#Instead of three very real and normal words

[sapphicstrawcore]

—Hot Line (firefighter sevika x reader)

chapter 1 - next

synopsis: You’re fast asleep in your comfy little apartment, when the building fire alarm rips you from slumber like a personal attack. Groggy, annoyed, and barefoot, you stumble outside with the rest of your neighbors, expecting a false alarm and nothing more

What you don’t expect? A real fire. And an even realer firefighter—tall, broad-shouldered, absolutely gorgeous, and of course it’s her you choose to ask if you can go back to your home safe.

words: 2.2k (masterlist)

cw: meet-cute, slow burn, girls kissing/making-out, sexual tension, curious hands, fluff and crack. We’re going to horny jail, better touch grass

! comment to be tagged in next chapter !

You wake up to the ear-splitting screech of the fire alarm like it owes you money.

One second you’re dreaming peacefully about a stupid story that makes no sense, and the next—you’re blinking in the red glow of your bedroom alarm light, heart pounding like you just committed arson yourself.

“Damn,” you mutter, groaning as you swing your legs out of bed.

The room is cold. Too cold for your stupid little cotton nightgown, the one with the lace trim you swore you’d only wear for yourself and God. But whatever. You’re not thinking straight, not with the alarm still wailing like a banshee on fire.

You shove your feet into the first shoes you find by the door.

Combat boots. Good. Cute. Functional.

A tragic pairing with the nightgown, but you’re not in the mood to curate a fire-evacuation lookbook.

Out in the hallway, a few other residents are doing the same walk of shame—half-asleep, confused, wrapped in robes or dragging blankets like dramatic ghosts. You all shuffle down the stairs in a quiet, shared misery.

The air outside is biting, and you wince as the night air hits your legs. The boots weren’t a bad idea, actually. Your neighbors gather in loose clusters on the sidewalk, exchanging annoyed looks and whispered complaints. You squint up at the building.

And that’s when you see it.

Actual flames.

Real, orange, moving fire flickering through the window of old Mrs. Donnelly’s apartment on the second floor.

Your mouth falls open. “Wow.”

Mrs. Donnelly isn’t even in the country. She left three weeks ago and swore she’d be back with questionable wine. There’s no reason her apartment should be doing… that.

Before you can process anything else, a big, warm shape appears in front of you. A firefighter—tall, serious, and clearly used to dealing with confused people in weird pajamas—drapes a yellow emergency blanket over your shoulders like it’s totally normal for you to be out here half-dressed at 2AM.

“It’s just procedure,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod dumbly. “Sure. Thanks. Procedure. Okay.” You smile politely, but the man doesn’t get the time to see it before walking away to his duty.

You sit down on the edge of the fire truck because your legs are cold and honestly, you don’t know what else to do. You watch the glow of the fire through the second-floor window, blanket tucked around you like you’re camping in hell.

You’ve been sitting on the edge of the fire truck for what feels like forever, legs swinging absently, the cold biting at your knees even with the yellow blanket still around your shoulders. Most of the building’s lights are back on now. A few neighbors have returned inside. One of the firefighters gives the all-clear to an older man wrapped in a bathrobe, and you start to wonder if maybe it’s safe for you to crawl back into your sad little bed and pretend this never happened.

But instead of waiting, you hop down from your perch—boots hitting pavement with a soft thud—and you walk over to one of the firewomen standing near the truck. The blanket around your shoulders shifts, and you clutch it tighter on instinct, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you must look—wrapped in yellow polyester like a very sad burrito in combat boots.

She’s tall. Tall enough that you have to tip your head back slightly to look at her face. Her jacket’s unzipped just enough to see the dark tee beneath it, and her sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing a strong arm dusted with ash and soot and a mech one. She looks like she walked out of a calendar made specifically to ruin lives, not save them.

You swallow, smile, and try not to stare too hard.

You clear your throat gently. “Evening.”

Her eyes flick to yours. There’s a pause. Then, in a voice like smoke and gravel:

“Evening, ma’am.”

You blink.

Oh.

Okay.

You weren’t expecting the ma’am. Or the low rasp. Or the fact that she says it without an ounce of sarcasm—just calm professionalism, like she doesn’t notice the way you’re standing there in a nightgown and combat boots like some kind of unhinged fairy tale character.

“I just—” You gesture toward the building with one hand. “Wanted to ask if everything’s alright now? If I can head back in? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to, like… break protocol or something.”

Her brow lifts slightly, amused.

You swear you see the corners of her mouth twitch—just a bit—as she gives you a slow once-over. Not rude. Just observant. Curious. Like she’s trying to make sense of this nightgown-clad puzzle who showed up at her fire scene like it’s totally normal to be this adorable and mildly flustered.

“You always wear boots with a nightgown?” she asks, dry but not unkind.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

You immediately look down, suddenly so aware of your chaotic outfit. The emergency blanket doesn’t help. You grab at the edge of it, fidgeting without thinking.

“I forgot I was still wrapped in this thing,” you say with a soft, flustered laugh. “Sorry, you must think I’m completely—”

Before you can finish, she steps forward—not close, but enough to bridge the space between you—and lifts the blanket clean out of your hands.

“I’ll take that,” she says, smooth as anything.

You go quiet, watching as she turns slightly and drapes it over the open ledge of the truck behind her. She doesn’t miss a beat. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Name’s Sevika,” she says when she turns back, meeting your eyes. Confident. Solid. Like she knows her name sounds good coming out of her mouth.

Of course it does.

You swallow and nod, smiling despite yourself.

“Sevika,” you say again, immediately regretting it. “Wow. Sorry. I—uh— my name, yes.”

That smirk returns. The brow lifts just a little higher. She doesn’t press. Just waits.

You tell her your name this time, correctly, and she nods once.

“Nice to meet you.”

You feel warm. Still slightly ridiculous. But her voice is steady, her eyes are dark and calm, and even though she’s clearly got a job to do, she hasn’t walked away yet.

Sevika shifts her weight, glancing briefly toward the building, then back to you.

“You’re good to head in,” she says. “We’ve cleared everything. Just keep your windows open for a bit. Air the place out.”

You nod. “Got it. Windows. Air. Okay.”

She doesn’t move right away. Her eyes linger on you for a second too long, and then—just as she turns slightly, like she’s about to step away—she throws it in, so casually you almost miss it:

“Sleep tight, Miss Nightgown.”

You freeze mentally.

Heat rushes straight to your face like someone lit you on fire. You try to play it cool—you do—but the smile that pulls at your lips is instant and completely helpless. You laugh, soft and embarrassed, eyes dropping to the ground before darting back up to her face.

“That’s not gonna stick, is it?”

Sevika just smirks, one eyebrow raised again like that’s an answer in itself. You’re pretty sure that’s her default expression and also your new religion.

Not to be too dramatic, of course.

Your cheeks are burning. Your heart’s doing something completely uncool in your chest. But you still nod, still somehow manage words.

“Okay then,” you say, backing up a half step, giving a little awkward wave. “Good night. Goodbye. I mean.” You blink. Panic.

“Jesus. Alright. Bye.”

And then you turn. Walk away. Definitely not fast. Definitely not running. Even if you want to. Just… leaving. Like a normal human who wasn’t just flirted with by a hot firefighter while standing in boots and a literal nightie.

You’re halfway across the sidewalk when you hear it—faint, under her breath, but unmistakable:

A quiet chuckle.

That night, after you manage to get back inside and shed your smoke-scented dignity at the door, you crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling for a full minute before reaching for your phone.

You don’t text about the fire. You completely forget about the fire.

Instead, you send your best friend a single, life-altering message:

A firewoman named Sevika just called me Miss Nightgown.

A follow-up comes exactly two seconds later:

She was like 6ft tall and hot and said ma’am and smirked at me. She wants me.

Your friend replies immediately with twenty-seven capital letters, several selfies of her screaming, and a helpful “go back outside and fake a fainting spell.” You’re tempted.

But you don’t see Sevika again.

Not that week. Not the next. Two whole weeks go by and to your ultimate, soul-destroying despair, the firefighter of your dreams seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet.

You still pass the station on your way to work. It’s not even out of the way—you just happen to take that street. That slow, steady walk past the glass windows where you may or may not slow down slightly and glance (longingly) in. No Sevika.

Once, you think you spot her—broad shoulders, a familiar ponytail—but it’s just a different firefighter. You go through all five stages of grief in under a minute.

At work, it’s easier to forget. You love your job. It’s a small, sunny café tucked between the library and the post office, and it has that cozy, well-loved feeling that draws all the best kinds of people. In the mornings, students settle in with their laptops and noise-canceling headphones. Elderly regulars read the paper and talk politics with anyone who will listen. On weekends, families flood in for pancakes and coffee and croissants that go suspiciously fast.

You know half the orders by heart. The baristas are your people. The espresso machine’s temperamental, the fan in the kitchen rattles in a terrifying way, and the register lags if you hit the wrong key—but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

It’s a slow Tuesday morning when it happens.

Today, you’re working the morning shift, dressed comfy-cute in baggy jeans, a soft cami top, and your favorite Mary Janes. Your hair’s doing that nice thing it rarely does, and you’re actually in a really good mood. You and Sana are laughing behind the counter, and you’re putting the finishing touch—cocoa powder in a soft heart shape—on a perfect cup of hot chocolate for an old woman sitting outside.

You glance up.

And then your entire soul leaves your body.

Sevika.

Walking in.

With four other firefighters, all laughing about something—one of them says something about how “you owe me a muffin, I was the one on the ladder,” and it doesn’t matter because Sevika is right there, in the middle of your café, looking terrifyingly hot in her off-duty black tee and tactical pants, like she didn’t just vanish into the ether for two weeks and leave you wondering if she was a shared hallucination.

You mentally scream.

Out loud, you say nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But your coworker sees your face—sees the way your brain visibly shuts down mid-sentence—and whips around.

“Oh my God,” she hisses under her breath. “Is that her??”

You nod mutely.

Before you can say another word, Sana suspiciously straightens up and goes, “Oh shoot—I forgot to refill the pastry counter. Give me the chocolate. You’ve got the front?”

“What? No—Sana—” you whisper.

“Thanks, love you, bye!”

And she vanishes.

You’re alone.

You take a breath. Smile. Step up to the register with the warmth of someone who’s definitely not dying inside. You can do this. Just firefighters. Plural. Whatever.

The one at the front of the group steps up to the counter.

A man. Tall, friendly face, dimples. “Hi maam,” he says. “We’ll take five coffees—three black, one with oat milk, one hot chocolate. And…” he glances back at his crew. “Uh, two muffins and one of those little lemon tarts if you’ve got any left.”

You nod, too fast. “Consider it done!”

You definitely don’t look behind him. You try not to.

But you feel it.

You feel a gaze on you. Like heat. You know it’s her.

And then—

“Miss Nightgown.”

That voice. That exact voice.

Low. Rough. Slightly teasing.

You look up slowly, controlled. You’re about to implode but no one knows that.

And there she is.

Now, she’s leaning casually near the doorway, half her weight on one leg, arms crossed, hair tied back, and smirking.

Sevika.

The man at the front pays for the order with a cheerful “thanks,” and you manage to give him a very normal, very composed wide smile, despite the heat crawling up your neck.

The group starts to move toward the seating area, boots thudding against the floor, and just as they pass Sevika—still lounging near the door—one of them lets out a low whistle.

Sevika doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. But her smirk deepens just enough to make your knees wobble.

You glance up at her again, biting the inside of your cheek to hide the grin threatening to take over your face.

“I told you my name, you know,” you say, voice playful, meaning clear.

She raises an eyebrow. Slowly. Like she’s enjoying this way too much.

“Yeah,” she says, voice low. “But Miss Nightgown suits you better.”

You feel your soul leave your body.

Somewhere behind you, you’re pretty sure you hear Sana drop something and mutter ‘Jesus Christ’ under her breath.

The other firefighters have already settled into their seats, talking among themselves, leaving Sevika alone by the counter while you—red-faced and smiling like a fool—start prepping their drinks.

You grab a cup, trying very hard not to spill as you pour. “So… how’ve you been?”

Sevika leans an elbow casually on the counter. “Busy. Fires don’t wait for polite hours.”

“Rude of them,” you say, half-laughing as you reach for another cup. “Some of us are trying to sleep in nightgowns.”

Her eyes glint. “Tragic.”

You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you—calm, confident, like she’s got all the time in the world.

Your heart is not behaving.

You hand her the first drink, your fingers brushing hers just slightly, and you almost combust on the spot. She doesn’t move away right away. Doesn’t rush off. Just lingers.

“Still wearing boots with your sleepwear?” she asks, teasing but soft.

You laugh, warm and embarrassed, shaking your head. “No, just emotional armor these days.”

She huffs out something like a chuckle. It’s quiet but real. You’re quite proud of yourself.

And then you’re pouring the oat milk one, hands moving automatically, wondering if she can see how red your face is from across the damn counter.

You hand off the last drink—carefully balanced tray in Sevika’s hands—and wipe your fingers on a napkin like it’ll help your pulse settle.

She doesn’t move.

Not yet.

“I’m not overnight today though,” she says, casually. Like it’s nothing. Like your brain isn’t already slipping out of your ears from the way she says it.

You blink. “Oh?”

She tilts her head just slightly, eyes still on you. “What time’s your shift done?”

You open your mouth, but the words stall. There’s a pause—just one heartbeat—and then you’re smiling like you can’t help it, cheeks warming fast.

“Seven,” you say, voice soft. “I close up at seven.”

Sevika just nods, like that’s what she wanted to hear. Her smirk is subtle, but it lands. Right in your chest.

“Wait for me at the station.”

She says it simple. No flourish. No unnecessary fluff. Just direct. Like it’s obvious you will.

You bite your lower lip to stop from grinning. It does nothing. Your whole face is giving you away.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

And then she turns, finally, drinks in hand, and heads back to her crew like she didn’t just drop a bomb on your day. You watch them leave—hear the bell above the café door jingle as it swings shut.

No beta read, maybe it doesn’t make much sense sometimes, sorry for that— I start to feel crazy when I spend too much time on a fic

I’m having fun with this, like there’s definitely going to be sexual tension and kinda smutty scenes but nothing spectacular ? Just enough to make us damp down there. My bad, that was the wind

The cafe part is definitely inspired from reality 🫠 there’s this police and this firefighter station next to my fav cafe I go to every week and I talked a few times with the police officers and the firefighters women… heh, lucky me 🔥

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

taglist: @lonerslug @blessupblessup @riotstemple29 @sevikasswifee @ahintofchaos @archangeldyke-all (tell me if you wanna be removed off the taglist for this fic since it’s multi chapters and you don’t wanna be updated)

[gaywifestyle]

Trust AI, they say.

AI will help you, they say.

Well, tell me, then, what the FUCK is going on with my spellcheck.

[written4u]

YOU'RE A STRANGE ONE ✴︎ LN04

Being Oscar's personal assistant is easy. However, you cannot help but think his teammate is the strangest man you've ever met.

━━━ 🔗 LN4 MASTERLIST

PAIRING.   Lando Norris x Oscar's PA!FemReader WORDS.   650 TAGS.   Fluff. NOTE.   This is just a little something I had in mind. This is more of a pairing exploration than a real one-shot. I don't know what to make of it, tbh. Do you think this couple has enough potential for a one-shot? <33

Likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

You never imagined that you'd end up working as Oscar Piastri’s personal assistant after getting your degree in communications summa cum laude.

If your parents had nearly had a heart attack upon seeing their daughter “reduced to a servant” after paying for one of the country’s most prestigious universities, you, on the other hand, had learned to bless this twist of fate.

Because it was indeed fate you had to thank for the way your life had turned out. People underestimated its power far too often, but you had come to cherish it and to welcome it back whenever it decided to reappear.

Fate made its grand entrance in your life one night in 2023, after yet another rejection from talent agencies and management firms. Internships, professional experience, glowing references—none of it seemed to matter to the big corporations. What mattered were connections, and you had none.

That night, you'd had two glasses of red wine, perhaps more, your cheeks streaked with mascara and frustration.

Fate, ironically methodical despite its name, had chosen that precise moment to show up in the form of a job listing on a website whose name you no longer remember. What you did remember, however, was how your eyes widened as you read the salary and perks.

One cover letter, three interviews later, and suddenly your life was split between racetracks, England, and Monaco.

Every day, you thanked fate for putting Oscar Piastri in your path.

He was easy to work with: a coffee without sugar in the morning, a calendar of sporadic appointments to manage—mostly concentrated on race weekends—and very few public appearances outside those. In short, a normal guy, refreshingly different from the awful clients you'd heard horror stories about since entering the strange world of celebrity.

The only blemish—though not quite that, more a curiosity you hadn’t anticipated—was that working for Oscar Piastri meant regularly crossing paths with Lando Norris.

And you didn’t quite know what to make of him, except that he was oh so very strange.

The first time he saw you, he tripped.

You hadn’t even had time to shake his hand, and Oscar hadn’t yet introduced you.

Your eyes met, the Brit blushed furiously, then went sprawling to the ground. You stood frozen before exchanging a baffled look with Oscar, who merely sighed and hauled his friend back to his feet.

The following encounters were no better.

By the third one, you concluded that Lando Norris must have some kind of speech impediment—he couldn’t seem to string two words together around you. Not even to answer simple questions like “How are you?” or “Do you know where Oscar is?”.

Instead, he’d stammer something utterly unintelligible, then vanish, leaving you to wander alone through the endless corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre in search of Oscar.

And now… now he stared. All the time. Without saying a word. You had never felt more awkward in your life.

Even now, you couldn’t escape those green eyes, burning hotter than the Bahrain sun. The McLaren garage was buzzing as the race neared, yet Lando remained still in one corner, eyes locked on you.

Too busy fetching cold towels and water bottles to cool Oscar down, you had ignored him at first. But now that the Australian had his towels, his bottle, his headphones, and his phone, there was nothing left to keep you distracted.

You finally looked up. Your gaze met Lando’s just as he took a sip of water.

Startled, he choked, spraying water all over his engineer—who shouted something you couldn’t quite catch. Lando floundered through an apology, cheeks crimson.

Your eyes met again.

He smiled—sheepishly, like it hurt—and turned around.

Before walking straight into a wall.

You frowned, shook your head and turned your attention back to the race schedule.

Yes. Lando Norris was definitely the strangest man you had ever met.

[takaraphoenix]

My favorite part about GIF making is taking apart the interactions. Really getting to see moments that are over in the blink of an eye and overthinking them in my head.

I adore the parking garage scene, like probably every Steter shipper. There are so many good moments here, some big ones that have been rotating in my brain on repeat but also smaller ones that I had missed because they were over so quickly.

The following is a mix of both. Just everything about the parking garage that brings me joy, with running commentary that would be too much in the finished GIF set.

Why are you leaning against him, Stiles? Why is your arm on Peter? He just kidnapped you and is currently showing you the dead body of his nurse, why are you leaning against his shoulder?

Did you have to lean real close to whisper into his ear, Peter? Was that necessary? While you already had him bend over a car?

I'll never get over the sassy eyebrow and the exasperated eyeroll. What kind of exchange is this, in a hostage situation.

Yes, Peter, we know this and we love your for this.

The fact that Peter not only offers the bite, instead of forcing it, but that he goes out of his way to explain to Stiles that it could indeed kill him is something that has me in a vice grip.

Just the visual of them holding hands <3 Very important, needs to be included here <3

THREE TIMES. He asks for consent three times. He asks if Stiles wants the bite, when Stiles is too baffled to react, he asks again, and then when he has Stiles' wrist so close to his teeth, he asks a third time.

And when Stiles doesn't verbally reply, he keeps staring at him for multiple moments, making eye-contact with Stiles to check if he is declining, before he even just drops his fangs.

I just can't stress enough that this happens directly after we find his dead nurse in the trunk of his car, right after he had mauled Lydia and left her on the lacrosse field. He kills and maims and hurts uncaring, but he asks for consent, repeatedly, and when he is rejected, he allows it. Because he's a werewolf, he just bent Stiles' metal keys like they were made of paper; if he didn't allow it then Stiles wouldn't have been able to pull free from his grip.

And the face of disappointment and rejection after. Absolutely kills me.

But he accepts it and just... leaves Stiles, completely unharmed.

And this is Stiles' reaction to him leaving and it also kills me. Because Stiles audibly gasps, and he jerks forward, like he wants to stop Peter, opening his mouth to speak but closing it before saying a word.

How was I ever supposed to be normal about this ship...?

[cressidagrey]

The Mysterious Mrs Piastri - The "Canon" Version

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

Notes:

Hi! This is the reworked version of the "The mysterious Mrs. Piastri". No worries! The original is still there. The problem is, that I wrote that piece originally as a stand alone.

There was never supposed to be Bee. There was never even supposed to be Felicity, because it was originally supposed to be a reader insert.

There was never supposed to be a sequel, which is why there is a lot of social media stuff in the original that's very out of character for Felicity, but I used back then to flesh out the "character" more because again, there was never supposed to be sequel.

So here it is: The new and "improved" version:

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Lando relaxed. This one was easy. Surely Oscar would say tattoo. Maybe he’d joke about getting “downforce” written across his bicep in cursive. Something normal.

Instead, Oscar said, calm as ever, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

Lando choked.

He choked.

His drink shot out of his mouth like a missile. “YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned to him, eyebrows creased in confusion. “What? No.”

And then it happened.

Lando watched, in real-time, as his brain caught up with Oscar’s words. “Wait.” His voice cracked. “WAIT.”

He stood up. Actually stood up. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Oscar just nodded. Calm. Chill. Like he’d just announced what time breakfast was, not that his entire personal life was something Lando apparently had zero clue about.

Lando was spiraling. “WHAT?”

Even the interviewer sat forward, sensing blood in the water. “Wait—married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar looked almost offended by the clarification. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands flew to his head. His whole worldview was crumbling. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged like they were discussing tire strategy. “A while now.”

Lando looked to the crowd for help. The crowd was screaming. Phones were recording. PR was probably out back crying.

“I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend!” Lando yelled.

Oscar squinted at him. “You know that.”

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT.” Lando was full-blown shrieking now. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oscar just shrugged again, that same infuriating calm on his face. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando’s soul left his body. “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!”

The interviewer was thriving. “We need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar, ever consistent: “Since we were fifteen.”

