Owens!”

The voice makes you jump, and you groan. You thought you were going to get away with the sneaking around, but the rest of your team is watching from next to the RV as the two of you descend the stairs together.

Lily and Dani turn to Boone with smug looks on both their faces, and he rolls his eyes and pulls his wallet from his back pocket. They hold their hands out for him to slap two twenty dollar bills down into.

“What’s that?” You ask when you get close enough to them.

“We had a bet that you and Owens would come out of that room together. Well, that one or his. Didn’t matter which.”

“A bet I just lost,” Boone groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I thought for sure…”

The rest of the crew snickers, including Tyler, who won’t look at you. You poke a finger into his chest.

“Did you know about this?”

“No, I swear,” he says, hands up, and you don’t know why, but you believe him. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t drunkenly confess to Lily weeks ago that sometimes we, you know…”

You scoff, almost mad, but then Boone shouts and the scoff turns into a snicker because, hey, you love him, but you can’t help but relish in his defeat.

“So they knew?! That’s cheating!”

He storms off while the rest of you laugh, Dani clutching their side and following him around the side of the building to try to make amends, trailing off, “If it makes you feel any better…”

Lily looks over at you, then at Tyler, a grin swallowing her face. “So, are you guys, like, together now? Or something?”

You look up at Tyler, who’s smiling softly at you, clearly deferring to you to answer that question. You feel a surge of affection for him swell in your chest. Clearing your throat, you turn to Lily.

“Or something.”

[omgeto]

☆ THRILL (h)ER! — SATOSUGU X READER

summary: when watching a scary movie with your two best friends, you cant help but hold onto them tight every time you get jumpscared. but as the night goes on and your fingers roam... wait, what movie were you watching again?

wc: 3.3k (its alll smut guys so give me a medal)

cw: double penetration, praising, slight degradation, gojo and geto bickering, fingering, dirty talk (?) and some fun loving you're their pretty little princess. afab!reader, MDNI

an: guys look I finally posted a fic for kinktober, yay me, I hope you like it since Id say the smut on this one hits different sooo give it a chance. also only big brains will understand the fic title.

KINKTOBER M.LIST.

your best friends, gojo and geto always have a way of making you feel right at home, especially when you find yourself in your favourite spot on the couch – sandwiched between them. geto's embrace is a gentle yet possessive one, his arms wrapped around you in a tender hold that radiates warmth, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your lower back.

to your side, gojo's long limbs seamlessly entwine with yours. your legs stretch over to meet him, creating an intimate tangle of limbs. his fingers trail leisurely up and down your thighs, their teasing caresses sending delightful shivers through your body. it's a familiar and electric sensation that's become an unspoken language among the three of you—one that hasn’t fully been enacted upon… yet.

"i don't know why you insist we watch this movie every year," geto complains, his gaze locked onto his b est friend, a playful frustration in his tone. "you're so predictable."

"oh, don't be a bore," gojo retorts, matching geto's glare before shifting his attention down to you. his voice is laced with mischief as he speaks to you. "you find it fun, don't you?" 

“what? do i like crappy slashers from the 80s with big titted damsels running from a shitly costumed killer?” you deadpan, your sarcasm evident. you could feel the vibration from geto as he lowly chuckles. gojo’s face forms a pout that prompts you to quickly add, “but i love them.”

gojo’s pout transforms into a triumphant grin as your admission earns you a playful nudge from him. “that’s my girl,” he exclaims, giving your thigh an excited rub as he turns on the movie.

geto, still chuckling softly, leans in closer. “well, i suppose if toru enjoys it, we can endure it one more time.” his words carry a hint of tenderness, his arm around you tightening ever so slightly, puling you closer into his embrace.                                                                            

you watch the movie in a comfortable silence, the only noise coming from the tv and gojo's oddly placed screams that you've come to expect every year. his over-the-top reactions to jump scares and gruesome scenes never fail to amuse you, and it's a source of endless entertainment for both you and geto.

geto, on the other hand, watches the movie with a more stoic expression, occasionally shaking his head at the implausible plot twists and unrealistic gore. His hand continues to rest on your thigh, his fingers now tracing soothing patterns as if to counterbalance the tension on the screen.

as the movie progresses, you notice how both gojo and geto steal glances at you when they think you're not looking, as their innocent touches progress into heavy petting. but there's a moment where you all pause, their movements stop, and you all look at each other as the loud sounds of exaggerated moans blare from the screen.