Lando wheezed. “FIFTEEN?!” He sounded like he was being personally attacked. Oscar nodded like that was a normal answer.

“Where did you meet?”

Oscar blinked. “School?”

Lando turned to the audience, pointing like he needed witnesses. “Look at this guy! Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course!”

“When did you get married?” the interviewer asked, beaming like she’d just uncovered the next great F1 scandal.

Oscar: “When I was eighteen.”

The crowd erupted. Lando clutched his chest. “EIGHTEEN?! WHY?!”

Oscar: “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

Lando physically recoiled. “What, like… straight out of high school?!”

“Not straight out,” Oscar said thoughtfully. “We waited.”

“How long is a bit, Oscar?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Three weeks after graduation?”

Lando made a noise he was pretty sure only dolphins could hear. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, THAT’S A BLINK.”

The interviewer was practically in Oscar’s lap at this point. “How did you propose?”

Oscar shrugged. “I asked her to marry me.”

Lando stared. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where?” the interviewer prompted.

“At home.”

“…At home?”

“On the bed.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “YOU ABSOLUTE ROBOT.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

“That poor woman,” Lando muttered.

Then came the worst part.

“How did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?” the interviewer asked.

Oscar gave the most Piastri answer imaginable: “No one asked.”

Lando screamed.

“Who is she?!” the interviewer asked, practically vibrating. “What’s her name? Where’s she from?”

Oscar, completely useless: “My wife?”

Lando looked ready to launch himself into the stratosphere. “YES, BUT WHO IS SHE? WHY HAVE I NEVER MET HER?!”

Oscar blinked. “I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!”

Oscar just shrugged again.

Lando was losing it. “Okay, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew,” Oscar said, like that wasn’t the most unhinged thing he could possibly say.

“How would I have known?!” Lando shouted. “Do I look like a mind reader to you?!”

Oscar just looked at him, completely unbothered. The calmest chaos Lando had ever known.

Finally, Lando gave in. “You have to introduce me to her. Like, actually. You can’t just be married and expect me not to meet her.”

Oscar sighed, clearly seeing the writing on the wall. “Fine.”

“Good.” Lando sat back. Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Does anyone else know?”

Oscar considered. “I think Zak does.”

Lando shrieked. “WHY DOES ZAK KNOW?!”

“Because he’s my boss?”

“I’M YOUR FRIEND!”

Somewhere, McLaren PR was having the worst day of their careers.

Oscar Piastri, the most low-maintenance driver in the paddock, had just casually revealed on live fan stage that he had a wife—and had had one since he was eighteen.

And Lando?

Lando was never going to emotionally recover from this.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/FormulaTea: 🚨OSCAR PIASTRI JUST CASUALLY ANNOUNCED ON FAN STAGE THAT HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS 18??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN. WHAT.

@/chaoticf1brain: not oscar piastri saying “i already did one of those” to a “married or tattoo?” question and lando immediately short-circuiting. THIS IS CINEMA.

@/pitlaneprincess: the fact that oscar piastri’s marriage reveal came from a game of “would you rather get married or get a tattoo” is so unintentionally iconic. robot behavior. absolute king.

@/mclarensburner: no like. imagine being oscar’s teammate, sharing hotel gyms and debriefs and flights and NEVER KNOWING he was out here with a whole ass wife since he was a teenager. i’d scream too.

@/lanxiety_norris: Lando’s live meltdown over not knowing Oscar was married has already entered my top 5 F1 moments of all time. He spat out his drink. He screamed. I will be studying this footage for the rest of my life.

@/drivehivehq: oscar saying “she’s amazing. 10/10. would always marry her again.” in the middle of lando’s breakdown 😭💍

why is he lowkey husband goals???

@tiretalkpod: Oscar Piastri being married for FIVE YEARS and no one knowing is somehow more chaotic than any on-track drama we’ve had in the past 3 seasons. This man kept a whole wife secret like it was tire strategy.

@/piastrified: oscar: “how did i keep it a secret? no one asked.” the ENTIRE INTERNET: now asking every possible question at once

@/PRnightmare:  McLaren PR right now: 🧍‍♂️💻💥🔥🧯📉📉📉📉📉

@landosocial:  lando literally said “I’M YOUR FRIEND” like a hurt Victorian child finding out his best mate got married without telling him i’m sobbing 😭😭😭

@/f1brainrot:  we don’t know her name. we don’t know her face. we just know she said yes to a man who proposed “at home. on the bed.” and honestly? she’s a legend.

@/gridwivesunite:  Oscar said “I proposed at home. On the bed.” Oscar also said “she said yes.” Sir??? Why is this accidentally the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard???

@/tracklimitsandtea:  Me watching Oscar drop five years of marital lore in one fan stage while Lando has a nervous breakdown: 👁️👄👁️

@/buzzingtonstan: IF THIS MAN HAS A WHOLE WIFE, DOES THAT MEAN HE ALSO HAS A KID?? IS THERE A BABY PIASTRI OUT THERE??? OSCAR. BLINK TWICE.

@/landodrama: someone make the Netflix episode of this IMMEDIATELY. title it “How Oscar Piastri Crashed the Internet in 6 Words”

@/flannelanddownforceWHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS MRS PIASTRI!?!?

@/nicolepiastri:  I see the internet is discovering my son is married. Welcome to the club. I, too, found out after the fact 5 years ago. 👍

↪️@/piastriluv: NICOLE PLEASE TELL US YOU’RE KIDDING 😭😭😭

@/landochaotic:   Did he at least call you after the ceremony or did you find out via a tax form?!

***

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call barely rang twice before Felicity picked up, her face appearing on-screen, framed by the garage lighting. She had her hair tied up and was wearing one of his old hoodies—his favorite one, judging by the faded McLaren logo on the sleeve.

Just seeing her calmed him down instantly.

“Hey, Oz,” she said, smiling like she already knew he needed it.

Oscar slumped back against the couch, head tilted to rest against the wall. “Hey, Fliss.”

She studied him for a second. “So. How was your day?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a beat. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyebrows lifted in slow, amused surprise. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar opened one eye. “Apparently not.”

That earned a full laugh, soft and familiar. “How the hell did you think he knew?”

Oscar shrugged. “I dunno. We’ve been married for, what, five years now? I figured… someone would’ve told him.”

Felicity gave him a long, fond look. “Oz. You’re about as subtle as a torque wrench, and somehow also the most emotionally secretive man alive.”

“I can be romantic,” Oscar huffed, immediately defensive.

Before she could reply, there was a loud, unmistakable bang on the door. Followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar closed his eyes again and muttered under his breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

On-screen, Felicity was trying very hard not to laugh. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND DEMAND ANSWERS—”

Oscar tilted the phone so she could see the ceiling. “Yes.”

Now she was laughing freely, and it was a beautiful sound—one he’d always liked more than any podium cheer.

The banging continued. “STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING.”

“You should probably let him in,” Felicity said, lips twitching. “Before he combusts.”

Oscar sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate. He got up, opened the door—

—and Lando barreled in like a man on a mission.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Lando demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. Just held up the phone like it was Exhibit A. “She’s on FaceTime. Calm down, lunatic.”

Lando whipped around so fast he nearly tripped, then launched himself onto the couch, staring at the screen with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Silence.

Felicity gave him a polite, amused smile. “Hi. You must be Lando.”

Lando stared. Then pointed. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

He turned to Oscar, looking betrayed on a spiritual level. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the screen. “And you married him? At eighteen?”

Felicity shrugged, her smile fond. “Yep.”

“WHY?!” Lando looked genuinely baffled.

Felicity tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

Felicity stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Oscar side-eyed Lando. “What’s so hard to believe?”

Lando just flailed his arms. “You’ve been my friend for years and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend, let alone a wife!”

Oscar folded his arms. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, and now I’m the emotionally unaware one?”

“Yes.”

Lando flopped back on the couch like his entire world had been shaken. “You never told me!”

“You never asked.”

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar looked at him flatly. “You’re meeting her. Right now.”

“No. In person. I need proof she’s not a deepfake generated by your PR team to make you seem like a human being.”

Oscar deadpanned, “No PR team is that good.”

Lando pointed to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you soon.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to Fliss, who was fully laughing.

“You were not kidding about him,” she said.

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife- Felicity—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 14. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

Fliss is still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

@/felicitypiastri

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???↪️ @/felicitypiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @/felicitypiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/landoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention?↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of.↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/felicitypiastri: 10/10, would marry you again. (Even if you forget to tell people.)↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

***

@/felicitypiastri Instagram Post

Caption:

So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love.

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of nearly two years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer?10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OBVIOUS TO WHO?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/paddockgossip: Did ANY other drivers know??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ��️@/felicitypiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.

@/f1softies: The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. 

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To be fair, you were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He still does that, btw.↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/arthur_leclerc: The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/felicitypiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/logansergeant: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. Also, I am busy at home. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yep.  

↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/piastrified: oscar posting a heartfelt essay about marrying the love of his life felicity posting a selfie from their wedding day and casually mentioning he stole her pen we are in a ROMANCE NOVEL people

@/tifosibutsoft:  not to be dramatic but i would lay down my life for felicity piastri and her 20-photo instagram grid.

@/formulafeminism: her instagram goes: 🧠 page-long math caption 🐔 chicken in a knitted sweater?! 🛠️ engine restoration 🍞 perfect sourdough crumb 💍 wedding ring in engine grease this woman is unhinged. i love her.

@/landoslostmind: lando finding out oscar is married via fan stage chaos the internet finding out felicity is better than ALL of us via a grid that has exactly zero curated content same vibe.

@/chaosinturn1:  felicity: “technically i’m an f1 wag” also felicity: wears oil-stained jeans, builds a gearbox, and bakes bread from scratch at 3am this woman is a weapon

@/garagegirlsupreme:  Felicity Piastri’s whole vibe is: “I could kill you with this torque wrench or love you for the rest of my life. Either way, you’re eating homemade banana bread.” 10/10 no notes.

@/formula1tumblr: Oscar: “I’d marry her again in a heartbeat.” Felicity: “We were inevitable.” Me: sob crying into an old hoodie I pretend is Oscar’s

@/pitwallposters:  you know she’s terrifyingly brilliant bc her instagram isn’t even TRYING to be aesthetic and it still made us fall in love with her

@/felicityspanner: people are out here thirst-following felicity for hot girl math & carburetors and you know what? same

@/softoscarpiastri:  Oscar: “I assumed people knew.” Felicity: “Oops.” Me, holding back tears while reading both their posts like it’s a Nicholas Sparks adaptation: 🧍‍♀️

@/beehivetheory:  felicity piastri’s instagram is the most confusing and impressive thing i’ve ever seen. one post: her holding a sourdough starter like it’s her child. next post: her under a 1967 alfa romeo spider with a wrench in her mouth. next: her proving a theorem i don’t have the qualifications to read.

@/mclarenbrainrot:  i think the best part is that felicity’s account is just soft lighting, feral captions, old cars, and a literal chicken coop.

@/chaoticgoodfelicity:  “Technically I’m a WAG. I steal Oscar’s hoodies so that counts right?” felicity i want to be you SO BAD.

@/formulanope:  I don’t know who I want to be more:

Oscar, who married the love of his life at 18 and thought everyone just knew

Felicity, who loves cars, chickens, and spreadsheets more than media attention

@/speedmathqueen people are shocked oscar married a genius but felicity’s instagram LITERALLY has a video where she’s like “just fixing a differential while calculating gravitational drag on a whiteboard” and then makes banana bread like it’s nbd how is this woman real

@/lanlanf1:  every team principal right now reading oscar’s caption like: “okay so not only is he unshakeable on track but also writes like a poet, has been married since 18, and literally fixed himself by 15. great. fantastic. my drivers can’t even commit to a protein shake.”

@/gpbutemotional:  Zak Brown: “we support family at McLaren.” Andrea Stella, quietly reprinting Oscar’s driver bio with “married to a woman smarter than all of us combined”

@/justpitthings:  the fact that felicity Piastri could win an engine-rebuild competition, a bake-off, and a theoretical physics conference in the same weekend AND look bored while doing it… she’s what every gifted kid from tumblr wanted to become

@/tinfoilfelicity:  convinced felicity is the reason oscar is so calm. you grow up married to someone who organizes her maths notes in color-coded hexadecimal and has chicken and suddenly nothing in life phases you anymore.

@/piastriupdates:  what do you mean oscar’s love language is handwritten notes inside his gloves before every race i’m actually going to cry in the middle of a petrol station

[kxsagi]

ts is very random but i js wanna say i lvoelvoe LOVEEE ur stuff so much i lowk think im spam liking my bad.... BUT I LOVEEE THE WAY U WRITE SAE pls dont explode i like u

“𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐳"

a/n: THANK YOU SO MUCH, I LOVE WRITING FOR THAT GRUMPY NONCHALANT BOY THAT PLAYS FOR MADRID 

so i was like yk what... pls take this sae oneshot bc i've had it in my drafts and it's been a while since i made one + i love you so much

(art credits go to niceblueme on X)

you were not, in fact, thriving in madrid. 

you had landed three hours ago with a carry-on, overweight suitcase, five pinterest boards, and zero actual spanish skills. your phone’s roaming was failing, your translator app had mysteriously stopped functioning the second you needed it most, and you were currently sitting on a park bench, not sightseeing, not exploring, just crying. 

the tears weren’t dramatic. they were more like a steady stream of existential regret leaking from your eyes while you stared at a metro map like it had personally betrayed you. you sniffled, loudly. a tourist group passed. a pigeon stared at you judgmentally. 

“solo trip,” you muttered under your breath, voice thick, “for personal growth, i said. it’ll be freeing, i said. i’ll find myself.” 

what you found was that your high school-level duolingo phrases were useless when someone at the train station shouted directions at you like a bullet train. 

and then you heard it – that voice. cool, bored, unmistakably familiar. 

“… why are you crying in retiro park like a lost kid?” 

your heart stopped. then jolted. then immediately filled with a mix of horror and confusion. because turning toward that voice, sunglasses shoved up on his head, looking every inch the effortlessly rich and probably emotionally unavailable man he always was, stood sae itoshi. in madrid. 

“wha–” you blinked at him like he was a hallucination. “are you real? am i dehydrated and imagining you?” 

he blinked right back. “you think your hallucination would be me?” 

“you’re not exactly the poster boy for emotional comfort,” you sniffed. 

“and yet you’re still crying in front of me.” 

he said it without a single ounce of judgment. just that same even tone. unreadable expression. except... you could see it now, beneath the surface – the tiny twitch of concern. the soft furrow of his brow. sae itoshi, the quiet enigma of a midfielder, was standing in front of your tear-streaked, language-confused self and not running in the opposite direction. a miracle. 

“how are you here?” you finally asked, dragging a sleeve over your face. 

“i live here.” 

“… wait, you live in madrid?” 

“i play for real madrid.” 

you blinked. then sniffled again. “oh. right. soccer.” 

“football.” 

you gave him a look that said don’t start, and he actually cracked – the smallest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“i saw you from across the park,” he said casually, like this was normal. “you looked like you were about to punch a tree.” 

“i might.” 

“want to punch me instead? it’ll distract you.” 

you almost laughed. almost. instead, you sagged with a sigh. “i got lost. i asked a woman for help and she spoke so fast, and then she waved her hands around and pointed in seven directions and i tried to nod like i understood but i think i agreed to buy her niece’s goat.” 

sae blinked. “goat?” 

“i don’t know, man. i just wanted to see the palace.” 

he stared at you for a long second before saying, “you really came here alone without learning any spanish?” 

“i learned how to ask for the bathroom and say ‘i’m sorry.’ that should’ve been enough.” 

“you’re lucky i found you first.” 

you paused. “why? were you gonna save me?” 

he gave you a flat look. “i am saving you.” 

and true to his word, he did. because twenty minutes later, you were sitting in a quiet café tucked into the side streets of madrid, sipping something warm and far too fancy for your budget, listening to him speak to the waiter in fluent, smooth spanish. 

“so,” he said eventually, after the silence turned warm instead of awkward, “are you gonna cry every day of this trip or just when i’m around?” 

you narrowed your eyes. “you’re enjoying this way too much.” 

“a little.” 

“do you always stalk crying tourists in parks?” 

“maybe.” 

the silence stretched, thick with something new. not tension. not awkwardness. just the lingering weight of something unfinished. 

“are you free this week?” he asked suddenly. 

you blinked. “what?” 

“if you’re going to get emotionally destroyed by every street sign in madrid, someone should be around to translate.” 

you stared. “you’re offering to be my tour guide?” 

“i’m offering to make sure you don’t cry in another public park.” 

“… same thing.” 

sae just shrugged. “think of it as community service.” 

and maybe you should’ve said no. maybe you should’ve held on to your pride, or your carefully planned itinerary, or whatever scraps of dignity you had left. 

but instead, you smiled. full, real, and probably a little stupid. 

“okay, midfielder,” you said. “but only if you promise not to laugh if i cry at the royal palace.” 

he leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting in the sunlight. 

“no promises.” 

the next day arrived and you’d expected him to cancel. 

maybe wake up to a text that said “nvm. good luck out there.” maybe an excuse about training, or a shrug in emoji form. but no, sae itoshi was on time. 

8 AM sharp. standing by your hotel entrance in an outfit that screamed old money, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on despite the cloud cover. too cool for this planet. 

“ready to not get lost?” he asked, voice dry. 

“ready to cry at every historical monument.” 

he didn’t even flinch. “can’t wait.” 

you expected the awkwardness to follow. the stilted silences, the fumbled small talk, the weight of your past interactions (or lack thereof) hanging in the air like fog. but it didn’t happen. instead, the whole day passed like some weird dream – easy. ridiculous. warm. 

sae walked you through cobbled streets, translating signs and muttering sarcastic commentary under his breath. 

“that statue’s from the 18th century,” he told you. 

you tilted your head. “who is it?” 

“some guy who’s been dead a while.” 

“... thanks, tour guide.” 

he waited patiently while you got distracted in gift shops. corrected your pronunciation when you tried to order food (“it’s con jamón, not ‘with hamón’ like it’s a guy’s name”), and even took a picture of you in front of the royal palace – grumbling, but doing it anyway. 

and through it all, he never once treated you like a burden. 

in fact, it started to feel like he liked this. like he liked you. 

you didn’t say it out loud. didn’t want to break the spell. but by the time sunset rolled around, and you were sitting on the rooftop of a tiny café overlooking the city, your heart was doing things. embarrassing things. girlish things. things you thought you’d grown out of. 

“you really live here?” you asked, watching the sky turn gold. 

“yeah,” he said quietly. “for now.” 

you turned to look at him. “do you like it?” 

sae’s eyes were somewhere far off. “it’s quiet. people leave me alone. that’s what i wanted.” 

“and now?” 

he was silent for a beat. then: “… it gets lonely.” 

your heart squeezed, but you remained quiet. 

the city buzzed below, full of life and people and sound. and beside you, sae itoshi, the boy who never said more than three words unless forced, looked like he had a thousand unspoken ones. 

you swallowed. “so… what happens when my trip ends?” 

he didn’t answer. 

“will you forget me?” 

still no answer. 

you stared down at your drink, throat tight. “i don’t want to go back and wonder what would’ve happened if i’d stayed.” 

he looked at you, then. properly. eyes dark, unreadable, but soft in the way you hadn’t dared hope for. 

“then don’t go,” he said simply. 

your breath hitched. “what?” 

“stay a little longer.” 

you laughed, nervously. “sae, i can’t just–” 

“yes, you can.” 

he said it so confidently. so stupidly, unshakably sae. 

“you came here without speaking a word of spanish. cried in a public park. asked for ham like it was a person. and you’re telling me you can’t stay?” 

“sae–” 

“you’re not scared of being here. you’re scared of wanting to stay.” 

you hated how well he could see through you. 

“you think this is a vacation crush,” you muttered. “you think this is just the city and the sunset and you being nice for once.” 

he leaned in. “then stay and find out if it’s not.” 

your heart pounded in your ears. you didn’t kiss him. not yet. but you smiled. watery, nervous, full of the kind of hope that made your chest ache. 

“… okay,” you whispered. “i’ll stay.” 

and sae, ever unreadable, let his eyes linger on you a second longer. 

then he nodded. 

like he’d already known you would. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Quirks, Habits & Mannerisms

Character Quirks - the memorable little things about a character’s personality that make them charming, endearing, weird, or unique. A quirk is anything worth describing about a character that makes them stand out, like certain speech patterns (a character who mumbles), or behavioral tics (someone who can’t make eye contact). Quirks can also be a character’s clothing, the way they smell, or whether they use their left hand or if they’re ambidextrous. Little quirks or idiosyncrasies can humanize a character—or at the very least, make them interesting.

Character Habits - the patterns of behavior exhibited by characters either involuntarily or in response to other stimuli. For example, a character who can’t stop winking when they get nervous, or someone who always smokes a cigarette with their morning coffee. Habits are often repeated under specific circumstances, or in some cases incorporated into a character’s routine. Good habits can reveal things about your character, like someone who always cleans their house before company arrives can be a stickler for neatness and presentation. However, bad habits can also be especially powerful, as they expose certain flaws about your characters, paving the way for growth and development.

Character Mannerisms - a character’s unconscious individual gestures, affectations, or other distinctive behavioral traits. Characters’ mannerisms can indicate particular aspects about them. For example, someone who is always slouching may perpetually lack confidence, or a character is always squinting because they’re too prideful to admit they need glasses. Mannerisms can help your audience tell your fictional characters apart from one another, giving them their own identity. They can also help your characters feel more three-dimensional, like people you’ve met in real life.

Tips for Using Quirks, Habits, and Mannerisms for Writing Realistic Characters

Quirks, habits, and mannerisms can be so useful for writers to incorporate during the character creation process. Whether your focus is writing a novel or short stories, little aspects of a character’s personality can help make them feel layered and real, strengthening the connection and empathy your audience has with them.

Make a list. Write your own list of quirks, habits, and mannerisms. Think about the people you know. Which family members are introverts? Who is always the life of the party? Do they say any specific things or behave in a particular way that indicates these aspects of their personalities? Think of a character you’ve read about in a book or seen in a TV show or movie—what were their strengths? What were their foibles? Also, consider complete strangers you’ve passed on the street. Which ones do you remember, and why?