“i always forget this scene is in there,” gojo lies, with a snicker, an appreciative smile forming on his face as he watches the scene.gojo's arm remains draped around your shoulders, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm, while geto's touch has grown increasingly intimate, his hand resting on your hip, his thumb making slow, deliberate circles.

“oh don’t bullshit satoru,” geto accuses, taking his hand off of you for a second to send a jab into gojo’s side, “i know you’re getting off on watching this ditzy blonde getting laid.”

“not true,” gojo retorts childishly, “i think there’s better sights to get off on, isn’t that right?” he finishes casting his eyes, not so subtly, over to you.

“well i can’t lie and say the sights aren’t… appealing,” geto grins his hands coming back on you, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“you two are such guys,” you laugh, trying to remain nonchalant even though on the inside the pace of your heart was quickening, and every touch of their fingers sends jolts straight to your core. “you’re focusing on the wrong things here.”

“and what should we be focusing on here?” geto murmurs at you, you couldn’t see his face but you knew a smirk was plastered across it. his challenge hangs in the air as you pause, hesitating as you scan the room, your eyes meeting gojo’s trying to gauge if they are thinking what you are. geto can sense your hesitation as he feels your breathing still as you lean against him, so he pulls his finger under your chin turning your head to face him. “let us focus on you, come here.”

you lean in, his lips enclosing on yours in a deep kiss, you turn your body almost straddling him so you could get better access. his tongue enters your mouth, as his hands work down your body, and as the kiss intensifies, you’re aware of gojo’s gaze on you. you extend an inviting hand toward him, flashing him a smile as you pull away from geto and set your lips on your other friend.

gojo groans as your lips work with his, and his hands go straight into his pants, fisting his dick that has been hard all night just at the sight of you. geto cascades kisses down your neck as he starts to pull your shirt up off of you, you gasp at the feeling of both of their hands and lips all over you.

“h-how long have you two been planning this one then, huh?” you grin, a laugh escaping through your moans, as you let geto get rid of your shirt, assisting gojo with taking off your pants. 

“how long have we known you?” geto responds rhetorically, and gojo nod in agreement, as they both take off their jogging bottoms, leaving you all sitting on the couch in your underwear. there is no more hesitation, or uncertainty between you three—you all know exactly what you want.

“so who gets to have me first?” you joke, your eyes darting between the two of them, their lustful eyes are unmistakable as they stare at your body, their dicks straining against their boxers ready to be suffocated by your tight pussy.

“i get to!” gojo sputters out quickly, but he’s not as swift as geto who’s already pulled you back onto him, his fingers pushing into you without any warning. your mouth parts, as you let out a whine, as his long digits give your pussy fast, relentless strokes, he adds another finger, smirking as your body buckles against his. “hey no fair!” gojo pouts, side eyeing geto, but he can’t help biting his lip as he hears your cunt squelch everytime his best friend shoves his fingers into it.

“don’t worry, ‘toru,” geto reassures, his fingers curling up into you before he pulls it out swiftly, spreading your pussy apart and giving gojo a knowing look, “there’s room for the both of us.”

gojo eagerly drives his fingers into you from behind, his body pressing against yours as he charges your fingers into you. your moans increase as you feel a flurry of digits explore your pussy, gojo’s hand grips on his shoulder and geto hand holds your waist as they both tug your body back and forth in an attempt to get you closer to them.

“s-shit” you cry out, as you clench around their fingers, trying to keep them inside of you. you grind down against both of their fingers, your whimpers encouraging them to twist and push their fingers deeper into you.

“you see how much of a mess she gets for us?” geto asks gojo with a low chuckle, and gojo nods, smiling as the wetness of your pussy allows for his fingers to slide into you with ease, “press down on her clit. hard.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” gojo mutters, but he does it anyway. his thumb going straight to your clit, pushing down on it, smirking as you groan your back arching right into him. 