Ask yourself why. If you’ve thought of a list of character traits you find interesting, consider why those particular ones stood out to you. Why do you want to give your character a weird sneeze? Why is it important that they’re vegan? Why you want to use a trait and its effect on personality are two important things to be cognizant of when building your own characters.

Show, don’t tell. Use quirks, habits, and mannerisms to say more about your characters than words can. You don’t have to tell your readers that your protagonist always feels awkward when he enters a crowded room—show them he feels that way by putting it into his movement. Instead of normally walking into the room, the character always shuffles meekly, or has to give themselves a pep-talk before entering. Descriptions like these can paint a more vivid picture of both the scene and your character for audiences.

Consider your setting. If you’re writing a piece that takes place in the 1990s, your main character isn’t going to check their cell phone constantly, or use certain types of modern slang. Make sure the behaviors and habits you incorporate into your character development line up with the time period or setting you’ve established.

Don’t overdo it. In fiction writing, a good combination of quirks can help create more memorable characters by including small things that make them charming, endearing, weird, or unique. However, overloading your character descriptions with these traits will have the opposite effect, and make them feel ungrounded and unrelatable. Quirks, habits, and mannerisms should be used sparingly, and only to enhance the character as a whole. If your character walks with a limp, has a catchphrase, wears ugly clothes, speaks with a stutter, and considers their stuffed animal their best friend, they will seem like a complete caricature to your audience. Characters shouldn’t need an overload of gimmicks to be memorable, just a few specific details that help bring them to life in a natural and interesting way.

Avoid clichés. Nothing makes a character feel less realistic than an adherence to unbelievable and tired tropes. If you want to develop unique characters, go against the grain. The gruff character with the eyepatch might be the nicest person in the neighborhood, or the clumsy girl-next-door might actually be a serial killer. Even if you’re experiencing writer’s block, don’t rely on clichés. Instead, think of all the basic ways characters have been portrayed throughout and go in the opposite direction.

Try writing prompts. Character writing prompts can help you imagine new combinations of traits to give to your characters. A prompt can force you to think outside the box you’ve built for your character, putting them in other situations and seeing how they behave. This can help draw out features of the character that you hadn’t thought of yet, while also expanding your character writing skills.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

Caught in 4K

George Clarke x Reader (ArthurTV’s sister) Warnings: Swearing, mutual pining, secondhand embarrassment via YouTube comments

Summary: You join Arthur and George in a YouTube video, the last thing you thought would happen was fans going crazy over you and George. 

Word Count: 1600

Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to be in the video.

Honestly, you just came to drop off Arthur’s phone charger and maybe steal a Diet Coke from his fridge. But then George Clarke was there, stretched out on the couch in a hoodie that had definitely been washed too many times, looking up with that easy grin that always made your heart stutter.

“Oi,” he said. “You staying or just passing through?”

You should’ve passed through. Should’ve said no and gone home and spared yourself the entire internet finding out about your very inconvenient crush.

Instead, you dropped onto the arm of the couch, right beside George, and said, “What are we watching?”

It was supposed to be a throwaway reaction video. Just you, Arthur, and George reacting to painfully awkward dating show clips.

But then George laughed at one of your sarcastic comments. And you laughed at his. And you started leaning into each other without realizing, shoulder brushing shoulder, sharing a blanket by the end of it.

And when Arthur shouted, “Alright, I swear if you two flirt any harder I’m cutting the camera,” you just rolled your eyes and flipped him off — but George?

George flushed.

Not a lot. Just a little. But enough.

The video goes up the next day. You think nothing of it. Until your phone starts blowing up.

Your DMs. Your texts. Your Twitter notifications. A friend sends you a TikTok.

✨ “POV: you’re watching George Clarke fall in love in real time.” ✨ Captioned: he’s never looked at Arthur like that 😭

You blink. Open the video. And yeah. That’s your face George is staring at, soft and distracted, in 1080p.

There are hundreds of comments already.

“why does George look like he wants to kiss her every time she speaks 😭” “can we get a ship name or…?” “petition for a double date video with George and reader 👀” “bro Arthur has no idea”

You stare at your phone for a full minute. Then: You: “Arthur. Have you seen the comments.” Arthur: “Yeah what the fuck is this.” Arthur: “Did you two plan that or???” Arthur: “Also are you dating??” You: “NO.” You: “Absolutely not.” You: (less convincingly) “Right??”

You’re halfway through doom-scrolling when your phone buzzes again. George Clarke: I think the internet ships us. You: Lmao I saw 😅 George: Do we correct them? Or just let them spiral? You: Let’s see how bad it gets first. George: So you’re saying there’s a chance 😏 You: George. George: Right right. Professional. Totally normal. No flirting. George: …Unless you want to.

You stare at that last message for longer than you’d like to admit.

You see him again three days later. Arthur invites you to watch the Arsenal match at George’s flat, and when you show up, George opens the door like he’s been waiting all day.

“Hey,” he says, eyes dropping to your hoodie. “Is that my jumper?”

You glance down. It is. Definitely.

You shrug. “Maybe.”

George steps back to let you in. “Guess it looks better on you.”

You nearly trip on the rug.

Halfway through the game, Arthur disappears to take a call. You and George are left alone on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn between you.

“I’m not gonna lie,” George says, “some of those edits were kind of flattering.”

You snort. “You liked the one where they said you looked like a Victorian man in love?”

George grins. “You didn’t?”

“Please. I looked like I was seconds from throwing up.”

He nudges your knee with his. “You looked beautiful.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then: “You’re just saying that so I’ll come on more videos.”

George shrugs. “Can’t say I’d mind.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

Later, when Arthur’s in the other room and the match is over, George walks you to the door like some sort of gentleman. You pause, turning to him before leaving.

“So,” you say, voice too quiet. “Still letting the internet spiral?”

George watches you for a beat. Then steps just a little closer.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s getting harder to pretend they’re wrong.”

You blink.

Before you can answer, Arthur yells from the kitchen: “Oi, you leaving or moving in?”

You both laugh, flinch apart, and you step out into the night with your heart in your throat.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Worse, in the sense that you and George keep pretending you’re not flirting when you absolutely are.

He starts texting more. Sending voice notes. Suggesting film nights — just the two of you. He finds excuses to touch your arm, to sit too close, to comment on your photos like he’s not in love with you.

You pretend not to notice. Mostly because Arthur definitely is noticing.

“You and George have been acting weird,” he says one night, halfway through a shared Deliveroo order. “Weird how?” “I dunno. Suspicious. Coy.” “Coy?” “Like you’re two teenagers trying to hide a crush and you think you’re being subtle.”

You laugh way too hard at that.

Which doesn’t help your case.

The truth is, you and George are very not subtle.

A fan makes a compilation: “George Clarke being absolutely gone for ArthurTV’s sister for 7 minutes straight.”

It goes viral.

Arthur sees it. Of course he does.

You find out when he storms into your room holding his phone. “You didn’t tell me you actually like him.” You look up from your laptop. “I don’t—” “Don’t lie,” he says, deadpan. “He literally zoomed in on your face during a TikTok like he was filming a wedding video.”

You groan, dragging a pillow over your face. “Can we not?”

But Arthur isn’t angry. He’s just… stunned.

“You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“You being in love with my best friend is inherently weird.”

You peek over the pillow. “You’re not mad?”

Arthur sighs. “Honestly, I’m more mad at George for being such a coward about it.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He smirks. “He’s been into you since December. At least. Possibly longer. It’s been hell watching him fumble every time you walk into a room.”

Your heart stops. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he says, grabbing his charger. “Sort your shit out, yeah?”

You don’t see George for a few days. It’s not intentional, just a mix of work and nerves and—okay, maybe it’s a little intentional.

Then he messages.

George: Do you want to come over tonight? Just us. George: I’ve got the good snacks.

You stare at the screen. Then type:

You: Yeah. I think we need to talk anyway.

He opens the door like he’s been holding his breath all day.

You step inside, brushing past him, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of everything — the soft light, the way his hand lingers at your back, the heat in your cheeks.

“So,” George says, once you’re curled on the couch with popcorn you won’t eat. “You wanted to talk?”

You glance over at him. He’s not watching the movie. He’s watching you.

“I talked to Arthur.”

George freezes.

You continue, voice quiet: “He said you’ve liked me for a while.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean for him to find out.”

“Is it true?”

He hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah.”

You exhale. Your hands are shaking a little.

“I didn’t tell him about us,” George says quickly. “I didn’t want to mess things up with you. Or with him.”

“There isn’t an us,” you say.

George flinches.

You add: “But there could be.”

That gets his attention.

“You sure?”

You nod, slow and certain. “I think I’ve been sure for a long time.”

He laughs under his breath, almost disbelieving. “God. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There’s a beat. Charged, quiet.

And then, like gravity’s had enough of the waiting, he leans in.

It’s slow — cautious, warm, his hand curling at your jaw, your breath catching — and then it happens.

And it’s everything.

Later, tangled up on the couch, the movie long forgotten, you glance at his phone buzzing with a new comment notification.

Top comment on your last video:

“George finally pulled Arthur’s sister?? I KNEW IT” 37k likes. 400 replies.

George groans into your neck. “We are never living this down.”

You grin, brushing his hair from his face. “Totally worth it.”

Then his phone lights up.

A new text.

Arthur: Fine. Just don’t break her heart or I’ll kill you.

George reads it out loud and winces. “Noted.”

You laugh, kissing him again.

Top Comments:

💬 @arthurtv:

I leave you two alone for FIVE MINUTES. ↳ @georgeclarke: sorry dad 😔 ↳ @y/n: don’t act like you didn’t know. ↳ @arthurtv: I DID I JUST DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT WITH MY EYES

💬 @fanpage_georgeclarke:

WE WON. WE ACTUALLY WON. ↳ @fanpage_yt_ships: this is my Super Bowl ↳ @thatcompvidgirl: shout out to me for making the edit that started it all 💅

 💬 @randomuser368:

“Arthur’s soft launch was when he introduced her in the first video lol”

💬 @randomuser398:

Bro waited YEARS. He deserves this. ↳ @user7474: THE SLOW BURN PAID OFF 😭

 💬 @randomuser420:

“this is better than a romcom.”

 💬@randomuser298:

 “she joined ONE video and he was never the same”

💬@randomuser354:

 “we need a YouTube q&a ASAP”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Icy III

Mapi León x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: He watches your match

He sits up in the box with Laporta, stretched out on the foldout chair like it's his personal throne.

He's wearing a new suit, freshly ironed and tailored to fit his body perfectly. His hair has been cut and styled to give that almost effortless look about him.

"Trust fund, I reckon," Patri says from your warm up circle," That guy that's up there with Laporta."

"No way," Pina disagrees," That's new money, not old. Probably a hedge fun manager."

"Or some kind of oil and gas giant," Mapi laughs.

"None," You say," Real estate at first then tech and then big pharma over in the states."

"What made you guess that?" Mapi asks and you stubbornly kick the ball away.

"I didn't. Laporta's not going to get money out of him anyway. The wife is the one that invests in sports but only ones she gets good profits out of. Two NFL teams, a Formula One team. She owns a tennis stadium in Paris. Big investor in the Olympics."

"Oh come on," Patri complains," There's no way you just know that off the top of your head."

"It doesn't matter. If Laporta wants money he should talk to the wife."

You can feel his gaze on you throughout the match.

It's a team at the bottom of the table and you're so technical that they can't get close but you can still feel the weight of his stare on you at all times.

'You carry the weight of our family'.

He's told you that many times.

'If you cannot exceed expectations then we have no use for you'.

He's told you that too, something you remember as you cross the ball into Pina, who taps it in easily.

You celebrate together, hugging and you feel Ingrid's familiar presence behind you as she gives you her customary kiss on the head.

You look up at him in the crowd, just out of reflex but you can't see much.

He's still splayed out like he's a king on a throne, looking down at you like you're a peasant in the street, fighting with someone else for just a scrap of bread.

That's his idea of entertainment, like holding up a magnifying glass towards an ant hill in the middle of a sunny day.

You feel small under his gaze, dipping your head in submission as you walk back into your position.

You assist in the next three goals.

Alexia.

Aitana.

Even Keira.

You're good at that. You've perfected the art of assisting.

Mapi's even joked before that you're going for the record of assists from one person this season.

Alexia says she's going to make you be more selfish and shoot more but you don't think you really need to do that, not when Caro can do it instead of you.

This is one of the rare matches where Caro's being rotated so gets no minutes. You fill her place though, like you always do, setting up goals and carrying the ball down the wing.

Barcelona win, of course, and you drift back to Ingrid and Mapi like you normally do.

Mapi grins at you, arm thrown over your shoulder and a frown on her face as you go rigid under her.

Laporta is on the pitch with him, stuttering over his words and hurrying to keep up.

He stops in front of you.

"Y/n."

Your head drops automatically, thoroughly chastised as you step out from under Mapi's arms.

His hand clamps down on your shoulder and you can tell how this is going to go before he even opens his mouth.

"Of course we're very proud of her," His honeyed tone tells Laporta," We've wanted nothing but the best for her."

For them, you correct in your head.

"She's always had such a passion for football. We love watching her play."

He's never seen you play in his life.

"We-We're very happy to have her here!" Laporta tells him," She's a real talent. You're produced quite the footballer."

He laughs, waving away the compliments as his hand feels like a shackle around you. "You're too kind. Sports has never quite been my thing. I'll have to talk to the wife about what we were talking about, I'm sure you'll understand."

"Of course! Of course! Take all the time you need!"

He will. You know he will.

He'll discuss with her and they'll write up a contract if it's really something they're interested, about what they pay in and what they get out of it.

She's always been better at the sports side of it, despite her background in real estate. She knows how to talk people around in circles. How to get through the little boy's club that every sport has. She'll get what she wants if Barcelona is even something she's interested in.

You hope it isn't.

"I'll leave you alone with your daughter," Laporta says and you want to call after him.

You want to tell him not to leave with your father.

Barcelona was supposed to be yours. You were supposed to be safe here.

You can't control when they summon you in Norway but if you're in Barcelona, they're not supposed to be able to get to you. You're not meant to be subject to their whims in Barcelona.

You want to go home. You want to go home with Mapi and Ingrid and curl up in your bed with Toast and not move for a week.

His casual hand on your shoulder grows heavy in an instant, nails digging in to your skin through your shirt and you have to keep the smile on your face to keep up appearances for the cameras you know are on you.

His lips graze your ear as he whispers to you," If you ever blindside me like this again then I promise you won't like what happens next."

"Sorry, Father," You say back.

"You better be. I didn't like sitting up there with potential business partners to see my own daughter down there like a football hooligan."

"Sorry."

"I'm better than that and I raised you to be better than that too."

You resist the urge to tell him that he didn't raise you at all.

Your wrist twinges, the phantom injury flaring up like it always did when you're nervous.

You throat bobs, already closing up as you fight back tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Apologies mean nothing." His voice is harsh in your ear and you find a point ahead of you to stare at so you don't cry.

If there's something that he hates more than apologies, it's tears so you stubbornly don't let even one fall.

"Who's this, y/n?" Ingrid asks, clearing her throat and you flick your eyes to her.

"My-"

Your father says his name, sticking his hand out and he's back to playing the role of proud father. "And you are?"

"Ingrid Engen. I play with y/n on the Norwegian team too."

"Ah! Yes. I think she's mentioned you before!" He's lying.

He didn't even know you played on the national team.

"And I'm Mapi. She lives with me and Ingrid."

"I can't thank you enough," Your father says," She can be quite a handful sometimes." He laughs but no one laughs with him.

"I think she's delightful," Ingrid says," Very helpful. Very studious. She's the best in her class."

The smile on his face is real now, like it always is when he hears about your academics.

He started in real estate and then moved to investing in technology and pharmaceuticals. He and your mother are scarily intelligent and it might be the only thing they passed onto you.

"We expect nothing less of her," He says," I'm sure everyone at the party will be glad to hear it."

Your breath stutters in your chest. "The party?"

"Yes! The party! I must have forgotten to tell you! We're having a little get together with a few potential business partners. We'll have to get you a dress."

"I don't need to go."

"Don't be silly!" His hand tightens on your shoulder and you know that this isn't a discussion. "There's some people I should introduce you too."

Your head drops again, the fight leaving your body.

"Do you want us to go?" Ingrid asks, ever polite though you feel like without her and Mapi there you won't survive. "So you two can have dinner?"

Your father is laughing again, finally releasing you and you take several quick steps to duck behind Mapi.

"I've got a flight to catch. Meetings to get to. Far more important things."

He can't see you anymore, not with your head bowed and pressed against Mapi's back and you finally let the tears fall.

Ingrid watches your father leave, down the tunnel and escorted to the player's exit by the staff that seem to be falling over themselves to make him happy.

"Y/n," She says, coaxing you out from your hiding spot," Oh, sweetheart...Are you okay?"

You look at her, bottom lip trembling as the tears run down your cheeks.

"Ingrid," You say, sounding small and wounded like an animal," I want to go home."

Ingrid nods as Mapi tucks you under her arm.

"Let's go home."

[sheepispink]

Comforting Warmth

supersoldier!reader x ghost/tf141 (part 7)

cw: mentions of experimentation on kids, nothing explicit though

honourable mentions: ty to @kittygonap & @pythonmoth for some animal ideas. ty to @kittygonap and @silas-aeiou for scents, and @pythonmoth again for a lovely plot idea i wont spoil 😉

A/n: yes i did write 5.9k words in a day, yall deserve it eat up

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————————

After scarfing down twice your normal breakfast this morning, Soap and Gaz had come by and nudged you out of bed, handing you an outfit for the day. You’ve never dressed up as a civilian before, having never done an undercover mission, so you’re quite glad they picked it out for you. After all, if it was up to you then it’d be the plain old uniform again. It’s a simple outfit, jeans and a hoodie, and you look into the mirror to find that it weirdly looks like it fits you perfectly. Out of necessity, you neaten up your hair, fixing up the strands that just didn't want to stick no matter what. You’d much rather be on the track than anywhere they had wanted to take you, but after two whole weeks of being stuck in bed, and two weeks before that forced to ‘recuperate’, you’d take absolutely any form of exercise than walking circles around your room.

So, there was understandably a very clear disdain written across your face when you were faced by a car, Gaz ushering you to get into the passenger seat.

“Seatbelt on?”

He asks when you’re settled, in the back since you were quite annoyed about this whole arrangement. His words didn’t amuse you like it once would’ve, instead now staring daggers through the back of his seat. Soap wanted to laugh, and he did at first; they all knew you were increasingly restless as the days carried on. But as you continued, he realised you were in fact quite serious about all of this, face not shifting from its blank look and voice so monotone it could be artificial.

“Yes, I'm not a child.” It’s still a flat statement like before, but this time it even packs a bit of a punch, your eyes naturally shifting away from them towards the window. “Are we going to leave now?” When Price told them you had shifted overnight, they had hoped that meant you were back to talking properly again, but they were not expecting a change this way. “Not so fast. Still waiting on someone.”

The car door across from you opens, cold air washing over you until the seat slightly dips from the weight beside you. “Got caught up with rookies again.” Your teeth grit involuntarily at the gruff voice beside you, not even having to turn to know who sat there. Ghost, of course, noticed immediately when you didn’t turn to look at him, deciding not to comment on it as he strapped himself in. This time he was going to make no mistakes, and as the one person who had read your files in and out practically every night to decipher what he could do better, what they could all improve on, he decided he has to go with you everywhere. It doesn't matter if he trusts the two sergeants with his life– you were his charge, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take that responsibility seriously this time around.

Gaz starts the car, light chatter passing between the three of them whilst you lean your head on the window, staring at the scenery that passes. You’ve only travelled like this a few times before, but never casually. To be honest, you’ve never actually headed to town before either, so this was definitely a day for a lot of firsts. The old you– or rather the real you.. Or the fake you?-- would’ve loved all of this, the spring breeze over your face and the feeling of people who don't look down on you surrounding you. But that’s all different now–you just want this all over and done with, for this pain to leave your system and to go back to normal. You’ll take absolutely anything over this.

“We’re here.” He parks, and you look around noticing that you seem to be in some kind of retail park. There’s not many options, but they do have a diy store and a home furniture one, as well as a few fast food restaurants scattered around. But you weren’t really allowed food as greasy as that—Not that you particularly wanted it anyway; you much prefer the high protein, high carbs diet Soap currently had you on, especially with all the flavourful sauces he seems to find. At first it was cool–discovering all of these things, until you realised just how out of touch you are with society. Who the hell hasn't tried barbecue sauce?

You follow behind the two sergeants besides Ghost, who will not let you walk behind on your own, until they lead you through the home furnishing store all the way to the bedding aisles. There’s long shelves of duvets in different sizes with sheets in a range of colours, feels, and even patterns. Truthfully, you weren't bothered by most things, but with your restlessness the bed sheets really have been getting at you. You never really got a good sleep even before all of this; the duvets were practically the exact same as the infirmary ones, scratchy and thin. And you didn't want anything that symbolizes the infirmary in any way.

So, as much as you didn't exactly want to comply with this, you take the opportunity to actually look at the options, feeling the thickness of each blanket and considering colours for the first time in your life. “This one.” You pull out a thirteen tog duvet, the soft and thick combination drawing you in immediately. Soap tosses it in the basket, and you look at him expectantly, like you’re ready to leave.

“Oh… no, no, yer getting a new everything. C’mon, no one has only one blanket anyway, let's get a throw too, hm?.”

You’re promptly dragged off to another aisle, leaving Ghost and Gaz behind looking at pillows. “They’re not actually.. Angry, right? At us?” Gaz asks, having noticed your closed off attitude and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t think they’re even capable of that. Everything’s just a bit muddled for them right now–they’re at war with themself.” Gaz nods quietly, trying his best to understand what’s going on with you, but it just seems impossible— every information revealed is more inhumane than the last. He decides to carry on for now, praying that you’ll end up alright in the end.

When you’ve left the store, you have to stop by the car to drop off the heavy bags full of things Soap deemed ‘absolutely necessary for a good night's sleep’ or whatever. You were started to feel a little agitated again, one part of you hating that his words made a little part of you want to laugh, and another part of you angry that you hadn’t screamed and demanded they let you do what you want. Shaking your head, you try to keep those thoughts away and focus on following along as they walk back towards the arrangement of shops.