“see i told you,” geto chimes, laughing as gojo glares at him. geto’s focus shifts to you, as he pulls his fingers out of you, bringing them to your mouth, he holds your chin, placing his thumb on your bottom lip as he raises his eyebrows at you for permission. you nod lazily, opening your mouth, accepting two of his fingers —which are drenched in your juices. “‘toru, you gonna finish her off for me.”

gojo smirks, his fingers working in overdrive, as he adds another digit inside of you and you could feel yourself about to release. geto can tell you're close from the way you bite down on his fingers. “you close? you gonna cum on satoru’s fingers as you taste yourself?”

you couldn’t even respond, as your cum sprays all over gojo’s fingers and geto’s stomach. the boys both smirk at each other, as they hear your high pitched moans and see heaps of your cum spilling out of your pussy running down your thighs. gojo is in awe, his fingers still remain in you and he pushes them up lazily, trying to keep you plugged with your cum. you relax onto his fingers, letting him do as he pleases, as you try and catch your breath your body slumping onto geto’s.

“you did so well,” geto praises in his air, lifting up your head off your chest, pecking your lips softly. “you took both of our fingers letting us stretch your tight pussy, it felt good didn’t it?” 

“y-yeah it felt so good sugu,” you sigh, turning your head to face gojo, as you pull him closer into you, “you both felt so good.”

“you wanna let us stuff you further?” gojo questions eagerly, his hard dick resting on your ass, as rocks against you.

“satoru,” geto reprimands, shaking his head at his friends over excitement. but gojo shoots him a look shrugging as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, practically inhaling you.

“but suguru, she wants us both to stuff her,” he argues, as fingers already go back to your sobbing cunt. “you want that dont you?” he whispers, directly in your ear, slowly coaxing your pussy with soft strokes as he murmurs in your ear. “you want me and sugu to shove our dicks right up your pussy, together.”

“i don’t know if i can…” you hesitate, your voice faltering, but you pull your lip between your teeth, closing your eyes as you think about taking both of them.

“c’mon pretty girl,” geto persuades you, forcing you to open your eyes and look at the teasing smirk on your face, “don’t think we don’t know how slutty you can be. you know your greedy little cunt take both of us with ease, and you want it to, don't you?” you nod your head slowly in agreement, but geto shakes his, “no, we need to hear you say it. use your words. tell us what you want.”

“i want your dicks to stuff my pussy,” you admit, feeling your confidence grow as the smirk on geto’s face widens and you can hear gojo lowly growl in your ear. “i need it.”

“well we have to give our girl what she wants, right sugu?” gojo taunts, pulling you off of gojo and onto his lap, his dick slaps against your pussy. “suguru got to see your pretty face, before, so this time you’re all mine, okay?” gojo says to you, and you could hear geto kiss his teeth, but he obliges letting gojo have his way this time. 

“you ready for me?” gojo asks, waiting for your approval as he lifts you up slightly over his dick, he even looks over to geto he leans back against the couch, with his dick in his hand. you don’t even answer gojo, sliding down onto gojo as you moan together.

geto fists his dick at the sight, “go on satoru, fuck her,” he orders, his strokes increasing as he watches as gojo begin to thrust into you. your hands press down on gojo’s shoulder’s as you start to bounce on him, you lean forward whining straight in his ear, causing him fuck you harder.

gojo plays with your bra strap, pulling it and letting it release against your shoulder, “i don’t know why you’ve still got this on,” he complains, as brings his hands to the clasp of your bra, undoing it. your tits bounce as he pulls off your bra, and both boys smile at the sight. gojo’s fingers pull against both of your nipples, twisting and pulling at them causing you to cry at every tug. “so sensitive,” he mutters to himself, touching your tits inquisitively as he continues to toy with them, loving how with every touch your cries grow louder.

“it’s crazy how we stretched you so well earlier, but your pussy is still tight as fuck,” gojo comments, his words punctuated with every thrust. “i had all my fingers inside of you already, but your cock hungry cunt just can’t seem to get enough.”

“is he fucking you good?” geto calls, feeling himself about to cum, as he rubs against his dick hard. you look over to him and smile, nodding quickly as you wrap your hands around gojos neck, clinging to him as his dick drives into you. geto stands up, coming up behind you pressing a kiss on your neck, “you need me to help get you off?”

“she doesn’t need anything from you, i’m doing just fine,” gojo mumbles, but he lets you slightly raise up off of his dick and he smirks as he feels geto join him, geto’s dick presses against gojo in excitement as they wait in anticipation for you to enclose them with your pussy. 

“don’t be nervous,” geto coos from behind you, nipping at your ear. you look at gojo and he gives you an encouraging nod, and you slide back down onto them hissing in slight pain as you feel them both enter you. “it’s okay pretty, you’re doing so so well,” geto continues to reassure you, pressing soothing kisses down your neck, his lips sucking at your flesh. you all pause as you fully take them both in, and you feel the pain subside smiling at gojo giving him permission to move. 

geto follows suit, and you all move in tandem, fucking against each other. gojo places his hands on your ass, pushing your cheeks in pace with his movements whereas geto’s hands cup your tits, holding them firmly as he spreads his fingers over your nipples, rolling them.

“fu-fuck you two are too big, you can’t” you whine, clawing against gojo’s chest. they were both drilling into you relentlessly, you couldn’t catch your breath as every second you were being double stuffed with dick. tears spring to your eyes, as you cry out in pleasure, grinding down against them trying to get as much as them as possible. 

“if only you could see how slutty our girl looks,” gojo says to geto, as he watches your head fall back, another moan escaping your lips. “her eyes are all glossed over, she’s fucking crying, all slutted out on our dicks right now.”

“is that so?” geto mutters, he forces himself into you deeper, his back hitching up against yours, his clench on your tits tightening as he inches himself in your pussy, his hips slapping against you. “she’s such a good slut, i knew she’d be able to take us well, and look she’s loving it, already creaming all over us, isn’t that baby?”

you nod, your hand coming up to hold geto’s head as he nestles into your neck. you were losing your train of thought, you wanted to tell them how good they felt, how their dicks rubbing against each other in you was all you needed for the rest of you life, but when you open your mouth all that can leave your lips is incoherent words and moans. 

both of them smile, watching as you come undone on their dicks. gojo gives geto a nod, and their hands trade places. gojos fingers coming back to your tits, rubbing and pushing them apart before lowering his head to your chest, nuzzling your boobs. gojo and geto were so close that some things between them didn’t need to be spoken, and they were so close to you that they knew your body in and out. they knew when to push and pull, and where to suck just to get you cumming their lap.

“i’m s-so close, i’m gonna cu—” you try and speak out, but your mind is too far gone for you to finish. their dicks slip out of you as your bounces become sloppy, the pleasure too much for you but geto forces you back muttering reassurance in your neck. and the sudden contact causes you to cum, you release all over both them, but they don’t stop their movements, their dicks driving into you still, pushing back in all the cum you were letting out.

“satoru, we gonna give our girl one final stuffing?” geto prompts, and gojo nods, they both give you one final push and you could feel your pussy stretch as their cum sprays your walls. you wail out, the tears streaming your face as your body jerks forward, feeling their dicks go limp inside of you as you all pant in pleasure.

“that was fucking amazing,” gojo praises, a blissful smile on his face as he leans back his head resting on his arms. you return his smile, your lips meeting his in a quick kiss, that he groans at as you pull away. you come off his dick slowly, all of your eyes staring at the ropes of cum that immediately spill out of your pussy as he unplugs you. 

geto turns your head to face him, his dick still lodged deeply inside of you, he pulls you into a long kiss, his mouth smothering yours. he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, roughly biting down on it before releasing you, his hand cupping your chin, forcing you to stare up at him “you’re mine, my pretty slutty mess.”

“um she’s ours,” gojo chimes in, but geto shrugs, not caring to listen to your other friend. geto, finally pulls you off his dick, and your pussy clenches around nothing, already missing the feeling of their dicks.