Though you’re caught off guard when Soap suddenly blurts out something that you did not want in the slightest.

“Price wants me and Gaz to get some super top secret uh…. Boring stuff, ye know? Nothin’ interesting.”

He mumbles, whilst Gaz jabs him in the side with his elbow, muttering something angrily in his ear. “Point is, we should split up. Ghost’s got the rest of the list, and y’know maybe if we get back early, we can..go for a run?” That snaps you into the current moment fast enough, and you’re already turning on your heel, leaving Ghost rolling his eyes at the blatant bribery before he catches up to you.

—-------------

You don’t look at Ghost once, still being indifferent towards him after everything that happened between you. You can't deny that you’re upset, angry even, that his own words had caused you to spiral to a state of no return, just from overhearing one sentence. At first, you were slightly ashamed that you had run solely off an assumption, but then as your mind cleared and you considered it further it was fairly clear that the way he pushed you to the brink of exhaustion solely to please the higher ups was nothing short of inhumane.

But then again, you’re not exactly human. Again, you shake that dangerous thought from your head as you follow Ghost into the.. toy store?

“Why are we here?”

He would have explained it before, but he wants you to ask questions—he needs to bring you out of your current state of indifference before you’re stuck there. He’s read the files; he knows about the past time this happened and he’s nervous that it’ll only grow worse until you’re apathetic too. “Price suggested you try keeping warm at night, a hot water bottle is usually a good way.” He hums, tone noticeably softer in terms of volume but still his eyes are cold as ever, trying to keep his focus and not sink into guilt in front of you. Thankfully, you don’t challenge his answer, intrigued by the thought of a hot water bottle; you’re so used to being just barely comfortable, what if it’s too hot?

Following behind, your eyes are caught onto the colourful displays across the store and the excited laughter of the little children tugging on their parent’s hands, dragging them to their current favourite interest. Your eyes don't leave them, watching a pair of twins get excited over matching figures, whilst their younger sibling is just happy whenever they're grinning. It reminds you of better times, with the other experiments children and all the stupid things you got up to with your wild imaginations. Sometimes you’d pretend that you were really spies, to be given cool gadgets and you’d pretend to ‘escape’ the small room you had been placed in between testing. Every thought was an active effort to not acknowledge the real pain you were all in, and only on one summer day had you all clumped together, needle pricks stinging as you lay beneath the warm sun, leaves slowly falling around. It was the first time you chose to nap instead of playing, but it wasn't the last.

“Reaper? Something wrong? Ghost’s voice immediately snaps you from your thoughts, making you realise you had come to a stop in the middle of the aisle, still staring at the place where the three children had once been. You turn back to him, eyes hazing over just slightly before you convince yourself to knock it out. “No, I just thought I heard something..”

“Right, over here. You gotta pick one out.” There’s not many kids around thankfully— not that your face would’ve shifted much anyway— but he had led you towards what seemed to be a stuffed animal ‘mini factory’, according to the sign. He gestures towards the unstuffed animals lay waiting, all different types with their beaded eyes and soft fur.

“I thought you said a hot water bottle.” You challenge him, looking at him with narrowed eyes as if questioning if he really thought of you to be this childish.

“They fill it with special beads that can be microwaved. Besides, it’s safer and much more comfortable than them.” You seem like you want to question further, and as much as he’d just like to force you to get one, you should be allowed to speak. Since he didn’t let you before.

“Can’t I just get a bottle shaped bag of beads then? What’s the need for the plushies?” He does his best not to sigh, he really does, but you’re making it difficult for him now. How is he going to explain that yes, they totally do see you as an adult, and no, they’re not trying to treat you like a child? You’re already bordering the edge of just turning away now, no he has to think fast— he feels like he’s the one being interrogated.

. “Don’t think it works like that. They do it on purpose to make more money— I mean, this is more appealing than just a plain grey bag.” He holds up one of the premade plushies, a penguin with floppy arms. “See, it’s cute.”

”Then why don't you get one?” Now you’re just trying to piss him off, aren't you?

Ghost lets out a long sigh, turning his back to you for a moment as he places it back down. This is the reason he got into this trouble in the first place. Sure he shouldn’t t have to agree with everything you say, but he can't dismiss you so easily like you were Soap just trying to rile him up. A part of you genuinely meant it, and it was also entirely possible that you didn't even mean to take a jab at him— after all, your state of mind was a total whack after the breakdown, you’re barely figuring out the pieces yourself.

“Could do. Don’t think they make a ghost one unfortunately and it probably wouldn't fit on the bed either.” Finally, you take his answer as satisfactory, shrugging it off as you move to look through the ones available. Though you still don't seem entirely keen on this at all, and he’s slightly worried you won't even bother falling asleep with it at all.

A worker soon comes over, all smiles like they usually are in kid’s shops like this but there’s a faint flicker of fear in her eyes when she looks between Ghost and you. He did contact the store beforehand, explaining the situation as vaguely as possible only to warn not to try any funny business with you at all. “Welcome to our mini factory! Anything you two are interested in?”

Your eyes snap up, a little too fast and you have to forcefully settle yourself to not seem intimidating to the new person. Thankfully the scratches on your face had cleared up, leaving the naive face behind that Ghost had once hated. You looked hesitant to speak though not quite shy, and you looked at Ghost’s way for once, having usually avoided his gaze. His chest ached with guilt though, knowing he had controlled you in such a way before in which you could barely speak for yourself, but he was wondering if this meant you still thought of him as your ward to some degree. Though, the way you looked at him was almost a test, asking if he’d continue with his old ways or not. Either way, the point is that you’re allowed to ask your questions now, and so he gives you a nod.

“Do you have any plain ones?” Damnit, maybe he shouldn't have given you freedom of speech just so quickly.

The worker pauses, not usually asked for things like that but eventually shakes her head as Ghost motions a no simply by the harsh look in his eyes. “Well, originally the company started out like that! But as more customers came they asked for different designs and options, so we decided on animals!” It makes sense to you, at least partially. You can't exactly question her words when you barely know anything about the outside world yourself. “So, any animal in particular you’d like?” Before you could respond, Ghost had walked off and returned with a fox shaped plush, black beaded eyes and pointy ears. It made something in your chest flare and definitely not in a good way. “No. I don't need another.” It’s monotone, blank, but it’s sharper than usual, and the way you turn away from him is enough to prove that it’s your final decision.

Seeing as you looked pretty content with talking quietly to the worker, he decided to leave you alone for a while, giving you space before he went ahead and ruined anything else. Besides, they’d been allocated so much budget for your care that this wouldn’t change a thing in the bank even if you bought ten. Soon enough you’re walking over to the machine with the lady, still looking a little conflicted as you hold two of the empty animals. A wolf, and an eagle. The former has a tuft of fur on its head, and a mischievous looking face, whilst the latter had long wings and a determined demeanour. That gives Ghost dèja vu for a moment.

He’s happy to see that you’re intrigued by the process, even going as far as to help the lady when she shows you how to stuff the animals, the large machine pushing the filling through a tube. “Wait.” You’re about to fill the eagle when Ghost cuts in, making you both stop to a halt. “These instead.” It’s the heavier type of beads, similar to the feeling of a weighted blanket. You had denied one in the store, but he wouldn't let you escape it now, not when they said they’d try everything to get you sleeping normally again. The worker doesn't complain, switching to the other machine, and you help again, filling the eagle up until it’s a comfortable weight in your hands.

“So.. Do you wanna add a heartbeat? Our customers love this add on!” It’s shaped like a heart, a small electronic covered by felt, and it pulses on your hands as you hold it, testing out the feel. To be honest, it makes you feel rather uneasy, and almost strange but Ghost speaks for you this time. “We’ll have one with the heartbeat.”

“What?”

He looks down at you, noticing your questioning of his sudden decision. “It’s all or nothing, you heard the Captain.”

So reluctantly, the wolf gets stuffed with the heart beat, and then the worker turns to you again. “Alright, and any scents too? We have some here and oh— we have a new batch in the back, i’ll grab them!” She hurries off through the warehouse, whilst silence hangs between the two of you. You pick up the scent testers available, curious, until you stop on lavender. Weirdly enough, you’ve never actually seen the flower before, only knowing the scent, and you’re not surprised it’s purple. It’s been years since you’ve smelt it properly, the lingering scent on the small fox plush having faded out to a mere thought now, especially since Gaz fixed it up. Will it smell just as comforting? Will it smell different?

You lift it to your nose, immediately hit with the powerful yet calm scent, exaggerated for the purpose of the stuffed toy. It’s so strong it feels like you’re back in that medical room, the young intern before you as you clutch the sheets desperately. His face is a blur, in fact most of his attire is, but you remember his words and the touch of his hand as he clutched your weaker one. It was near impossible to forget the great pain you had been in that day, having been pushed to your limits and left twitching, but somehow you had forgotten him.

Until now you had failed to remember that someone had been there for you first, and he had promised you a future of happiness. For a while you put your hope in him, letting him hold your hands, soothe you to rest and help you walk around your room again. The story isn't quite the same as when you last recalled it, stuck in that cabin with the threat lingering near. He hadn't been there the weeks before you had been sent off to Ghost, no, but you wished he had. For four whole years after his mysterious disappearance, you held that fox tight, begged and pleaded for him to come back to you, to soothe you again. But he never came, and even though the nurse had broken the news to you, you had refused to believe their words. Until they brainwashed it out of you, well most of the memories anyway, so you had forgotten practically everything, until now.

Until the scent returned.

It did not only bring back good memories though, because, with each visit from him, you had always been in some sort of pain prior. Experiments, rough handling, forced exercises to strain yourself, or even sliced into, crimson coating your skin. Instead of hurting, it overwhelms you, the sudden barrage of thoughts and experiences, all that made you the person you were today. You’ve lost so much of yourself over the years, and this probably is only a quarter of it, but still it feels so so good, and yet horrifying at the same time. Again, it’s the same feeling as before, like your body was in a battle with itself. Your head wanted to push it all down, beg for those memories to stay sealed by healed incisions and faded scars, but your heart yearned for otherwise. It needs to know, to feel and live through every emotion that’s been shoved down, and for a mere second it gets that freedom— pure joy swelling your heart until anger fills it, for everything the scientists have done to you, to the younger kids there, to all of your innocence. Soon it shifts to fear, one that’s already been creeping through, before it becomes jealousy, when you didn't understand why the other kids got to play freely whilst you went under anesthesia again, on that cold table for another day. Finally, it’s the sadness that’s lingered near every day since you became aware of your true purpose. Pure misery that lingers in the soul.

And then it’s gone, as fast as it came.

—-----------------------------------

Your eyes blink to a strange feeling, having been positive that you were just in that stupid ‘mini factory’ place, and not still in the car. Something rests beneath your head, like when you used the window as a temporary pillow, watching nature pass. But this isn't that now, and you haven't gone back in time, so you must’ve gone forward. Confused, you attempt to move, only to find you can’t, trapped in your own body like you’re.. paralysed. Fear spikes your heart, unable to even move your head until you hear a low noise, rumbling near your ear. It’s a pulse, a steady one that rises and falls with soft breaths..

“Reaper, you awake?” You’re not sure if you’re better off paralysed or not because that’s definitely not the voice you wanted to wake up too. What if all of that had been a dream..? Everything was still hazy, and you couldn't even make out the shape of the steering wheel or the music playing low from the radio; so what would happen if this really was all some stupid figment in your head again?

Something moves against you, fingers that were once resting against your back moving upwards to tap you gently. Brown eyes follow, leaning down to peer into your open ones, as if testing you somehow. “You blanked out when you had smelt that scent.” His voice is lower, quieter than usual in a somewhat crappy attempt to soothe you. Though you could at least tell that he knew what was wrong here–he was the last person you wanted to be leaning against after practically losing yourself again. “Went totally still too, had to muster up some excuse to the worker before getting those other idiots to take over..” Even though he wants to stay with the same dry tone as usual, he can't, involuntarily trailing off as he looks down at you again. “You wanna sit upright?”

You don't answer, because you can't, still stuck within your own body like an intruder. It scares you slightly, you know sometimes that your body thinks your organs aren't actually yours, and so it attacks them. And just now you’d been so conflicted with yourself… what if you had been kicked out of yourself? Was that even possible?

“Hey–you gotta speak to me.” He murmurs, but not nearly as stern as he’d be with anyone usually. Your eyes are darting around frantically, as if searching for something and he can't help but grow even more concerned at your ongoing silence. Even more worrying, you haven't moved once, not even a twitch. “Can you hear me?” He asks a little louder out, and you still don't reply but your eyes snap up to him immediately. Well that’s good

“Can you move? Look right for yes, other way for no.” He watches as you look left, his brows narrowing as he carefully adjusts his hands around you, one of them rubbing your shoulders slowly. “It’s a trauma response, I'm guessing something suddenly startled your brain when you blanked out,” Your eyes are still darting, occasionally looking up at him but at least you can move your eyelids to blink. He just needs to calm you. “Alright– do you want me to sit you upright?” He watches your pupil shift to the right, and his hands carefully lift you upwards, your head away from his side and leaves you resting back against the seat, tilted slightly towards the car door.

The first sign is the long gasp you let out, your eyes blinking longer until your head finally moves, looking around properly. Then you pull yourself straight, hands rubbing at your face as you push through the blurry haze and back to reality.

“Y’alright there Reaper? Heard what happened, doesnt sound too good.” The car door had opened, Soap’s mohawk brushing against the ceiling of the car as he climbed into the passenger seat, looking back at you in concern. He glances at Ghost, who gives him a look and then over to Gaz who’s climbing into the back, having just swapped seats with Ghost. However, they all freeze when you let out a small noise, almost like you’re choking on air itself.

“Deep breaths, okay? Look at me– look at me.” Ghost is already in the backseat again, his hands on your arms as he pulls them away from your chest, watching as you breathe frantically, eyes unfocused. “Can’t–”

“Yes you can.” He’s firm this time, almost commanding and you take in a long breath, before exhaling it just as deeply. Again, he instructs you, over and over until your hands are just trembling on your lap, held down by him before you attack yourself again, like you had done for months prior. They squirm against his large palms but he insists, keeping them far from you. “Look at me.” Finally, your eyes snap up to him, pupils frantic and darting around, but they find no solace in his empty face, unable to calm themselves in someone who looks like death themselves.

He curses loudly as your pulse screams against his hands, your eyes frozen on his, whilst Gaz sticks the key into the ignition, waiting for some family to pass by so he can pull out of the parking lot. Ghost is running out of options, especially as your hands are trying harder to break free, unable to fight off the urge to tear into yourself. He can tell you’re overwhelmed, the squint of your eyes showing that you’re trying to fight against yourself. So he does the next best thing possible to keep your eyes on him.

One hand leaves yours, allowing you to finally ease that urge, to attack relentlessly at yourself just to rid of the hatred caused by everything you’ve come to feel in the past hour. Your nails are perfectly blunt but they’ll work, you’ll make it work if it means your heart will stop trying to come out of your throat. You look up on instinct, fingers curled into your hair when you are suddenly still at the sight before you.

Blonde eyelashes, yes, but also the curve of a nose, the wrinkles of concern in a forehead and the parting of worried lips. Unmasked, emotions written in the hitch of his Adam's apple and cheeks paled, faded marks etched into them like a scripture lost to time. You pause to stare, the sight enough to let your hands drop down into his, and for your own face to relax. It’s the same expression you wore when you first met him, oddly curious and strangely naive.

He lets out a long sigh and doesn't wait another second to strap you in while you’re still distracted, promptly tugging you into his side along with one hand to cover your own just in case you get the slightest itch again. “Think it’s time we get home now.” The two sergeants are slightly shocked themselves, despite already seeing his face many times before. “Right… um, buckle up.” Gaz mumbles, finally pulling out and heading through the greenery back to base.

—------------------------------------------------

You had slumped against his side for the rest of that journey; whether you wanted it or not you’re not really sure,but you definitely needed it. The drive back had helped you clear your mind as well as the generally quiet atmosphere, apart from the occasional talking, and now you’d finally returned to your room. Soap had unloaded the first haul of things from the car, only letting you carry a few bedsheets, and brought it to your room. They had painted the walls the day prior, making it a lot brighter with a simple light blue, something you had chosen given how intrigued you were by the sea the first time you saw it. Plus, it didn't hurt your eyes to look at either.

“You sure yer alrigh’ on yer own?” He asks, genuine worry written on his face but you really needed some time to process all of this.

—

You pull off the last pillow case cover, discarding the worn material to the corner where the rest are piled up already. First of all, you couldnt remember half of the things that happened after you smelt that lavender card. It was weird, you remembered everything you felt during the moment, the raw intensity but absolutely nothing that followed after. Almost as if you were never meant to know at all.

And had Ghost really dragged you out of the shop? It seemed impossible that you could get that preoccupied, but seeing as how you are after extreme levels of stress in the evac vehicles, it makes sense the same thing could occur. Even you can't deny that everything has been way too overwhelming recently, from the seizure to the panic you went through earlier today, it felt like all your past problems were amplified.

As exhausted as you were from everything that happened, you couldn't help but feel strange knowing that for once in your life, you didn't suffer alone through that episode. It’s terrifying every single time, and it would’ve been much easier to deal with if Ghost had just commanded you to stop. But he had chosen the safer route for you, and the more difficult one for him. It felt wrong seeing his face like that, in a time of your own desperation, but it was his choice at the end of the day and a small part of you really hopes it was actually to help you.

Not just to shut you up.

Regardless, you may have not originally wanted to go on this trip but you came out of it feeling strangely lighter, the hole that normally eats at your chest feeling oddly satisfied today. Maybe it won't tomorrow, but for now you don't want to think too hard on the specifics. You can just accept it this time.

———-

Evening comes quickly, and he knows the sergeants had brought you to eat dinner in the mess hall. It was always good to see you up and around, but he had matters to discuss with Price considering the plan forward, potential involvement in missions. The higher ups were satiated by the golden results produced by you before your painful breakdown, but they’d start getting suspicious by the lack of results depending how long they left this. That’s not exactly a current issue though, and the conversation was more of a report for how you were doing today.

Ghost makes sure to stop by the common room before he checks on you tonight, the microwave whirring softly. You’ve still had steady nightmares all week, and also never go into detail about what they include nor do you go to them about it either. It frustrates him slightly, since he wants to know every occurence and understand the patterns and so, but he knows he can't push this. He doesn't have the right.

—

“Reaper? Fallen asleep yet?” You’re laying in bed, exhausted out of your mind from the day’s events and the episode earlier. Eyes drooped as usual but, just like other nights, you were in a half haze between awake and asleep. He’s not sure if it was something to do with being afraid of having more nightmares, or simply insomnia, but either way you wouldn’t ever give a proper answer.

“..No.” It’s less monotone this time, quiet and soft as you lay beneath your brand new duvet, head sunken into the soft pillows. This is heaven for you, if you’re being completely honest but something still keeps you up, mind whirring.

“That’s ‘cause you forgot these.” You’re staring at the bedsheets, not bothered with whatever method he wants to try today, when the two plushies are tucked in right beside you. A wolf with it’s stupid tufts of fur on it’s head and a.. scottish flag? Ghost stifles his chuckle at your sleepy confusion, pulling the blanket a little higher over you. “I left the sergeants to buy it after you conked out. Soap had a bit of fun with the accessories.”

Your fingers graze over the little flag playfully tied over the wolf’s shoulders like a cape, the soft material rubbing against your raw hands from the struggling. Then your gaze shifts to the eagle, which has a matching cap like Gaz’s, along with a makeshift dog tag hung around its neck. You like it, a lot actually, it’s soft and fuzzy, similar to how the fox plushie used to be. Unfortunately it’s practically all matted now.

Both of them are warm through and through, the beads inside providing a comforting heat that feels like a hug… similar to the one Price gave you before. What gets you the most is the scent though; the eagle has an orangey citrus but the tang is cut off with notes of pine It hits you straight away like the lavender but it’s calming this time, like switching your brain off. Although the wolf has a different one, like freshly cut grass, seasalt and wood. The combination makes your head swim, quelling the thoughts that had once contaminated it, and even the weight of the eagle’s heavy beads forces the breath you’ve been keeping in for too long out of you.

But just as you’re settling, Ghost reaches forward, gently pressing the chest of the wolf. A soft pulse vibrates against you, muffled yet so present.

He leans against the door as your eyes flicker shut, content by the stuffed animals tucked beside you. Your breaths even out quickly too, expression practically melting as you give into the exhaustion that’s eaten you up for a month and a half now.

It had been years ago, but he had once talked to a K9 handler, one who had the responsibility of temporarily looking after some vulnerable pups after they had been found on the field. “They miss their parents a lot.” The man had said, carrying the puppy in his arms as it wriggled and squirmed.

“But you know what trick always works? Something warm— a hot water bottle maybe. Stick an old timer beneath it and it imitates the mother. They knock out every time.”

The man had chuckled, and just as he said, the puppy had fallen asleep instantly, feeling safe and content where it lay.

———————————

NEXT Series Masterlist

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tags:

@mellohimmku94 @rafaelacallinybbay @fasoaurore @starfish-sandwich @arael-asuka @pinkpickle @toxicgutz69 @pythonmoth @harmonycricket @sneezypandu @ctrlofurheart @ssc7514 @terrifiedanimegirl @rayrayyio @silas-aeiou @uhhevie @enfppuff @sirbonesly @nobodycanknoww @bitchyzombienacho @justdamnpeachy @harley101399 @w1theredr0se @whoisnthere @lexi2005 @nnsissys @el-salt @ttznlett @thebumbqueen @thriving-n-jiving @fluffysmiko @vioxsoo @alex1011sdzfgh @honestlymassivetrash @defronix @eclipsedcherry @thatpersonnamedrook @mortem-writes @2bdamnedmadnesscombat @princessiris147 @taylorrrig @tessakate @faeriepigeons @blackhawkfanatic @cryingpages

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part III

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have fed The Boys a proper meal, you have told Hughie the truth, and you have retired to your room for the night to read, but Ben? Ben has other plans. And he'll let you read while he acts on them.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting, implied breeding), misogyny, poetry enthusiasm, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,414

A/N: AHHHH! Okay, okay I did it. I actually managed to end it all out on part three. Which was harder than I expected because I don't struggle to hear dialogue for Ben... hell, I'm pretty sure my inner monologue is just voiced by Ben. I LOVED this lil series. And I'm pretty proud of it. Not me, sitting in my bedroom, reading poetry, and writing utter filth. <3 Feel free to give any feedback, my loves. I live for it. And keep an eye out, because I've already got another disgusting idea simmering on a spare burner in my brain. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

The kitchen smelled like butter, garlic, and warm spices, the air thick with the scent of something hearty, something real, something that didn’t come out of a takeout container or a gas station wrapper.