“you too always know to take good care of me,” you exhale, exhausted your pussy sore about being stretched open by the two of them. geto pulls you back into his original hold, leaning back against his chest, and your legs stretch over gojo’s lap. but this time instead of innocent gentle touches, geto’s hands lazily tug at your nipples, and gojo caresses your naked thighs, his fingers flicking at your clit every now and again.

“that’s what friends are for,” geto muses, pressing his lips against your cheek before saying, “now satoru, are you gonna press play on this shitty movie or what?”

AN: ight so there you have it my FIRST FIC of kinktober, what do you guys think I need to hear all your thoughts since Ooooof this took me so long to write. so I hope it is worth it. also if you see my bias towards geto during this then LOOK AWAY, im sorry gojo stans but im a geto lover foreverrr. but yeahhh lmk ur thoughts stay tuned for my other kink tober fics which WILL be on time I promise smooches.

[goobstars]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘

summary : when ragatha's suggestion of a softball game comes into play, you find yourself befriending a player on the opposing team—evil jax—without the knowledge that your jax was watching from afar.

tags : romance, reader & jax are dating, no maid outfit jax just to spite you all, jealousy, censored profanity, and violence.

note : this was a request from mistycomma, so i hope you enjoy, and thank you for the request!

you found it funny.

everyone was up against evil versions of themselves—minus you and gangle, for some reason. though, you weren't really complaining.

as the field was getting set up—the evil versions taking their places—you couldn't help but just find the whole thing amusing. evil ragatha just laughed a whole lot while talking in an odd accent, evil pomni seemed more relaxed while cursing every now and then, evil kinger—or coach dictatorer—did nothing but shout, and you didn't even know what was going on with bazooble.

yet, the one you found most hilarious of all? evil jax.

could you even call him evil? the boy seemed incredibly shy and antsy, and he always had one hand gripping his arm while he looked around.

you leaned against the bench—sitting beside jax as you continued to examine the evil versions of everybody.

kinger was giving a quick peptalk to everyone, and while it made no sense, you could tell he was just trying to hype everyone up. you nodded at his words before you heard someone clear their throat.

you peered up from kinger and noticed evil jax was standing at the bars of the dugout.

"h-hey, guys. i-i hope we all have a fun game, no matter who ends up winning."

you gifted evil jax a smile, "good luck out there." the boy gave you a nervous smile back before walking away, and you looked up at jax once you noticed his quietness.

jax's eyes darted towards you, then back at evil jax before his eyes narrowed in disgust. "i wanna kill that guy."

"why? he's sweet!" your words only made jax mumbled incoherent things as kinger called ragatha to the field, and you smiled at her once she waved at you before going onto the field.

jax only wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and he shot a scowl at evil jax once he noted the boy gifting you glances.

he leaned in closer as your eyes remained on ragatha while she batted, and he slightly nudged your head with his own.

when you didn't respond, he nuzzled into your shoulder. it got a slight reaction out of you as you leaned your head onto his, but he wanted more of a reaction. he wanted you to pay attention to him and not the game that had that stupid evil jax in it.

you continued to watch the game as you witnessed ragatha hit the ball right into pomni's glove, but before you could make a comment about the loss, you felt jax nip your neck.

"what are you doing?"

your question got no reply as he only pushed his head more into your shoulder, and you didn't know what to do. you didn't know why he was acting like this, and you certainly didn't know what to do about it.

"[name], you're up next!"

you pulled away from jax as soon as kinger announced that you were up, and you watched him slightly frown at your actions. yet, you didn't have time to acknowledge them as you were handed a bat and sent out to the field—rubbing your neck with your free hand.

jax stood up from the bench as he walked over to the bars, and he gripped them as he watched you play.

you were a bit far from where he was, so he couldn't hear you much, but all he knew was that you were talking to evil jax. the boy would say something and you would laugh—which resulted in you missing the hit. why were you joking with him? he was on the opposing team, and there was no way he was that funny to where you would miss the ball.