And God, they needed it.

You thought it was a miracle any of them were still functioning at all, considering their idea of sustenance seemed to be black coffee, stale snacks, and the occasional questionable protein bar.

And now they were all bickering at the table, voices overlapping, sharp and easy, full of sarcasm and exasperation.

"This is a terrible idea," Hughie was saying, his voice strained, mildly distressed, but not entirely serious.

"It is a great idea," Frenchie countered, clearly entertained, clearly the cause of Hughie’s distress.

"We are absolutely not doing that," MM cut in, unimpressed, firm, final.

"Oh, come now, mon frère—"

"No."

"You do not even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say."

You could practically hear Frenchie’s smirk, even without turning around. "What was I going to say?"

"Something stupid."

"That is subjective, mon ami."

"That is a fact."

"The fuck are you even arguin' about?" Butcher cut in, voice gruff, mildly entertained, mostly indifferent.

"Whether or not it would be more efficient to steal a van and turn it into a mobile base instead of keeping safe houses." MM exhaled sharply. "Which is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard all week."

"Oh, come on." Frenchie sounded offended. "It is not the dumbest thing. What about when petit Hughie—"

"Okay, nope," Hughie interrupted immediately. "We don’t need to rehash every dumb thing I’ve ever said—"

"But, it is a very long list."

"Jesus Christ," Hughie muttered, rubbing his temples.

You smiled to yourself, stirring the pot in front of you, listening as the conversation continued, voices overlapping, sarcasm flying, banter light but full of warmth.

Because this? This felt good. This felt normal. Or, at least, as normal as things got in a place like this, with people like this.

It had been a couple of days now. A couple of days since you had felt the weight of Ben’s hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his breath against your lips. A couple of days since he had spat into your mouth and kissed you until you swallowed it. A couple of days since he had made you tremble against him, made you gasp and whimper and melt, made you feel things you weren’t sure you could ever unfeel.

And now? Now the mark on your neck was almost gone.

The deep bruise, once dark and obvious and impossible to ignore, had faded to something faint, something barely there, something that would disappear completely in another day or two.

And that should have been a relief.But instead? It was disappointing.

Because for the last couple of days, whenever you caught your reflection, whenever your fingers brushed against the sore, tender skin—

You liked it.

You liked the way it looked. You liked the way it contrasted against your pale skin. You liked the way it felt, lingering, tangible, undeniable. You liked having evidence of what he did to you. You liked having a reminder that Ben wanted to mark you, wanted to mar you, wanted to leave something behind.

And now it was almost gone.

You swallowed, pushing the thought away, shaking your head slightly as you reached for the salt, giving the pot another stir before glancing toward the table.

Hughie had moved on to complaining about something else, MM looked mildly entertained, Butcher was only half-listening, and Frenchie—

Frenchie was looking at you, and the moment your eyes met, he smirked.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing, mon ange."

"No, what?"

"Just noticing something, that is all."

You bristled. "Noticing what?"

Frenchie shrugged, leaning back in his chair, all casual, all smug.

"You seem distracted."

Your pulse jumped.

"I’m not distracted."

"Mm," he hummed, clearly not believing you at all.

"I’m not," you insisted.

Frenchie smirked. Kimiko giggled. Hughie was still oblivious. And Butcher? Butcher was looking at Hughie, like he was considering bringing up the hickey conversation again.

Hughie noticed immediately. "No," he said firmly.

Butcher lifted a brow.

"Didn’t say anything."

"You were going to."

"You don’t fuckin' know that."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe I just like watchin' you get all worked up about it, sunshine."

Hughie groaned, rubbing his temples again. "I hate all of you."

Frenchie grinned.

"That is fair."

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head, turning back to your cooking, hoping—praying—that this conversation didn’t circle back to you again.

Because the last thing you needed was Hughie, Butcher, or MM asking why you looked like you were lost in thought, fingers occasionally brushing against your barely-there hickey, like you were already missing it.

And the last thing you needed was for Ben to notice. Because if he did? He wouldn’t let you pretend otherwise.

The scent of garlic and butter thickened in the air, warm and rich, curling against the edges of your senses as you leaned down, checking the chicken in the oven, stirring the rice, grounding yourself in the simple, tangible task of cooking.

That was easier.

Easier than thinking. Easier than the way your stomach had twisted just minutes earlier, the way your fingers had unconsciously brushed against your fading hickey. Easier than Frenchie’s smirk, Kimiko’s silent giggles, the lingering amusement written all over Butcher’s face.

Easier than remembering.

And then he walked in. You didn’t see him at first. Didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t let yourself react. But you felt it. The second Ben stepped into the kitchen, the second his presence entered the room, something in your gut tightened, twisted, pulled.

And when you finally did glance up, you froze.

Because for once, he wasn’t in sweats. He wasn’t lounging around in worn-out gray fabric, wasn’t stretched out like he owned the place, wasn’t slouched in that lazy, self-assured way that made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

No.

Tonight, Ben was in jeans. Dark, fitted, perfectly worn denim that sat obscenely well on his frame, hugging his thighs, cinching his waist, drawing your attention in places you really, really didn’t need it to go.

And his shirt? White. Clean. Fitted. Something so simple, something so casual, and yet—

He looked fucking good.

So good that your breath caught for a split second, caught somewhere high and tight in your throat, caught before you could suppress the visceral reaction clawing up your spine.

But you buried it. You hid behind the task in front of you, forcing your gaze back to the rice, back to the stovetop, back to anything but him.

Because if you looked at him for too long—

He would notice. And he already noticed too much.

Ben settled into a chair at the table, and the conversation lulled just slightly, just for a beat, just long enough to make you nervous.

And then—

"You know what?" Frenchie’s voice was too easy. Too light. Too deliberate.

Your stomach tightened. You didn’t turn.

"I think we should start taking bets on who gave her the love-bite."

The room shifted. Hughie groaned immediately, head dropping into his hands as he exhaled hard, exasperated, like he had been dreading this exact moment.

"Oh, my God, can we not?"

"Why not?" Butcher cut in, grinning like he was thoroughly enjoying the reaction. "Ain’t like she leaves the safe house. Ain’t like she’s got time to go out and get picked up by some poor bastard at a bar."

Your heart stammered. You straightened up too fast. Your eyes went wide.

"I—" You cleared your throat, too stiff, too quick, already stumbling. "I don’t think discussing my sex life is appropriate table talk."

Butcher waved you off.

"Oh, don’t be so uptight, love." He leaned back in his chair, smirking, entirely too entertained. "We’re all mates here."

"Unfortunately," Frenchie sighed, resting his chin in his palm. "It was not me."

Your scowl was immediate.

"Shut up, Frenchie."

"What? You wound me, mon ange." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning wide. "I am simply eliminating suspects."

"Sure as fuck weren’t me," Butcher added easily.

Your stomach turned.

"And obviously," Butcher continued, looking pointedly at Hughie, "wasn’t sunshine over there, ‘cause they ain’t from Alabama."

Hughie gagged. "Jesus Christ, will you all shut the fuck up?" He groaned, palms dragging over his face.

"Wasn’t me," MM chimed in, completely straight-faced.

The room fell silent.

Your stomach bottomed out. Your hands felt suddenly useless at your sides, fingers twitching slightly, nerves firing up your spine like a live wire.

Because now? Now, there was only one name left. Now, there was only one suspect still sitting at the table. Now, there was only one man in the room who hadn’t spoken.

Ben.

Your breath hitched. The silence stretched too long. Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.

"Shit," Butcher muttered, too casual, too easy, too deliberately baiting. "Guess that narrows it down."

Your stomach twisted violently. Your hands curled into fists. Your mouth opened, closed, opened again—words stammering, barely forming.

"I—"

And then—

"Pass the salt, sweetheart."

Your breath stopped.

The request was low, smooth, entirely indifferent—like he wasn’t even listening to the conversation, like he wasn’t even paying attention.

But you knew better.

Slowly, slowly, you turned your head. Ben was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, utterly relaxed, utterly unfazed, utterly fucking smug.

Like he had been waiting. Like he had been listening to every second of this conversation. Like he had been enjoying every second of your panic.

And when your eyes finally locked with his—

He smirked.

Your pulse jumped violently.

You snatched the salt shaker, shoved it toward him, and spun on your heel, heart hammering, face burning, suddenly desperate to get the hell out of the kitchen.

The scent of chicken and rice hung thick in the air, the low murmur of conversation still circling the room, but the second Hughie started looking between the two of you—you felt it. Each pass of his gaze was like a slow-building storm, narrowing, considering, piecing it together, his expression shifting, morphing, tightening—

And then he said your name.

"No." You muttered, your stomach plummeting. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t react. You just kept moving. Kept pulling the chicken from the oven, kept focusing on the heat blooming from the dish, kept your head down, kept your hands steady.

"Tell me it’s not..."

You swallowed hard. You reached for the knife, and started cutting, slicing, moving—focusing on the repetition, on the task, on the fact that your entire body was burning, burning, burning.

"Tell me it wasn’t Soldier Boy."

Your hands tightened around the knife. The pressure built, a slow, searing wave, spreading from your spine to your cheeks to the tips of your fucking fingers. And then, before you could stop yourself—

"I’m busy cooking, Hughie. Shut up." The words came out too sharp, too clipped, too defensive. A fucking dead giveaway.

And the reaction was immediate. Frenchie let out a mock-horrified gasp, Kimiko giggled behind her hand, and Butcher let out a low, slow whistle, shaking his head.

"Well, shit."

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what you would see.

You knew Hughie would look devastated, betrayed, vaguely nauseous. You knew Frenchie would look obnoxiously entertained. You knew MM would look exasperated but not entirely surprised.

And Ben? Ben would look like this was the best fucking thing he had ever witnessed.

You didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to lift your gaze to feel the weight of it pressing against your skin.

And yet—

You did.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to catch the smug, self-satisfied stretch of his mouth, the lazy tilt of his head, the way his arms folded behind it, shoulders relaxed, wide and lounging, like this was the most entertaining thing he had seen in decades.

Like he was saying, Yeah. That’s right. The fuck are you gonna do about it?

Your stomach twisted violently. The room felt too hot. Too small. Too exposed.

"Dinner’s ready." The words came fast, rushed, nearly tripping over themselves as you shoved the plates onto the counter. "Grab one."

And then you turned on your heel, heart hammering, heat crawling up the back of your neck, stomach twisting so violently you thought you might actually be sick—

And you fled.

Straight out of the kitchen. Straight down the hall. Straight into your room, slamming the door shut, heart pounding against your ribs, blood rushing in your ears.

The door clicked shut behind you as you left again, the quiet stillness of your room melting away as you stepped back into the hall, inhaling deep, smoothing out your dress, rolling your shoulders, setting your expression into something calm, composed, unfazed.

Because you weren’t going to hide.

Not from them. Not from him.

You had spent too much time cooking a real goddamn meal for this group of half-starved idiots to just flee and let them laugh at your expense.

And besides—

You were hungry.

And if you avoided that kitchen now, you’d be admitting defeat. So you lifted your chin, exhaled slow, pushed your shoulders back—and stepped back into the room.

The conversation lulled slightly when they saw you, but you didn’t react to it. Didn’t acknowledge the glances, the smirks, the barely contained amusement still lingering at the edges of the table.

You just walked straight to the counter, grabbed the last bowl sitting there, and made your way to the seat beside Kimiko. She was already mid-bite, eyes lighting up as she chewed, nodding enthusiastically before she turned to you, signing quickly.

Frenchie grinned, watching her hands move before translating.

"She says you are a fantastic cook."

A warm rush of satisfaction spread through your chest.

"Thanks, Kimiko."

She signed again, more deliberate this time, gesturing toward MM.

Frenchie smirked.

"She also says MM has not eaten a decent meal in months."

MM sighed heavily, shaking his head. "She ain’t wrong." He scooped up another bite of rice, exhaling through his nose. "This is amazing, kid."

"I try." You shrugged, feeling the tension ease, just slightly, just enough to settle back into something normal.

But across from you—

Hughie wasn’t eating.

He was just pushing his food around his plate, his face drawn tight, expression still a little pale, still a little mortified.

You chewed slowly, watching him, waiting. And then, when it became too much, when the weight of his stare got unbearable—

"Hughie."

He stilled immediately. His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and waiting, like he already knew what was coming.

You sat up straighter, swallowed the bite in your mouth, and said, calm, level, unwavering. "Not that it’s any of your business."

His throat bobbed.

You let your gaze sweep around the table, deliberate, pointed, making sure everyone fucking heard you.

"It’s not anyone’s business."

The message was clear. You weren’t going to be hounded about this.

Not by Hughie. Not by Frenchie, who was already smirking. Not by Butcher, who was still half-grinning like he was waiting for round two.

And definitely not by Ben.

"I’m a grown woman." Your voice didn’t waver. "I make my own decisions."

You leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"And you don’t need to act like such a virgin about it."

The reaction was immediate.

Hughie choked. Butcher barked out a laugh. Frenchie, halfway through a sip of water, nearly spit it out. Kimiko giggled, MM sighed, and Hughie struggled to regain control, mouth opening, closing, then opening again like he was searching for something to say, something to argue.

And then, after a beat—

He nodded once, sharp, decisive.

"I get it." The words were resigned, stiff, but honest. "You’re a grown woman."

A pause.

And then—

"Oh, so you don’t mind me stickin’ it to your little sister then, huh?"

The table erupted.

"OH, COME ON!" Hughie practically shouted, throwing his hands up.

Butcher fucking howled, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head, muttering “Jesus Christ.”

Frenchie was already laughing into his palm, Kimiko hiding her giggles behind her sleeve, MM shaking his head like he was officially done with the whole conversation.

And Ben was still leaned back in his chair, grinning, eyes half-lidded, looking like he had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop that bomb.

"Fucking hell," Hughie muttered, palming his forehead.

"What?" Ben shrugged, unbothered, entirely too smug. "Thought we were bein’ honest here. Ain’t that what you said, sweetheart?"

Your stomach flipped. Your face burned.

And Ben just smirked, looking you over slowly, deliberately, dragging his gaze from your flushed face down to your throat, where the last traces of that hickey had almost completely faded.

"Shame it’s almost gone."

Your breath stammered.

"Looked good on you."

The whole table caught that. And if they weren’t sure before? They sure as hell knew now.

The clatter of plates, the scrape of silverware against ceramic, the last few murmurs of conversation filled the kitchen as everyone finished their food, stretching back in their seats, shifting into post-meal satisfaction.

You stood, gathering up the empty dishes, stacking them carefully, taking them to the sink in smooth, practiced motions.

"I am not doing the dishes." You turned, arms folding over your chest, tone firm, unwavering. "I cooked. Someone else can handle it."

Frenchie huffed a laugh, Butcher grunted something amused, MM already looked like he was about to get stuck with the chore.

But you didn’t wait to see who would actually take the job. You just excused yourself, stepped out of the kitchen, and walked down the hall, feeling the weight of the evening still pressing against your ribs, still lingering at the edges of your mind.

You needed a moment. A breath. A break. And you found it on your bed, curling up with a poetry book, letting the words fold around you, trying to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm, the cadence, the softness of it.

And for a few minutes—

It worked. It was quiet. Still. Peaceful.

Until the temperature in the room shifted. A slow, creeping awareness washed over you, an undeniable, unmistakable presence filling the space before you even lifted your gaze from the page.

Your stomach tightened. Because you didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He didn’t knock. Of course, he didn’t knock. He just sauntered in, all slow, all deliberate, all lazy confidence and quiet possession.

And when you finally did glance up, he was leaning against the doorframe. One shoulder pressed into the wood, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly, watching you with something dark, something amused, something like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Your heart rate spiked, because you could feel him. You could feel him in the way the air grew heavier, the way your skin prickled, the way your body reacted before your mind could even fully process it.

You swallowed, forced your eyes back to the book, back to the words, back to the safety of distraction.

"That was some good food."

His voice was low, slow, easy.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the warmth crawl up your neck, felt your stomach twist, felt something coil tight in your chest.

"Didn’t know you could cook."

You kept your eyes on the page. Kept your fingers steady. Kept your breathing even.

But you knew.

You fucking knew.

He was waiting.

Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for you to slip. Waiting for you to let him in.

The door clicked shut.

"Y’know," he mused, slow, thoughtful, mocking in a way that was almost too soft to be cruel. "Makes me wonder."

Your throat went tight.

"How a sweet little thing like you ain’t been snatched up yet."

The book in your hands felt suddenly too heavy, too clumsy, too fucking useless.

"Pretty little thing." His voice dipped lower, rougher. "Smart. Can cook."

A pause.

A slow, dragging beat.

And then—

"Perfect little housewife."

Your breath hitched. Your grip tightened.

And he caught it. A smirk curled at the edges of his mouth, something knowing, something wrecking, something that felt like it had been waiting to unravel you.

"Yeah." He pushed off the doorway, stepping closer, stepping in, stepping over whatever invisible fucking line you had tried to draw between you. "That gotcha, huh?"

You didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap back like you should have, like you wanted to.

You just stayed still. Sat there on the bed, fingers curled around the book in your lap, breath even, spine straight, forcing yourself not to look up.

Because you couldn’t. Because if you did, he would see it. See the way your pulse had jumped at those words, at the way he said them, at the low, slow, dragging cadence that curled around your spine like a vice. See the way your thighs pressed just a little closer together. See the way your body had betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

But Ben?

Ben already knew. And he was going to make sure you knew it, too.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was soft, dripping with something indulgent, something thick and knowing. "You really think you can fool me?"

You swallowed. Your fingers tensed against the pages, grip tightening just slightly.

"Think you can sit there all pretty, all proper, all quiet—"

A pause. A slow, lazy step forward.

"—like you ain’t sittin’ there so fuckin’ tight your legs are gonna cramp?"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath shook. But you didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t look up.

"C’mon, honey."

Another step. Closer now.

"Ain’t gotta play pretend with me."

Your thighs clenched.

"I see how you get."

Another step. The mattress dipped.

"How you start breathin’ all fast when I talk to you like this."

The warmth in the room curled tighter.

"How you start squeezin’ those little thighs together when I say somethin’ that makes you feel all weak inside."

His knees brushed against the bed frame.

"How you try so hard not to react—"

A beat. A hum. And then—

"—but I still fuckin’ see it."

Your pulse pounded. Because he wasn’t wrong. He did see it. He always saw it.

"Yeah." His voice was closer now, thicker, rich with amusement and indulgence and slow, creeping filth. "You like that, huh?"

You stayed silent.

"You like when I say shit like that."

Your jaw tensed.

"Like when I tell you how sweet you look sittin’ there all stiff, pretendin’ your little pussy ain’t throbbin’ for me."

Your stomach dropped. Heat rushed up your spine, across your chest, down between your thighs.

"Like when I call you my pretty little housewife."

A sharp, shuddering exhale.

"Bet you like the sound of that, huh?"

Your nails dug into the pages.

"Bet you’d like it even better if I said it while I was stuffin’ that pretty little cunt full of my cock."

Your breath stammered. Your whole body felt overheated, overrun, overtaken.

And he knew. Because you weren’t snapping at him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t pushing him away. You were just listening.

"Yeah." His voice dipped even lower, velvet-wrapped sin, filth softened into something coaxing, indulgent, sweet. "Knew that’d getcha."

And then, as if drawn by gravity, by some invisible, undeniable force—

You moved.

Shifted onto your knees, sitting up straighter, book still resting in your lap, hands curled around the edges of the pages. Your eyes dragged up—slow, hesitant, wrecked. And when they finally locked with his—

Ben smirked.

Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you. And you both fucking knew it.

Ben stood over you, broad and solid, blocking out the low light of your lamp, casting long shadows across the room.

You were still kneeling on the bed, book in your lap, knees pressed together, back straight, head tilted up—

And he was looking at you like he’d already fucking won. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, fingers trailing toward your face, warm and rough as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath stammered. Your body locked up, too aware, too tight, too hot.

And then—

"I’m gonna."

Your stomach flipped. Your lips parted. Your head tilted just slightly, pulse hammering, voice barely a whisper.

"Gonna what?"

He smirked. That slow, devastating, honey-thick smirk. And then, without moving back, without breaking eye contact, without giving you a single second to brace for it—

He leaned in.

Lips almost against yours. Nose brushing yours. Eyes dark, heavy-lidded, devouring.

"Gonna fuck you."

A sharp, wrecked sound crawled up your throat. A soft, strangled squeak, barely audible, barely there.

And he heard it. Oh, he fucking heard it. His smirk stretched wider, full of something indulgent, something ravenous, something wrecking.

And he pulled back. Just slightly, just enough to let the air between you shift, just enough to watch you wobble, just enough to watch the slow realisation crawl through your body.

Then he tapped the spine of your book, the movement so casual, so nonchalant, so utterly opposite to what he’d just said that your brain stalled completely.

"What’re you readin’ tonight, sweetheart?"

Your breath stuttered. Your brain lagged. Your lips parted, trying to piece together the sudden shift, trying to pull yourself back, trying to steady yourself.

"I—" You swallowed. "Sappho."

Your voice was barely there, breathless, shaken.

And he grinned.

"Again, huh?" He exhaled slow, easy, stepping forward, towering over you, letting his fingertips graze over the hem of your nightdress. "Y’know, sweetheart, I think I’m startin’ to get a taste for poetry."

And then he moved you. Hands gripping your thighs, strong, warm, spreading them apart, shifting you effortlessly so your legs hung open at the edge of the bed.

You gasped, hands catching yourself against the mattress, book slipping from your lap.

And Ben knelt.

He sank to his knees, settling between your legs, hands dragging slow over your thighs, stroking up, up, up, teasing over your skin, pushing beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips brushing the lace of your panties.

Your whole body shook.

"Read somethin’ for me, baby."

Your breath hitched.

"C’mon." His thumbs brushed soft circles against your inner thighs, slow, lazy, patient. "Lemme hear it."

The book had fallen from your lap, pages fanned out against the floor, the words lost in the weight of the moment, in the heat curling through your body. But Ben just reached down, scooped it up with lazy ease, brushing off the cover before pressing it back into your trembling hands.

"Don’t lose your place now, sweetheart."

And then—

His fingers brushed over your clit. A slow, lazy pass over the thin fabric of your panties, teasing, coaxing, not nearly enough.

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened. Your thighs twitched, but he caught them, thumbs stroking soft over the insides of them, holding them open, keeping you there.

And then, lower.

His touch slid down, pressing against the damp fabric, dragging slow, deliberate, feeling the heat, the slick, the evidence of how fucking ruined you already were.

He hummed, low, approving, smug.

"Always so fuckin’ wet for me."

Your stomach dropped. Your face burned. And before you could react—

He moved. Stood suddenly, pulling you up with him like you weighed nothing, like you were his to move, his to hold, his to do whatever the fuck he wanted with.

A startled gasp slipped from your lips, hands catching against his chest, book clutching tight in your grip as he dropped back down onto the bed, pulling you with him, pulling you into his lap, pulling you against him.

You were breathless, wide-eyed, straddling his thighs, held firm in his grasp, his hands smoothing slow over your waist, your hips, your thighs.

"Read to me."

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse stammered.

"Again?" Your voice was smaller now, breathless, uncertain.

His grin stretched wider, eyes heavy, dark, devouring.

"Liked it last time."

You swallowed. You nodded. And then, slowly, you looked down. The pages in your lap blurred slightly at the edges, your hands still trembling, your breath uneven. But you found the words. And you started to read.

"He's equal with the Gods, that man—"

His lips brushed against your throat.

Your voice hitched.

"Who sits across from you, face to face—"

His mouth dragged over your jaw, slow, soft, warm.

"Close enough, to sip your voice’s sweetness—"

A kiss, just beneath your ear. Your fingers trembled against the pages.

"And what excites my mind, your laughter, glittering. So—"

His lips found yours. Soft, coaxing, tasting the words as they slipped from your tongue.

"When I see you, for a moment, my voice goes—"

His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath shuddered.

"My tongue freezes. Fire, delicate fire, in the flesh—"

His fingers pressed against you again, warm, firm, teasing, coaxing.

"Blind, stunned, the sound of thunder, in my ears—"

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, parting them effortlessly, drinking in the shaky breath that tumbled from your mouth.

"Shivering with sweat, cold tremors over the skin—"

Your whole body shook.

"I turn the colour of dead grass—"

His teeth caught your bottom lip, a slow, indulgent pull, breaking only to murmur against your mouth—

"Yeah, sweetheart." His hands tightened on your thighs, fingers teasing at the lace of your panties, thumbs stroking against the heat of your skin. "Think you’re feelin’ it now, huh?"

Your breath stammered. Your spine curved. Your head tipped back.

And then—

"I’m an inch from dying."

The book slipped from your hands. Your whole body burned. And Ben just smirked. Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

The book had fallen from your lap, forgotten, abandoned. Your hands were shaking, trembling, weak as they slid down his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the muscle underneath, pressing, searching.

Ben chuckled, low, indulgent, watching you with something slow-burning, something wrecking, something like he had known all along that this was exactly how it would happen.

"That’s it, sweetheart." His voice was like whiskey and honey, thick and warm, sinking into your skin. "Knew you’d get there eventually."

Your fingers fumbled at his belt, struggling with the buckle, heart hammering, pulse quickening as he shifted, letting you. Letting you fall deeper. Letting you give yourself to him completely.

"Never thought a sweet little thing like you would be so goddamn eager."

His fingers dragged slow over your panties, teasing, pressing, feeling how wet you were for him. You whined. High and soft, breath stuttering, body arching, desperate for more, for him, for everything. And he was eating it up.

"Goddamn." He groaned, grinning wide, wrecked, indulgent. "You were fuckin’ made for this, huh?"

Your breath shook. Your hands grasped at him, pulling, pulling, needing more, needing him. And then you nipped at his lip. A small, instinctual thing, sharp and fleeting, a barely-there bite—

And he lost it.

"Fuck—"

A rough, low groan, a quick, sharp inhale, then, suddenly, he had you pinned tighter against him, hands gripping, anchoring, locking you against his chest.

"Good girl." His voice was lower now, thicker, reverent and wrecking all at once. "That’s my good fuckin' girl."

His hands slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, two fingers, deep, stretching, filling. Sinking in with zero resistance, aided by the slick mess between your legs. Entirely his doing.

Your whole body jerked. A sharp, wrecked gasp tore from your throat, high and soft, muffled against his mouth.

And Ben just groaned.

"Shit."

His free hand gripped at your hip, holding you still as his fingers pressed in deeper, curling slow, deliberate, seeking that gummy spot he knew you liked, until—

"There she is."

Your back arched violently. A broken, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, spine curving, thighs twitching as he found it, that perfect, spongey spot inside you, pressing, coaxing, pulling you apart.

"There she fuckin' is." His voice was softer now, sweet and filthy all at once, the perfect fucking juxtaposition, his lips brushing yours, drinking in every single sound you gave him. "Knew you’d feel so fuckin’ good like this."

Your hands were shaking, gripping onto his belt, onto his shirt, onto anything, but nothing was enough.

"That’s my fuckin' girl."

His fingers pumped slow, lazy, stroking deep, pulling back just to press in again, dragging against that spot that made your whole body go tight and weak all at once.

"Knew you’d fall for me eventually."

Your breath caught. Your thighs clenched around his hips.

His fingers curled inside you again, stroking, pressing, coaxing, dragging you closer and closer, making you shake against him.

Your hands grasped at his chest, at his belt, at anything, mind spinning, breath stammering, the heat curling up your spine making it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but want.

And Ben? Ben was watching you fall apart like it was the most fun he’d had in decades.

"You wanna come, baby?"

You nodded. A frantic, desperate little nod, teeth catching your bottom lip, thighs tight around his hips.

"Yeah?"

His free hand slipped to your waist, gripping, anchoring you down against him.

"My sweet little thing wants to come on my fingers, huh?"

You whined. Pressed closer. Kept stroking over the thick outline of his cock, palming him through his jeans, feeling the heat, the weight of him.

And he just groaned.

"Fuckin’ hell."

He was grinning now, indulgent, wrecked, soaking in every desperate little movement, every sound, every way your body responded to him.

"So goddamn eager."

His fingers slipped deeper, pressing right against that perfect, wrecking spot, pushing, pushing, pushing—

And then?

Riiiip.

A sharp, rough tear of fabric—

And suddenly, you were bare.

The middle seam of your panties was gone, split right down the centre, the ruined lace still sitting around your hips like some kind of harness, some kind of reminder that he could tear you open any fucking way he wanted.

You gasped. Your whole body jerked. And you shattered. A wrecked, high whimper caught in your throat, back arching, legs trembling, pleasure rushing through you like a violent, unstoppable flood.

Ben just laughed, a low, rough chuckle, pleased, indulgent, so fucking smug you could feel it radiating off of him.

"There you go, there you fuckin' go."

His hands tightened on you, holding you through it, watching you fall apart in his lap, soaking his fingers, making a mess of him.

"Mine."

Your breath shuddered, body still twitching, thighs still shaking, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. He shifted—lifting you slightly, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock, groaning deep as the thick, aching weight of it slapped against his stomach.

And then he pulled you back down. Not inside you—

Not yet. But close. Too close.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice was wrecked, heavy, soaked in something filthy and reverent all at once.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you against him, using the slick mess you had just made to rut himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, coating himself in you.

You choked on a gasp. The heat of him, the weight of him, the feel of his cock dragging over your swollen clit, the way he was gripping you like he’d been waiting years for this—it was too much.

And his mouth was running.

"Fuck, look at you."

A sharp, rough thrust against you, a groan catching in his throat.

"So goddamn sweet."

Another grind, another filthy drag of his cock over your soaked cunt, slick coating him, making him groan deep, grip tightening.

"So soft."

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips, teasing, wrecking, making you twitch, making you whimper.

"Fuckin' knew you’d take me like this."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, trying to hold onto something—

"Always knew you’d be my perfect little thing."

A low, dragging groan, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your lips.

"Gonna let me fuck you now, baby?"

Your nod was barely there, barely a movement, barely enough—but for Ben? It was everything. Because the second you gave him that little signal?

You were gone.

And he fucking knew it.

He moved fast, too fast, flipping you beneath him, pressing you into the mattress before you even had a chance to breathe, to think, to do anything but gasp as the air shifted around you.

Your back hit the sheets, a sharp, startled yelp slipping from your lips—

And then he was there.

Between your legs. Caging you in. Looming over you.

His hands braced at either side of your head, his body settling against yours, the thick, heavy weight of his cock dragging through your slick folds, coating himself in the mess he’d already pulled from you.

And when you looked up, he was grinning. That slow, wolfish, cocky fucking grin.

"Ain’t backin’ out now, sweetheart."

You shook your head. A shaky, breathless, desperate little shake.

Ben just chuckled. "Yeah." His hand slid down, gripping your hip, holding you still, keeping you open. "Didn’t think so."

And then he pushed inside.

Your breath caught. Your whole body went tense, burning, stretching, aching, feeling every single inch of him as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper—

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

His voice was wrecked, strained, groaning low as he pushed further, sinking slow, letting himself feel every tight, wet inch of you around him.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard, too hard, trying to keep quiet, trying to brace yourself—but Ben wasn’t having that.

"Nah." His thumb brushed against your mouth, catching your lip, pulling it free. "None of that, baby."

He sank deeper, pressing in until there was nowhere left to go, until he was fully seated inside you, until he had stretched you open completely.

"Holy fuck—"

His head tipped back, a sharp, ragged breath ripping through him, his fingers gripping tight at your waist, holding you there, keeping you full.

"You’re so goddamn tight."

His hips flexed, his cock twitching inside you, a low, reverent groan slipping from his lips.

"So wet. Jesus Christ, doll—"

He shifted, rocking forward just slightly, making you feel every thick inch of him, making sure you knew exactly what you had taken.

"Think I'm gonna break you, baby."

His grin was wrecked now, breathless, his mouth running, running, running.

"Never felt a cunt like this."

Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails scraping over muscle, body trembling under him.

"Gonna lose my fuckin’ mind."

His hips rolled slow, just a little, just enough to make you whimper, just enough to feel the way your walls clenched around him, the way your body took him so perfectly.

"Gonna bruise your insides, baby."

A low, growling sound, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, kissing, sucking, biting—

"Gonna make sure you feel me for days."

His teeth scraped against your pulse point, tongue smoothing over it, sucking, tasting, claiming.

"Gonna leave you so fuckin’ full, you won’t even be able to think straight."

Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His grip tightened.

"Gonna leave my marks all over you, sweetheart."

A sharp nip at your collarbone, another, another, his mouth dragging over your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite.

"Gonna make this pretty skin all purple and red."

Your hands were shaking now, grasping at his shoulders, at his back, at anything, at everything.

"Gonna ruin you."

His lips found yours, hot, hungry, devouring, kissing you like he was already lost in you.

"And you’re gonna let me."

Ben was gone. The slow, teasing restraint, the smug, indulgent control? Gone.

All that was left was instinct. All that was left was hunger. All that was left was the sheer, unhinged need to claim, to wreck, to fucking own.

"Fuck, sweetheart—" His voice was rough, guttural, lost, groaning deep as his hips snapped into yours, thrusts hitting deeper, harder, dragging wrecked sounds from your throat. "Knew you had some good fuckin’ sounds bottled up."

His teeth scraped over your jaw, your throat, sucking at the mark he had left days before, deepening it, making sure it was there to fucking stay.

"Knew you’d sound so fuckin’ sweet once I got my cock in you."

You were a mess now, panting, gasping, moaning breathless and desperate as he ruined you, tore you apart, made sure there was nothing left untouched, nothing left unstained.

And then—

He moved you.

A sharp, strong grip on your thigh, pressing it up against your chest, holding it there, using it, fucking you deeper, harder, the new angle making your whole body tremble beneath him.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

A low, wrecked growl, his hands gripping, his body pressing, his thrusts sharp and punishing, dragging sounds from your throat that you’d never heard before.

"You feel that, baby?"

You whimpered.

"Feel how fuckin’ deep I am?"

Your head tipped back, mouth open, breath stolen.

"You’re gonna fuckin’ milk me, sweetheart."

A sharp, wrecked groan, his pace stuttering, hips slamming, his hold on you tightening.

"Gonna make it fuckin’ stick."

Your stomach clenched, thighs trembling, body tightening around him, pleasure clawing up your spine, wrecking you from the inside out.

"Shit, baby—"

His mouth was back on yours, hot, wet, consuming, licking into you like he was already devouring you completely. And then he leaned back. A rough exhale, a sharp drag of his gaze over your face, your swollen lips, your wrecked expression.

"Open."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate. You just obeyed. Mouth parting, lips wet, swollen, breathless, waiting.

And Ben groaned. A deep, wrecked, low sound, eyes rolling back just slightly, his grip on your thigh tightening like he was about to fucking lose it.

"Fuckin' angel, shit—"

He spat into your mouth. A slow, thick drop, messy and filthy and perfect. And you swallowed.

Without question. Without hesitation. Without him even having to ask.

And Ben just stared. Eyes dark, blown wide, breath ragged, his hips snapping rough, sharp, his control completely unraveling.

"Christ on a fuckin' cross, fuckin' sweet, little—" A low, growling sound, his whole body shaking, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate, frenzied. "That’s my fuckin’ girl."

And you weren’t coming back from this. You were his now. It was too much. The way he was pressing you down, the way his hips were slamming into yours, the way his hand was gripping your thigh tight against your chest, his thrusts brutal, unrelenting, deep. The way he was talking to you, fucking you through every wrecked sound, every desperate little whimper, every gasp that slipped past your swollen lips.

And the pleasure?

The pleasure was so sharp, so overwhelming, so good that you started sobbing. Little shaky, breathless sobs, spilling past your lips, unable to hold them back, unable to stop them.

"Feels so good—" A high, broken whimper, head tipping back against the pillows, body trembling, thighs shaking. "Gonna come again—"

Ben groaned, rough and deep, hips snapping forward, fingers digging into your thigh, grip tightening like he could already feel it, like he could already feel you tightening around him, dragging him down with you.

"I know, baby." His voice was wrecked, strained, slurring low against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth scraping over the bruised, marked skin. "Can feel you, sweetheart."

Another harsh thrust, dragging a sob from your throat, making you arch, making you clench tighter around him.

"Fuckin’ milkin’ my cock, ain’t you?"

Your breath stammered, words catching, body tightening.

"Say it, baby."

You whimpered.

"C’mon, sweetheart, say it back."

His voice was low, coaxing, sinful, filth dripping from every syllable as he pushed harder, deeper, making sure you couldn’t focus on anything but him.

"Tell me how bad you want it."

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails digging in, legs trembling around his waist, stomach tightening.

"Tell me who’s fuckin’ you this good."

"You," you sobbed, breathless, desperate, wrecked.

Ben groaned. "Yeah, baby."

Another sharp thrust, deep, so deep, hitting that spot that had you shaking, had you falling, had you right on the edge.

"That’s my girl, my fuckin' girl. Mine." He pushed further. "Say it, baby. Say it all."

His mouth was against your jaw, your ear, his breath hot and heavy and wrecked.

"Tell me who’s makin’ this pretty little pussy come."

Your breath caught, stomach twisting, pleasure blinding, fogging up your brain, making it impossible to think.

"You—"

"Tell me you’re mine."

A wrecked moan, his voice rough, desperate, demanding.

"Yours—"

"Tell me who you belong to, baby."

"You, Ben—"

And that?

That broke him.

A sharp, guttural groan ripped through him, something primal, something wrecked, something utterly fucking feral.

"That’s my fuckin’ housewife."

Your stomach clenched. Your whole body went tight, breath breaking, everything spiralling—

"You’re mine, sweetheart."

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding filthy, his cock twitching, his whole body shuddering.

"Keeping you."

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open, thighs clenching around him, pleasure ripping through you.

"Gonna fill you up, baby."

A wrecked, needy whimper, body trembling, shaking, legs locking around his waist.

"Gonna fuckin’ breed you."

You came so hard you nearly blacked out.

A sharp, wrecked sob tore from your throat, back arching, thighs clenching tight, walls tightening around him so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

And Ben lost it. A rough, wrecked growl, his hips jerking, his cock twitching, a sharp gasp cutting through his teeth—he buried himself deep. Holding you tight, body pressing firm, cock twitching as he spilled inside you, groaning low and ruined against your jaw, pressing his lips hard to your neck.

Filling you. Marking you. Claiming you.

The weight of him crushed you into the mattress. Heavy, solid, sweat-damp and burning, pressing down over every inch of you, keeping you pinned beneath him, holding you there.

And you sighed.

Content. Achey. Buzzing all over.

Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, combing slow, scratching soft at his scalp. And he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t mock you for it.

Instead? He almost leaned into it. Just a little. Like he liked it. Like he could get used to it. His breath fanned hot against your neck, lips still barely brushing over the bruised skin.

"Meant what I fuckin' said."

Your eyes flickered open, still hazy, still buzzing, still high off him.

"What?"

A slow, lazy inhale, his chest rising and falling against yours, pressing warm into you.

"Meant it when I said I’m keepin’ you."

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught.

"Ain’t goin’ nowhere now, sweetheart." His voice was low, scratchy, tired, but so fucking sure, so fucking certain. "And your pussy brother can deal with it."

A small, breathless chuckle slipped past your lips. The first real sound since he’d wrecked you.

"As long as you let me teach you all about poetry—" Your fingers dragged slow through his hair again, smoothing the damp strands. "I’ll be yours for as long as you want."

Ben just grunted. A rough, pleased sound, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the bruise he’d just sucked into your neck.

"Sounds like a fair fuckin' deal to me, honey."

Corruption does not feel like ruin.

Not when it happens like this—slow, creeping, inevitable.

Not when it is whispered against your skin in the dark, not when it is coaxed from your lips between kisses, not when it presses deep inside you and stays there.

Not when you welcome it.

Because corruption is not fire and fury.

It is quieter than that. Softer. A hand that holds instead of strangles. A mouth that bruises instead of bites. A body that cages instead of crushes.

A steady unraveling, thread by thread—until there is nothing left to unravel, until you are something else entirely. Something ruined.

Something claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3 @lunaleah <3

[bartonomy]

A LITTLE MISHAP!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Junior x Gryffindor!fem!reader

SYNOPSIS absolutely bored of your arses, you and your friends accidentally summon something worse than a demon

CONTENT WARNINGS crack!, pandora being the token raven in the lion house, debuting my favourite nickname for dear bartemius

SYNOPSIS 2.3k words

library.

You should have known that any game Pandora Rosier suggested would end in absolute horror.

It started as a totally, regular, normal night. A storm raged outside, rattling the windows of the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, but inside, everything was warm, golden, and just the right amount of chaotic.

James (not part of the plan but insisted to help a damsel in distress (lily)) had sneaked in butterbeer from the kitchens, Marlene was dramatically retelling her latest Quidditch victory (complete with accurate air reenactments) with her girlfriend in her arms, and Mary was sprawled across your bed, half-listening and half-reading the latest Witch Weekly. Dorcas, ever the voice of reason, had been the one to suggest a game, if only to distract Pandora from her latest experiment involving moonstone dust and a stolen Niffler trinket.

And then, of course, Pandora pulled it out.

The book was old- thick, heavy, and bound in a leather that looked suspiciously alive. You have seen it a few times since she acquired it from her equally as eccentric uncle. The pages crinkled like dried leaves as she flipped through them, muttering excitedly under her breath.

“It’s a divination tome,” she explained, eyes gleaming with eerie delight. “But not the fluffy, crystal-ball nonsense Augburn teaches. Real divination. Spells for contacting the other side.”

You exchanged a wary glance with Lily. She looked utterly unimpressed. Marlene, however, looked downright ecstatic. Mary scoffed, rolling onto her stomach. “You mean ghosts? We live in a castle full of them. I can go ask the Grey Lady for relationship advice if I want to be spooked.”

“This is different.” Pandora’s light voice aired out. “This is summoning.”

Which, in hindsight, should have been your first sign to shut the book and go back to braiding Mary’s hair.

Instead, curiosity (or perhaps stupidity) won out, and ten minutes later, the six of you were sitting in a circle on the floor, the candles dimmed, and Pandora reciting something in what sounded like very questionable Latin. You held hands, mostly for the aesthetic and vibes, but also because, if something did go terribly wrong, it was nice to have a buddy to cling to.

The air shifted. At first, it was subtle. The dormitory grew colder, the flames on the candles flickering as though disturbed by an invisible breeze. Then, the shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, curling like ink in water. Your stomach twisted, a prickling sensation running down your spine.

“…'Dora,” Dorcas said slowly. “What exactly was this spell supposed to do?”

Before she could answer, the entire room lurched.

It felt like the world had hiccupped, reality itself skipping a beat similarly to apparating. The shadows pulsed, the air crackled- and then, with an ungodly pop, a figure appeared in the center of your summoning circle.

A very real, very alive figure.

A bloody boy.

A boy who, by the looks of things, had been mid-sentence before he was unceremoniously yanked through time and space.

His expression went from slightly annoyed to bewildered to absolutely furious in the span of three seconds. His sharp blue eyes darted around the room, taking in the six of you, the book, the circle of candles, before finally landing on you.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice dangerously low. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, as if he was graced upon realization, the borderline maniacal bloke pointed an accusatory finger at Pandora.

“What did you do?!”

Pandora looked from the boy to you, her expression somewhere between awe and mild panic. “…I think I accidentally summoned him?”

The boy, who was wearing (hideous) Slytherin robes, by the way, and not just any Slytherin robes, but the kind only someone with an absurd amount of family wealth and blood purity obsession could get away with- made an outraged noise.

“Summoned?” he repeated incredulously. “Summoned? What the hell, Rosier! I was in the middle of a conversation- ” He stopped short, his eyes narrowing. “Where is Regulus?”

You blinked. “Regulus? As in Regulus Black?”