jax watched as you swung again, and when you missed, he swore he heard evil jax say that you were doing good. why was he being so nice? why couldn't he just shut up and leave you alone?

when it was your final swing, you actually managed to focus this time, but you still missed.

despite the fact you didn't get a single hit, evil jax clapped and cheered you on, and only irritated jax more.

since you had struck out, you walked over to the other side of the dugout, and evil jax followed you.

why was he following you?

jax gripped the bars of the dugout as he scowled at evil jax, and he watched as the boy leaned over the bars to talk to you.

and you were happily talking back.

why were you talking to that guy when jax wasn't that far from you? why did you walk over to the other side of the dugout? did you want to talk to that guy?

"why do you look so bothered?" the sound of zooble's voice made jax roll his eyes as he continued to watch you talk to evil jax, and zooble seemed to catch onto his gaze as they watched as well. "evil jax is a whole lot nicer than you, huh?"

"no, he's just a coward who doesn't know when to mind his own buisness." jax's words were sharp, and zooble let out an airy scoff before crossing their arms. "you know, you weren't acting like this until he started talking to [name]..."

"so what?" jax snapped back, but when he let go of the bar and turned to face zooble, he was met with the sight of them leaning forward on the bench with an eyebrow raised.

"are you jealous?" zooble's words were filled with taunt, and jax's face only flushed as he glared at them. "I AM NOT JEALOUS!"

his pupils were scrambled while he stared at evil jax, and zooble hummed. "i don't think i've ever seen you this bothered before..."

jax only ignored their words once kinger announced that it was his turn to bat, and he harshly grabbed the bat out of kinger's hands as he made his way onto the field.

he noted the way you waved at evil jax before the boy walked back to his spot on the field, and for some reason, that only bothered jax even more. why was he so bothered by this? it's not like you were interested in that guy.

right?

his hands gripped the bat tighter as he took his stance, and he narrowed his eyes at bazooble. "let's see what you're made of!"

bazooble's words made jax's eye twitch, "SHUT UP!"

"i-it's okay! i think you'll do great!"

the sound of evil jax's voice made jax's head snap towards the boy, "I WANT YOU DEAD!"

his gaze flickered towards you, and he noticed how your eyes were wide from his words.

"strike one!"

jax narrowed his eyes before he realized bazooble had thrown the ball, and he frowned. "COME ON, JAX!"

kinger's shout only made him roll his eyes before he slightly lifted the bat, and he lazily swung the bat.

oddly enough, he hit the ball, but it didn't go in front of him. instead, it went behind him, and a large centipede in the crowd caught it.

which it then ate the ball.

"huh, i guess there's no more ball—we're done."

as jax trudged back to the dugout despite kinger's worried shouts for him to go back, but jax just handed the bat to zooble before walking over to you.

you could hear him grumble a few things underneath his breath before he plopped down beside you, "are you okay?"

"i'm fine." jax snapped at you, and you only blinked at him a few times before standing up from the bench. his ears slightly moved down as he straightened up his back, "where are you going?"

"you seem annoyed, so i'm going to give you some space and go talk to evil jax for a minute while they try to find a ball—"

you felt his hand grasp your wrist before pulling you back down on the bench, and he wrapped his arms around your waist. "no."

"why not?"

"because he's annoying and i'm gonna kill him."

"jax, it'll only be for a second—"

thump.

your words were cut off as jax tensed up, and he pushed you away while you eyed his leg. "did—did you just thump at me?"

he looked away from you, and you felt a smile cross your lips once you took everything into consideration.

the nudging, nipping, and thumping gave it all away.

"you're jealous." you teased him while his face heavily flushed, and his eyes flickered towards you in a glare. "i am not."

you only raised your eyebrows at his words, and you slightly scooted away before hearing that noise again.

thump.

his glare only harshened as you let out a laugh, yet your laughter was cut off once he wrapped an arm around your waist before he hid his face in your shoulder. "shut up."

you let out a quiet sigh before placing a kiss against his cheek, and you felt him relax against you.

you watched as ragatha went up to bat again, which confused you, but you didn't even know if you could call it her 'batting' due to the fact bazooble was laying on the ground for some reason.