“No, Regulus Frownalot” He answered sarcastically, expression flickered, something calculating shifting behind his eyes. “Yes, Regulus Black. Wait. Who are you?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could, Lily- bless her prefect instincts- stood up, dusting off her skirt. “Alright,” she said, ever the problem solver. “Let’s remain calm. Clearly, this was some sort of magical mishap, and we just need to figure out how to send you back.”

The boy turned to her, incredulous. “Send me back? Oh, brilliant idea. Let me just pop over to the nearest return portal- oh, wait! I can’t, because you lot just ripped me out of existence!”

“Technically,” Pandora said brightly, “I think we just shifted your existence a little!”

“You think?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, everyone shut up for a second. Let’s take a step back. You- Slytherin boy- who are you, and why were you talking to Regulus?”

He gave you a scathing look. “I am Barty Crouch Junior. And I was talking to Regulus because that is what friends do. Why am I even telling you this? You should've introduced yourself before asking me! I asked first, red moron!”

You stared at him, ignoring his absolute pathetic juvenile behavior. “Barty Crouch Junior? As in Crouch Crouch?”

“Wow,” Marlene whispered. “We summoned a Crouch. That’s a new level of unfortunate.”

Barty looked moments away from hexing someone. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I inconveniencing you by being unwillingly transported into your- your filthy lion's den of all places?” His lips curled in distaste. “Merlin, it smells like Quidditch and coitus in here.”

“Alright, first of all, we are all perfect little saints practicing celibacy,” you shot back, but you could hear a mumbled 'like hell we are' from somewhere next to you. “Second, we didn’t mean to summon you.”

“Oh, that’s comforting. I feel very much safe now”

“Look, we’ll figure out how to send you back, alright?” You folded your arms. “Until then, you’re just going to have to sit tight and deal with it.”

Barty scoffed. “Fantastic. Trapped in a room with a bunch of Gryffindors. What a dream come true.”

“You know, for someone who just got accidentally kidnapped, you’re being remarkably annoying about it.”

Barty glared. You glared back back with your best scowl. But something in the air crackled. And for the first time, a flicker of something else crossed his face- mild curiosity, maybe, or amusement.

“Fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Let’s see if you Gryffindors can actually fix this mess.”

Barty had spent the last hour in a state of perpetual annoyance, arms crossed, watching as you and your friends frantically flipped through Pandora’s cursed book. He had interjected a few times, mostly to mock the inefficiency of Gryffindors under pressure, but for the most part, he just sat there, an unwilling hostage to whatever this absolute mess of an evening had become.

And then there was Pandora.

Barty had tolerated a lot of things tonight: being yanked out of existence, being surrounded by Gryffindors, even Marlene’s relentless teasing. But Pandora Rosier who had been nothing but comforting to him? She was testing him.

Because while the rest of you were frantically trying to find a spell to reverse whatever Pandora had done, the witch herself had been flipping through the book at a leisurely pace, humming to herself, occasionally muttering things like, Oh, that’s an interesting rune placement, I should write Xeno or Wow, that would have been so much worse, Evan would like it.

And now? Now she was giggling. Barty had had enough.

“Are you enjoying this?” he snapped, watching as she grinned at some obscure text.

Pandora looked up, unbothered. “Immensely.”

“Wonderful,” Barty deadpanned. “Glad to know my involuntary abduction is providing you with a bit of light entertainment, Panda.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Barts,” Pandora said, waving a hand. “It’s not like you’re suffering.”

“You summoned me, Pandora!”

“And you’re the one acting like I performed dark magic,” she shot back, turning a page. “Honestly, I’ve seen worse displacement spells. You could have been summoned into a lake. Or the astral plane.”

Barty narrowed his eyes. “I hate you.”

Pandora beamed. “Regulus would be so sad to hear that.”

“Regulus is going to murder you when I tell him about this.”

“You think that,” Pandora mused, “but I reckon he’d be far too amused to be properly angry. He’s got that weird little laugh when he’s trying to hide how funny he finds something. You know the one.”

Barty scowled because, unfortunately, he did know the one.

Marlene, ever entertained by the spectacle, leaned over to you and whispered, “I kind of love that she’s not scared of him.”

You grinned. “Oh, she thrives on chaos.”

Barty, meanwhile, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus? I’d rather not be here when the sun comes up, thank you very much.”

“We are focusing,” Lily snapped, looking dangerously close to hexing him herself. Tou grinned, taking great pleasure in the teens anger. "Yes, Barts, we are working so hard right now. Do be patience, will you."

“I highly doubt that,” Barty muttered. “At the rate you’re going, I’ll be a permanent resident.”

Dorcas groaned, flopping back onto her bed. “We’re trying, alright? But magic like this isn’t exactly easy to undo!”

Mary, who had woken up ten minutes ago, no one really noticed that she fell asleep like a baby in her girl's lap, groggily mumbled, “What if we just… did the spell backwards?”

Pandora looked delighted by the suggestion. “That’s actually not the worst idea-!”

“No,” Barty interrupted. “Absolutely not. I am not about to let any of you risk splitting me in half because you thought it would be fun to rewind me into existence.”

“You say that like it’s not a completely valid risk,” Pandora mused.

Barty clenched his jaw. “I swear to Merlin-”

And then, after another twenty minutes of arguing, another round of searching, and another layer of pure exhaustion settling over the group-

You suddenly stopped flipping through the book. Everything went quiet. You furrowed your brows, then looked up at Barty. “…Why are we even doing this?”

Barty exhaled sharply. “Finally. Thank you. That’s what I’ve been saying-”

“No, no,” you interrupted, shutting the book with a thump. “I mean… why are we looking for a spell when you could just… y'know, walk out the door?”

The room fell into dead silence. Even the storm outside seemed to pause.

Barty blinked. “…What?”

“You go to school here,” you said slowly, as if explaining something to a particularly dense child. “Your dormitory is literally downstairs. Instead of looking for some complicated reversal spell, you could just… leave.”

A full beat of silence.

Then, a particularly annoying groan of frustration could be heard. “You-” Barty gestured wildly, “-You fuckers had me sitting here for hours-”

“To be fair,” Pandora interjected with a raised hand, “you didn’t think of it either. Aren't you supposed to be smart, Mister 12 O.W.L.s? ”

Barty let out a strangled noise of pure exasperation. “Dont go smarty pants with me, Panda. Are you telling me that I could have left at any time? That you idiots had me sitting here, wasting my life, when all I had to do was walk out the door?”

“Well,” Pandora said cheerfully, “yes.”

Lily, meanwhile, had buried her face in her hands. “I cannot believe we’re this stupid.”

Mary nodded, looking absolutely done with all of this, just muttered, “I need a drink.”

Barty stood up so fast his chair nearly toppled over. “You know what? I’m done. I am leaving. I never want to see any of you again.”

Dorcas, still half-sprawled on her bed, yawned. “Go on, then.”

Barty stormed toward the door. You watched him go, something oddly anticlimactic about the way he just- left.

No grand magical solution. No complicated ritual.

Just… walking.

He reached the door, yanked it open but paused, tilting his head. He turned back, eyes landing on you for just a second longer than necessary.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Barty scoffed. “Nothing.” He looked at Pandora, scowling. “You’re the worst.”

Pandora smiled like he’d just paid her a compliment. “Tight sleep, Barts! Remember to use the acorn essence for the whackspurts.”

He rolled his eyes but nodded. And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs.

The second he was gone, Marlene burst out laughing. “That was so much better than if we’d actually figured out the spell.”

Lily groaned. “I still can’t believe we didn’t think of that earlier.”

Mary, flopping back into the pillows, simply muttered, “I hate magic. Should've just ignored the damn letters.”

Pandora, ever the menace, just picked up her book again and sighed happily. “That was so fun. We should summon people more often.”

You looked at her, horrified. “'Dora, no.”

But as the others laughed, as the storm outside finally settled, you couldn’t help but glance at the door, thinking of the strange way Barty had looked at you before he left.

Temporary housemate to acquaintances indeed.

[kithtaehyung]

broken, pt. 2 (3tan) (m) | myg

title: broken (pt. 2) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series:masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken (pt. 1) rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , fluff , smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: the championship game lights up... and everything goes down. note: not too much to say other than thank you. this part is definitely another very, very close one to my heart. please buckle up and enjoy the ride. warnings: [spice warnings under the cut] language, angst, tension, alcohol mention & consumption, fights, basketball!yoongi🧍‍♀️, cocky!yoongi, jimin😳, tense situations, did i say angst?, long hair yoongi, crying, bro😀, reader is a real one i don’t make the rules, arguments, the chains stay on(???), …bad boy yoongi😀👍, saying softhours puts some of this lightly, bro🥲, blood/wound mentions, hurt/comfort, there’s just a lot in here y’all idek, taehyung being the best ever, …angst. drop date: february 9th, 2024, 10:37pm est word count: 17.7k my god

smut warnings: cursing, choking, light slapping, breast play, angry s*x a ha ha, crying, multiple explicit scenes y'all istg don't perceive me lol, c*nt slapping, penetrative s*x, brat!reader, protected s*x, edging, consent king ofc :), rough s*x, b*cksh*ts and a lot of them, ...unprotected s*x (yeah it's here and y'all better be responsible or so help me!!!), f*ngering, or*l (m/f rec), brat tamer!3tan yoongi!!!, reader loses themselves for a sec, but yoongi is a king, pain k*nk whewwww, kissing, so much kissing lmfao, c*m play, slight bond*ge (yoongi hands), spanking, aftercare ofc :'))

-

-

There’s no way.

How the fuck is he here? When did that horrible excuse of a guy even join a team? Had he been playing intramurals this whole time? 

“No fuckin’ way.”

Your eyes find your brother standing rigid at your side, wrists tensed to hell and shoulders spiked. Did he not know he was playing, either? Judging by his smoldering question, you’re going to guess he wasn’t aware. 

“Were they always on this team?” 

“No.”

“I don’t remember them being on any teams.”

They? Them? So they recognize more from the court on that day you try to not think about. Shifting your vision, you start gauge reactions under sounds of the growing crowd. 

It’s Yoongi that looks at you first, eyes lowering to the hand you still have on your arm damn it you should be okay about that night already. But you can’t seem to let your limb go, your fingers covering it in a weak attempt at protection and resilience. 

The blaze in his eyes makes you shake. Even as you swallow your pleas for everyone to just go home, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he walks over to stand in front of your knees, motioning for you to scoot over one so he can take the end seat.

Normally, you would slightly question why he wouldn’t just sit next to you. But this time, you’re hyper aware of what he’s doing—and why. It’s so obvious that you wanna reach out and grip his sweaty hand. 

Yoongi absolutely sat there to shield you.

And your heart burns and burns.

If only he could do more, be more, show more. Because with a rattled ego and tainted mind, you’re already yearning for his touch, wanting him to whisk you out of here and bring you back to the comfort of his home—just like he did that night. 

God, he makes you dizzy doing absolutely nothing. 

“What’s the plan,” he asks, eyes on the court and palms between his knees.

“Dunno yet.” Your brother shakes his head before looking back, eyes narrowing at the laughs on the other bench. “But I might get my ass thrown out if we—”

“Play.” 

Immediately, all three of them snap their heads your way. Fuck, your arm is still… 

One person cannot have this hold on you. There’s no way you’re going to let him control your every waking moment, and your determination bubbles into your commands. “Play the game and beat his ass,” you seethe, holding yourself together and aiming daggers everywhere. “Just make it quick.” 

Yoongi gives you a look before Jimin snags him with an eyebrow raise. 

“And you’re paying me double.” 

Looking at the man beside you, it’s almost comforting seeing his attention fully on your face. If it weren’t for your ghost on the other side of the scoring table and your brother standing there, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss him. 

But you only nod, getting a huff and a lopsided curve in response before you watch him lock eyes with your brother, “What do you wanna do?” 

After a long, resigned sigh, your sibling finally relents, “Fuck this shit up.” 

Good. Yes. This is what you want—for you and them. “Exactly.” 

Scanning around the tight circle, you notice that you have everyone’s attention. 

But one person seems to send a question without any words at all. In kind, you answer the same way, wings battering your stomach when all of them send thunder to the court with lightning in their eyes.

Yoongi scoffs through a slant, carrying the air of someone you never want to mess with in your fucking life. “The fuckin’ nerve.” 

Jimin hums, sliding a finger along his flexed to hell jaw. “Bold,” he adds. And his voice drop sends shivers when he turns to you,

“Don’t worry, love.” 

You stare.

“This will be over soon.” 

-

-

The game is… just a game. For now.

No one’s taunted hard other than a few smirks and winks, and right now it seems as if both teams are just being competitive more than antagonistic. Which relaxes you to the point where you’re cheering from the bench with the other players—and their coach that arrived late—jumping and yelling and clapping when things go in their favor.

Your brother’s slamming down dunks. Jimin’s been playing amazing defense with his quick reflexes and high stamina.

And Yoongi? Has gotten sickeningly sharp. All those late nights at the rec center are paying off in this championship and, when he scores a hard shot, the pride you feel launches you to your feet. 

“Nice job, b—” Oh fuck you almost shout something that should never be public knowledge. Holding your tongue, you quickly switch it up with a hasty, “Let’s go!” 

That was close. Way too close. 

Get it together. 

But you cannot help it right now. Seeing Yoongi facing off against the man you both wanna square up against? And making it look easy? The fluttering you feel in your belly grows double. Triple. Tenfold. His gestures, the way he acts like it’s nothing, his shrugs at their failed attempts to stop him—everything’s making you scratch proverbial walls and kick bench chairs. 

And it’s not just him—the whole team has been playing excellently. Each play seems intentional; every pass and movement is strategic. If you didn’t know this was a casual rec game, you would think they’re gunning for a real, prestigious trophy. 

However. 

When it’s starting to be very clear who the better squad is, that’s when things start getting more than tense. 

On a foul call, both sides start getting in each others’ faces. And you peg that as normal until someone on your team gets shoved and your brother immediately gets between the action. 

Both you and the coach shoot up from your seats. 

Shit, shit, shit. If there’s one thing your older sibling’s gonna do in this game, it’ll be finding any excuse to deck that man in the face. And once that happens, there’s no telling how many injuries are gonna walk off polished floors.

Thankfully, everyone separates without a ruckus, and timeout is called on your side. The crowd starts to yell in favor of either team, and that’s when you notice that Taehyung has been joined by Shiv and your friends. From the looks of things, all five of them are laser focused on you. 

You hold a quick thumbs-up before you’re covered by hot and sweaty men huddling around the bench. And you immediately agree with their coach when he barks, 

“I need you all to calm down.” 

“No can do, coach.” 

“Not if they aren’t.” 

Shit. All of them look fucking livid, not giving any shits whatsoever if they’re willing to talk back to their leader. What’s really been happening on the court? Has it been even more tense than you perceived? 

Oblivious to the context behind this matchup, their coach keeps yelling, “Look, I don’t give a shit if you have something to settle. Play the game and leave it on the floor. Understood?” When there’s charged silence, he yells it even louder. 

And a smattering of agreement comes out before all of you hear an even bigger yelling session booming from the other bench. When you look over, it’s quickly noticeable that they’re getting reamed over there, too. 

Jimin watches before speaking, and it seems like your coach’s pleas fell on deaf ears, “Fifteen went for my legs.” 

“Saw that. Let’s switch cus he can’t guard me.” 

“K.” Park swivels his head to address someone else. “You good to keep playing?” 

Your brother responds with a nod, wiping his never-ending sweat. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

Huh. Even though you know he’s mad, the man seems… Calm. Eerily calm. It’s reminding you of the way he acted after you came home from Yoongi’s. 

And you don’t like it one bit. 

But the timeout is over, and both teams eye each other on their walk back onto the court. As it continues, the gym erupts into life again, with a bit of back and forth shots racking the scoreboard up. 

And Yoongi keeps scoring. And scoring. And scoring. 

Which lands him in a bit of trouble when the same idiot from Dalo pushes him during a layup. After he manages to make the shot, Yoongi immediately flicks him off—which gets a whistle blown. Which also means he has to sit on the bench for a second because his coach is pissed. 

Ignoring the scathing remarks being thrown, he dumps himself next to you. And you immediately feel the heat roll off of him in waves, trying hard to focus on the game. “Don’t be stupid,” you jut out. 

“What?” 

“Don’t be stupid. These guys aren’t worth it.” 

“After what he did to you?” 

The way those words leave his mouth ice you over, flares spiraling through every fiber of your being. Your reaction is so visceral that you can barely get your response out, “Yeah, but…” 

Leaning on his knees, Yoongi wipes his forehead with a crinkled to hell jersey, excess sweat pinging onto his sneakers. The crowd is loud and the buzzers even louder, but they aren’t enough to drown out his bite,

“I can’t let that shit go.” 

“Yoongi.” 

“Sorry, doll.” 

“Please just—” 

Yoongi leaves the bench before you can finish, and you whip your head in a rush, hands jutting out in a desperate attempt to hold him back. 

Only for him to be just out of reach. 

-

-

After halftime, it’s a whole different game. 

From an outside perspective, it’s as if everyone was using the first half to sniff each other out, circling around each other before deciding how and when to go in for the kill. 

And Yoongi isn’t the only one that you’re starting to worry about. Jimin, your brother, and even Rohan and the other guys are on edge, playing hard and doing everything they can to keep their scoring lead. 

Both you and their coach know you can’t stop whatever’s going on out there. And you’re starting to feel yourself getting angry at how your brother and them are egging the guys on. 

Why are they taunting? What the hell is making them so bent on making the other team pissed? Yes, all that went down with you, but nothing else had happened since then. And they clearly aren’t listening to anyone telling them to calm down.

If they end up starting shit you are going to—the fuck! 

Yoongi gets straight shoved again as he goes for a layup, and you shoot up in your chair as he hits the back wall with a thud. While the players at your side are yelling and everyone on the court starts grouping in shouts, you stay rigid, solely watching Yoongi eye his attacker—the same idiot from Dalo.

Fuck everything, you wanna rush into the fray and throw hands yourself because that looked painful.

The only thing that’s stopping you is the chilling fact that Yoongi is… Grinning. 

Wiping his curved lips, he waits while the refs break up the squabble, still looking triumphant as he walks to the line to shoot his free throws. When both of them are made, he stares directly at your assaulter—as you finally call it like it is—and doesn’t stop even when the coward looks away.

A whistle blows, and the game continues to be close. Too close, too close, too close. A couple more timeouts let you see just how laser-focused everyone is, and you’re a little shaken when it feels like they forgot you were even occupying their bench. 

What the hell is being said on the court? Even Jimin is brimming with anger. 

But after a few back and forths, Yoongi passes to your brother for a hard dunk, basket ringing from his throwdown and shaking when he lands. 

Thank god. Those points are enough. They’re gonna win. 

All the pent up anxiety you’ve harbored all game releases as everyone starts cheering, and your pride soars as your boys stare down their opponents while the clock winds down.

It’s over. The game is over, nothing too serious happened, and you can all go the fuck home to eat dinner and celebrate. 

Your eyes catch Yoongi throwing a rudely lopsided curve across the court. Even when Jimin comes up to push him back in excitement, his expression doesn’t change. 

And you find that wildly, unfathomably attractive. 

Then, as it goes, your brother comes up and they all share quick daps, eyes ablaze and not letting the losers out of their sight. 

Well. All of them are infamous for a reason. You would guess their energy altogether certainly contributes to that. Because the aura you feel oozing from them fills the gymnasium all the way up to your knees. 

And the sigh you let out mingles with their coach’s shake of his head.

-

-

Things are still tense as they all shake hands—or at least offer hands to shake—with the other team. The atmosphere is even a little iced when they receive their trophy. 

But the way you’re currently being surrounded as your guys converse hides you from plain sight, so you feel heavily protected. Even Jimin, who’s usually cheerful even when exhausted, wields sharp eyes as he keeps glancing over his shoulder. 

Honestly? You wouldn’t know what to do without them. Both your brother and all his friends, good pasts or not, are great people. They didn’t need to shield you like this. But they’re doing it anyway, because they won’t give that lowlife another reason or chance to approach you. 

Yeah. Your older sibling knows how to choose his circle.

It’s making you wonder if… 

Nah. 

That’s still too big a reach. 

When it seems like all of them and their cheering squad are gone, everyone starts making their way over to the bleachers—and you’re acutely reminded of what went down under similar looking ones the other night. 

Your shivers are overshadowed by Yuri’s telltale screams to Rohan, “You were so good, baby! Are you okay?”

Reia and Dom shake their heads before focusing on you, the latter being the spokeswoman, “So what was all that for?”

“Don’t ask,” you sigh, knowing exactly what she’s referring to. “I’m just glad they won and that we can go home.”

“You’re not coming to Yuri’s?” Reia asks. “I thought we planned on that, no?”

Ah, shit. Earlier this week, you did make plans with them without really thinking about what day they were gonna fall on. But now you’re so mentally drained that you kinda just wanna go—

“Is anyone else starving? I’m hungry as fuck!” 

Right. Food. Adrenaline made you forget you were starving. Glancing towards your brother, you quickly remind him, “Yeah, me. And you’re paying.”

“Ah, shit, that’s right.” As he lets out a hard groan and deals with Jimin and Yoongi’s comments, your sibling relents, “Alright, where are we going.”

“Up to you,” you shrug, stealing a little look at the man you want to kiss like hell for his performance tonight. 

God, Yoongi’s so handsome. As Jimin leaves his side, he silently wipes his forehead of any excess sweat, hands and shoulders shining in the lights wait wait wait. Hold on. 

Walking over, you toss any care about who notices you out the window. And as he eyes your approach, you murmur with care and concern, “Is your back okay?” 

Blinking once, twice, the man nods. “Yeah, it’s all good.”

“You sure? That looked…”

Of course he decides that now is the perfect time to rake his sweaty locks back. Speaking so low that only you can hear, Yoongi reassures with a fist full of hair, “I’m fine, doll.” 

Motherfucker. 

Pinning down your urge to reach out and smother him, you only breathe relief. And before you move away to put some distance between, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Yoongi looks your way again. “For what?” 

Swallowing what’s left of your anxiety, you sigh. “For not getting into it out there. I was about to get mad as hell, but.. Looks like they were all talk.” 

“Mm.”