"ANOTHER HOME RUN!" caine announced, "THAT CONCLUDES THE GAME!"

ragatha looked at caine in confusion, and his words honestly made you even more perplexed too.

yet, when jax shifted his head against your shoulder, your confusion vanished.

the opposing team griped about how they lost while evil ragatha quite literally melted upon losing, but while they were doing that, you felt jax lift his head from your neck with dialated pupils.

"i'm not a vegan anymore."

you watched as jax hastily shot up from the bench before dashing back onto the field, and you were confused as to what he was doing before you noticed him heading straight towards evil jax.

the boy waved at jax before his face was filled with fear, and you heard screams erupt from him once jax bit him and started shaking him around.

you only leaned your elbows against your knees as you placed your face in your hands, and a quiet sigh left your throat while you watched the scene.

as odd as jax was, you loved that boy.

and it made you happy knowing that he loved you back.

[mehrfh]

Some thoughts, until next time!

It will be a while before I come back to Tumblr but I should be thankful to that Instagram reel of Jinmao that introduced me to this masterclass in storytelling....I devoured the source material and loved everything about the anime...As the second season wraps up with end of an important arc and end of certain characters we will either not see for the foreseeable future or will be relegated to the periphery, next few arcs are about some new characters and some of the characters in two seasons getting more screen space than they had (read Lahan and Rikuson)....I had some thoughts and I am going to share them until next time, this will be kind of my last long post for now...

Friendship, Betrayal, Uncertainty and Fate's gamble...

For me, despite the clamour of last few episodes, these bonds meant friendship and I will be leaving thoughts accordingly... And I will not try to make it about Shisui only (I have spoken enough on her)....These two were MaoMao's some of the most precious of bonds...Shisui and Xiaolan gave MaoMao space to be herself without any obstacle of her upsetting a superior, she did not have to care about her station in front of these two... Moreover, they accepted her for her talents and quirks...They were truly precious, safe and non-judgmental like a friendship is supposed to be....So the hurt was piercing when it all came crashing down....

A friend's betrayal and another friend's loss cut a soul like MaoMao deep because the love was deep... Xiaolan and Shisui had made MaoMao realise she had a support system to rely on and they were in this together, for such bonds to meet such uncertain ends where MaoMao is not even sure if she will ever see them again (Shisui because we know and Xiaolan given she never knows the address of where she went)...Fate was cruel to these three, more so for Shisui, as she was pushed to the brink...I hope their innocent revelries had not met such a twisted end...

Kindness as an Eternal Principle

I cannot put in words how much this scene moved me...Jinshi, for me showed a glimpse of a really noble ruler knowing his subjects too well, given the way he gently broke news of children surviving to Suirei...And Suirei, my precious one, suffered like hell and to see her finally getting some good news was such a moving and relieving scene...To know that she was initially represented as a cold-cutting character, her unraveling as an abuse victim and her beautiful bond with Shisui was so deeply moving.....I love how one main thing common between Jinshi and MaoMao remains their kindness for other people 's suffering...The way it makes them understand even most dangerous of people (narratively speaking)...This moment is perfect encapsulation of Jinshi's kindness as he is literally dealing with a former assassin who made a very dangerous attempt on his life and was involved in various other fatal incidents at the rear palace! There is a reason I put him on a pedestal!

:)

Love as Poetry in War and Peace...

You would think Love is not there, you may bite, argue, apply vague and poorly defined filters and parameters, call people on their side every kind of name but no matter what you do or say, some stories are bound by Poetry of their time...Kind of Love that doesn't betray you at the altar of politics, kind of Love where reverence by someone is like getting a second chance at living... Love that is whispered in the air, it straddles in subtle moments...Love that grows, and fulfills... It doesn't need noise, or fireworks, to register....Love that nurtures and waits for other with incredible patience...Love that becomes yearning, angst and even anger but not betrayal, never betrayal...

Love as Reverence, as Poetry, Love as between Moon and Earth...

Bereave the Past

But Future is smiling!

Lastly, What is the Cost of Politics?

Everything....