Honestly? It’s a miracle. The game’s over without any hitches or brawls? More relief starts blossoming in your chest, prompting a smile to grace your features. “You looked so good out there, by the way. I almost called you ba—”

“What are y’all talking about over there!”

Your mouth snaps shut as soon as you see your brother watching, but Yoongi is quick to fire off an insult, “The way you always take so long to pick something.”

“I picked already!”

“Then let’s go then.”

Laughing, you join the whole crew as you’re all the last ones to walk out. Your friends and Shiv parked in another lot since one side was already full, so you tell them you’ll meet at the restaurant.

Some other teammates decide to join, with jerseys being shucked off as everyone heads out the door. Immediately, body odor swoops into your nose, making you welcome the crisp, fresh air of night. 

Scratch that. You smell oncoming rain. 

Conversations cease, which only leaves the sound confirming your observation: booming, rolling thunder. Stopping at the edge of the gym’s awning, multiple heads turn up at the rumbles, watching lightning crack the sky. 

In front of you, Jimin shifts his head to the side. “Still?” 

And when you look at who he’s asking, you see Yoongi nod. 

Weird. 

But it’s not raining just yet, so all of you make your way into the lot and to your cars. As you do, you check your phone while making your way over, aiming a question at Tae, “You know where we’re going?” 

“Yeah, it’s not far,” he responds, fishing out his own device. “I think we’ve been there before.” 

We? Looks like things are progressing nicely over there. Since you’re lingering behind the guys, you start to take a small jab, “We, huh? Cute.” 

Lips spread as tight as his eyes, Taehyung parries. “Cute? Look who’s talking, miss whipped.” 

“You’re whipped.” 

“No, you.” 

“No, you,” you giggle out, reaching out to tickle Tae’s side and laughing as he flinches away. You chase him for a few seconds before you see his whole body freeze completely, asking a small question before going quiet.  

And when you slowly follow his line of vision, your heart freefalls to your gut, smashing it so hard you feel bile sting the back of your throat. 

The man from Dalo. And all the guys from the court plus some. 

Surround both Jimin’s and your brother’s cars.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, there’s so many of them, standing and waiting and unflinching in the bursts of thunder inching closer and closer what the fuck are you gonna do— 

“Taehyung.”

Your eyes shake. 

“Get her out of here. Now.”

And you’ve never screamed so loud. 

Every word rips out of your mouth before you’re promptly shushed by large fingers, icicles pinging around your heart and holding it down, “Don’t fucking do thi—!” 

To your horror, Tae’s already hauling you back, voice low and firm in your ear, “Come on.” 

“No! What the fuck—” 

“We’re leaving.”

“Please—!”

There are so many of them. So, so many of them. Panic drowns out your words and excess leaks out of your eyes, your own storm preventing you from seeing that your best friend is just as torn apart. 

“Babe, we have to go now.” 

“No, let me go!” 

They’re outnumbered. What if they have weapons? What if the police are called? What if something happens that you aren’t prepared for?

You’re screaming. Curses, their names, or whatever whatever you don’t even know what the fuck you’re saying because your toes are kissing the edge of madness. 

Dragged a good distance away, your yells devolve into incoherency, your nose and eye sockets smashing into Taehyung’s solid forearm so hard it hurts. 

Make it out, make it out, make it out. For the love of everything in the fucking universe and beyond it, make it out alive. 

Some movements and backs straightening are the last things you see before getting pulled around the corner.

And when Yoongi calmly rolls one of his shoulders, you feel a wick of your soul burn out.

Panic. Worry. Panic and more panic. The car ride that Tae paid for is the blurriest muddy water you’ve ever waded through.

Truthfully, you don’t even remember blankets being pulled over your shoulder. Where even are you? Oh, you’re in a bed. Whose bed are you in because this isn’t yours. But what does it matter anyway what does anything matter anyway nothing matters there’s nothing you can do you gotta get up and go back over there get up get up go—

As soon as you yank his bedroom door open, Taehyung is there, holding you back and pushing your frantic energy back inside. “Tae, if you don’t let me—”

“Do what!”

“I’m going back!” Wrestling out of his strong hold, you bolt down his hallway, head clanging as your shoulder bumps into a wall. “We need to go back—”

“Stop!” You hear running as you burst through the living room, whizzing past the glowing television. “We have to stay here—”

No no no. There’s no way you’re staying here when you need to be back at that lot. Who the fuck would call for help if anyone needs it? When they’re gonna need it? Your vision proves so blurry you can’t even find your shoes—

Arms wrap around your waist and you fight back with a scream, “Let me go!”

“Stop and just think for a second—”

“Why aren’t you with me on this, they’re—”

“Dumb as fuck!” 

Your friend’s quick comment is so sharp it cuts your breath. As you still in his firm but comforting hold, you finally stop to breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe as you’re turned to level a look with his eyes.

Eyes that are red-rimmed and so, so raw. “They’re idiots,” Taehyung grits out. “But they will be alright.” 

From the shake of his voice, you find that neither of you think that for sure. 

“I need to.. To…” Your breaths are ragged, energy spent and head dizzy from your quick exit from his bed. As you come down from your volcanic high, every weight the world places on your back proves too much. 

“You need to relax,” Tae advises, guiding you further back inside. And you don’t speak as he leads you past the couch, past the pictures on his hallway wall, and into the dark of his bedroom.

Maybe it’s over. Right? Maybe someone will answer if you ring them up. “Call. I need to call…” 

“Shh,” he soothes again, walking you backwards away from his door. When the bends of your knees hit his bed, Taehyung lets you down slowly until you’re sitting. “I’ll do it.” 

Brain fried from hyperactivity, you can only nod. 

Your friend steps away to fiddle with his phone, the light illuminating his beautiful features in the night. When he holds it to his ear, this is when you hear rain and the television in the living room, noticing that it’s playing a movie he watches for comfort. 

Shit. He’s going through it just like you are, and yet he’s still finding energy to calm your nerves? What have you even done to deserve him?

Guess you know how to choose your circle, too. 

Going unanswered, Taehyung lowers his hand, thumb rubbing the homescreen before gripping the device hard. 

Both of you are in the same boat. So steer when he can’t do it anymore. Soft but assertive, you rise to your feet, offering your embrace while calling his name, “..Tae.”

When he turns, the man wastes no time in dropping his phone to bring you in close. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, and you hear his words on your head but feel the trembles in his chest. “Okay?”

Feeble fingers grab at his soft shirt, and you bury into his scent while soaked and tired eyes shut. 

You want to believe him. You do. You do. 

But hope may be a bitch. 

So you don’t. 

-

-

Forever passes while you both lie still in his bed, with Taehyung holding you close and keeping you subdued with notes of honey and wood. You both try to have conversation, but it’s disjointed and manufactured, so giving up is a group effort. 

You’re about to give up on a lot of things before you both jolt at Tae’s phone vibrating. 

The world shifts quick as you both sit up, the call immediately being accepted and a low greeting whooshing at your side, “Hey.”

With bated breath, you hear Jimin on the line. “Hey.” 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, we’re all alright, but…”

We. We, we, we, all of them thank the fucking world. As your breath is held, Taehyung’s voice is solid, “Say it.”

“My eye is pretty fucked. Yoongi’s face is cut up and he’s got some nasty bruises on his—” 

You don’t even remember yanking the phone to your mouth. “Where is he.”

Jimin audibly pauses on the line before having the audacity to chuckle. Irked and feeling ire bubble back to the surface, you seethe, “This isn’t funny, Park. Where the fuck is he?” 

“With us.” Us. Shit. “In the car.” 

Oh. 

“Your brother’s here, too.” 

“Ah.” That means they’re all there. They’re all heading home. “Am I on speaker.” 

“Umm.. Yeah.” 

As much as you’re relieved they’re all okay, stockpiled anxiety transforms into anger, your limit striking the thundering sky. “Actually, you know what? Good. Now I can say you’re all idiots and immature as fuck.” 

It’s your sibling that responds first. “Hey, wait a damn minute—” 

“I waited long enough!” you scream, ignoring Taehyung’s wide eyes. 

You know you need to relax. But you can’t help what’s happening right now and all you feel is pain. “I know this shit isn’t new to y’all, but really? You didn’t need to do this.” 

“He was gonna—”

“All you had to do was play the game! Why’d you have to make them mad? Do you even know what could’ve happened back there?” Damn it, you weren’t supposed to cry during this part, not when you just want them to know they fucked up. 

And the response is dead silence. Because of course it is. But if they won’t answer you here, they’re gonna answer another, “Just tell me one thing,” you plead. “Is this gonna happen again?” 

That one your brother answers with finality. “They won’t be coming around anymore.” 

Gulping, you give Taehyung a glossy-eyed look before staring at his lit screen again. Trying not to let your voice waver, you accept his response, “Okay… Are you okay?” 

“Me? Yeah, the hits I took were weak as fuck. I’ll get home soon so if you wanna order in tonight we can.” 

“Fuck that.” 

“Huh?” 

What an idiot. “Bro, you don’t even know how fucking mad I am,” you accuse through gritted teeth. There’s no way in hell you wanna deal with their bullshit. Ignoring your pleas and staring harm in the face? Forget it. “I’m going to Yuri’s.” 

“What? Nah, come home tonight and we’ll talk.” 

“I just—No.” Taehyung has to grip your shoulder before pulling you into a hug. And you’re still steel in his arms because you haven’t been this upset in ages. “I’m not talking to any of you for awhile.” 

And you mean that. 

“…Fine. But go asap then. I don’t want you out late on your own.” 

So you gotta listen to what he wants but when it comes to what you say, it’s crickets? Goddamn, you’re furious. “…Of course you don’t.”

And you hang up before anyone can say anything else. 

-

-

You open the front door to your brother leaning against the hallway wall.

Both of you eye each other, one of you with a perfectly fine face and the other that isn’t so lucky because he’s a fool.

And no words are exchanged as you trudge your frustration to the kitchen. 

-

-

Ice. Bandages. Dinner. Anger propels you through it all.

Whipping up a quick but hearty meal, you let your brother patch himself up after demanding he showered. The smells of comfort food waft through your nose as things sizzle on the stove and, through the whole process, you don’t think about anything except how upset you are.

They’re all okay. But like Taehyung so abruptly put it, they’re all stupid. 

As you turn off your burner, you transfer everything to a bowl, sighing so loud it seasons the top with fire. When you approach the bar, your actions speak pretty damn loud—the dish clank shoving out a question from your sibling,

“Is there something you wanna say to me?” 

“There’s a bunch of shit I wanna say to you.” 

“It’s about Yoongi,” he asks, the absence of hesitation making your insides squeeze. “Isn’t it.” 

But luckily for you, your rage is so potent that it overruns your fear. As soon as your brother stands up and starts to repeat his question, your correction clangs through the room, 

“It’s about all of you! You say you wanna be there for me but what the fuck will doing this shit do?” 

Freezing, the man waits in shock as you keep going, “Yes, that guy deserves hell. I was so scared when he grabbed me at the club.” You stop to swallow. “But I had them both there and we left.”

Fuck, this is hard. Having to relive that shit is difficult but you need your brother—and all of them, for that matter—to know how hurt you feel right now. Mustering up enough bravery to get to the goddamn point, you finally squeak out, 

“If I lose them? Lose you? Because of something as stupid as a fight?” Your eyes search his, and your heart cracks when you see glassy sheen amongst his bruises. “What would I do then?” 

You expect silence. And silence is what you get. It’s drawn out, loud, and telling. “We know.” 

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he whispers, eyes lifting to meet yours with sincerity. “And we’re sorry.”

Another moment passes between the two of you, the food you made left uneaten on the counter and the rest sitting still on the stove. But you know your sibling will eat it all tonight, whether you’re there or not. 

And you step forward at the same time he holds his battered arms out. 

Freshly showered, he still smells like rain and exertion. But his heart beats under your chest, he’s present, and back home—things you need to stop taking for granted. 

But you’re still mad. And getting things off your chest has only made you tired, so you decide that it’s finally time to go before you circle back to other scary territory brought up tonight. “I’m leaving now,” you announce as you step away. “But just think about that.” 

“I will.”

“I’m serious.” 

“I will.”

Staring, you take note of his cuts and injuries, wondering how the others are faring even though you don’t wanna deal with anything else. Because it hurts too much, and if you see who you’re thinking about, there’s no telling what you’d do if you were like this with your brother. There’s no telling how you’d…

No. You choose to go the easy route this time. Everyone can simmer in their sore, swelling consequences while you have a night of de-stressing with your friends. 

So you leave to go pack without another word. 

It’s raining. 

Hard.

And even though your car is heading to Yuri’s, your heart is beating backwards. Tugging you somewhere else and not letting up. 

With a ping of chill, you can’t shake it. Braking at a stop sign close to your destination, you sit in silence, letting the rain pelt every side of your vehicle and wondering what the hell to do. 

Truthfully? Your brother looked like shit. But your body isn’t telling you to go back to the house, which can only mean one other place. And you know for a fact you don’t wanna talk to him, either. 

So fucking upsetting. They did all that for what? You can barely keep your thoughts in a row because they keep yelling at jostling each other just like everybody did on the court. If anyone had to fight the dipshit, it should've been you. 

Fuck! Your head connects with the wheel, an inner monster rumbling with the thunder because you’re so fed up with everything that happened. 

Your brain is the one yelling. But your heart is begging for it to listen. Go to Yuri’s? Go to Yoongi’s. Find shelter in that warm bed of hers and sink in her plushies to comfort you? 

A sigh. Maybe you can at least call him to tell him off one more time. He needs to hear what you told your brother because if you ever, ever lose him—

Your eyes burn. 

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

No answer.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

Pick up. What the fuck.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

…Turn the fuck around shit, shit, shit.

Curses flying, you whip your vehicle in a flash, heart pounding so loud it’s blocking out the storm. Which is morbidly impressive considering how horridly it’s pouring. 

Thinking in leaps, you pivot and make another decision. Tell her and make it all quick. 

Yuri: Outgoing Call

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m not coming.”

“You okay?”

“I’m going to Yoongi’s.”

“Yoongi’s? Why?”

Ah, shit. Oh, fuck. She doesn’t know. 

Banging the steering wheel, you smash your teeth, stressed as hell from braving the rain in the dark and now snitching on yourself to someone else. 

Damn it. What do you say? What can you possibly even say when you’re so mad and stressed and conflicted and worried—

“Hello?”

“Because he’s the one,” you whoosh out, your vision quivering twice as much as it should. “And things went down after the game and now something feels wrong.”

“Oh, shit. Is that why y’all didn’t come to—”

“Yes.” When you say all this out loud, now it has weight. Horrifying weight on your chest and a block pushing down on the gas. You hear a bit of shuffling on the line, and you’re starting to get so anxious that you blurt, “Please don’t say anything. Please.”

“I won’t. Not about this.”

“Thank you.”

“Hang up, babe. Make it safe.”

“Okay.”

Go, go, go. Please, just get there. 

Letting up, you change your speed, hoping to everything good in the world that this feeling you have is only a feeling and nothing more. 

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

What a strange emotion, wanting his reason for not picking up solely being because he doesn’t wanna talk to you. That is an answer you can deal with. 

But you still can’t fight off the jagged pulses telling you it’s something else. 

After an agonizing drive, you finally see his complex, tensing harder the further and further away you have to park. 

Whipping into a spot, you screech into it before hauling your bag out, popping the trunk and desperately grabbing a plastic box you always keep inside. 

And the mad dash drenches you long before you seek cover, your bones shivering shivering shivering from the chill.

Yoongi has to be home. His car is here. 

But he still won’t pick up the fucking phone.

Skidding at his door, your knocks are rapid, knuckles singed from the ice cold wraps.

Answer, answer, answer. For fuck’s sake, he better answer. 

After a haunting moment of silence, you decide to call one more time, head wet and bones shivering as you press the phone to your damp ear. 

Finally. “Hello.” 

“Open the door,” you jump into commanding, hearing nothing other than a voice that sounds so crushed and low that it crumples you inside. 

“You’re here?” 

“Yeah, let me in.” Fuck, your teeth are clattering against each other, whether it’s from the rain, the cold, or anger, you can’t tell. 

But the reply you get is the coldest thing imaginable. And it sets your whole body aflame. 

“Not tonight.”

Hell no. Hell fucking no Yoongi is not going to get rid of you that easily. Not when you have a boatload of things to say and only one dock to dump them all on, “Yoongi, I swear to god—” 

“Not tonight—”

“—you don’t let me in I’m—”

“Go home—”

“I’m fucking staying out here until you open the goddamn door!”

Oh, you’re pissed. You’re so fucking pissed because this all could’ve been avoided if none of them were stupid. Or prideful. Or whatever the fuck boys decide to be when they can’t let something go. 

And this man still has the audacity to give you the stiff arm, silence on the line before he rasps out another short, “I’m serious.”

“No.”

“Go home.” 

“No!” 

He says your name. So, so softly, before a gut-wrenching, 

“Please.”

Breath shaken, you rest your forehead against chilly wood, hoping it quells the fire you feel rising from your rib cage. 

You can’t give up. Not when you have so much to say. Not when you have to check on him and make sure he’s fine. 

Not when you give into the strongest premonition that you need to be nowhere else but with him tonight. 

You will stay. Stay, stay, stay. Even if he doesn’t want to see you. 

Voice trembling in rage and concern and everything in between, you feel your eyes sear through when they close, mission boiling down to one more desperate choice, 

“…No.” 

You’re cold. And wet. But you will stand out here for as long as it takes him to let you inside—a night, a day, no matter what.

And for a moment. Or a few. You think he’s dead set on making you prove that. 

But you finally, finally, finally hear a sigh before a lock turn, and you try to prepare yourself for what you see but he opens the door and his face comes into view holy shit he looks like a wreck—

“What the fuck,” you grit out as you rush in with vision swimming, digging into your bag for the medkit you hastily stashed and swinging off your sandals because you gotta get something in the—

A hand grips you hard, tugging you back before you even register what’s happening.

As your feet stumble back onto linoleum, your gaze snaps to the ground. 

And your breath cuts like it’s your last. 

Shards. 

Pieces.

Thousands of wood and glass chips litter the entire open area of the living room. 

And realizing where they came from strikes like lightning. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck, what did Yoongi do?

“I told you, doll.”

You choke on a sob.

“Go home.”

Your breaths return before you straighten, tears flowing freely as you don’t know whether to start cleaning up the chaos or finally facing the one who caused it.

No, no, no. Get rid of it. 

Throw it out, all of it, all of it. 

A new fire roars to life, forging your steeling commitment as you wrestle out of Yoongi’s hold.

What did he do, what did he do?

Revving with smoke out of your ears, you burn a path to the kitchen, grabbing a trash bag before marching into the wreckage. Up go the biggest pieces first, chucked into plastic before the smaller ones follow.

Throw it all. This one, this one, and this one.

Yoongi isn’t even wearing shoes. He can cut himself up even more if this all stays where it is. 

Shit, this is everywhere. 

When you realize you’re gonna need a broom, you storm back into his laundry closet to yank one out and keep going. When you go to sweep, the sharpest voice cuts through your fingers.

“Stop.”

Your grit grips the tool even tighter. Because you won’t. Don’t dare look into his expression, either, because you know that one glance will melt every scream on your tongue. So you stay resolute and shoot rejection to the ground, “No.”

“Just go, please.”

“No.”

This hurts. 

This really, really hurts. 

Yoongi has never, ever said these things to you and it feels like a knife jabbing into the same spot over, and over again. You almost prefer three new months of no contact over whatever the hell this is.

But you have to keep going. Eyes clenching, lips wobbling, you must keep going. 

Because you came here for a reason other than this mess. And he’s gonna have to do better than this to kick you back out into the rain. 

“I got it.” 

“Let me do it.” 

“Your brother needs you.”

“Yeah, well, I already tore the fuck into him and I’m gonna do the same to you.” You harden your fist on the sweeper, tugging it more towards your shoulder with finality. And you gather all the energy you need to leave no more room for arguments, because Yoongi is going to listen, “So sit down.”

It hurts.

He wants to say shit. You know he wants to.

But he only breathes hard with eyes closed, following your orders and carrying his dark clouds to the dining room. 

When he finally leaves you alone, this is when you look his way. 

In sweats and a shirt, he appears fine. But with a deep pang, you notice he’s slightly limping. Judging from those knuckles, you wonder if they’re red from the fight or from hitting another wall of his apartment. 

Or from whatever the fuck happened around your feet.

Shit.

While he dumps himself at his table, you clean up the pieces of his rampage, mentally noting that one plan of yours has now changed. 

This one. These, too. A string here. A metal piece there.

You don’t know how long it takes you. All you know is that you’re burning inside, determined to clean everything and sweep this chaotic energy away. 

One more. Two more. Another one here.

As soon as you’re done, you lug the trash bag out of the front door and don’t give a shit what happens to it now.

Keep going. There’s more that you need to take care of.

The fuel inside of you rages on, anger conflicting with anxiety and past worries and sadness for something that didn’t even happen. As you spin, you vow yourself to keep pushing until you can’t anymore. 

Sniffling. Shivering. But staying strong because things could’ve gone a lot worse. 

Yoongi meets you by the table, messy, damp hair shielding his features. “You’ve done enough.” 

“I still need to—” 

“Just.” He looks away. “Go home, doll. I can’t do this tonight.” 

“Do what? I’m helping you.” 

That’s what you do for each other, right? You both help each other. But now you’re not so sure because Yoongi comes back with not an acknowledgement, nor a way of relenting. 

But ice. 

“Who said I needed it?” 

And in all the time you’ve spent with this man, this is the first time you’ve felt downright cold. “Yoongi, what?” Your eyes travel across his face, chest caving in when there’s barely any hints of vitality. “Are you serious?” 

“You think I’m joking?” 

“You’re kicking me out? What happened to saying you’d never do that, huh?” 

“I say a lot of things.” 

…Oh.

That hurt. That… That physically couldn’t have hurt any harder. 

Nodding, you look away, shaking your head in disbelief because you are on the verge of losing it. “You know what? You do say a lot of things.”

Walking away, you start rearranging pillows on the couch pushed askew. “Like how perfect I am.” Picking up his books from the now non-existent coffee table. “And how there’s no one else.” 

As you give the volumes a new home on his intact tv stand, you turn to face him again. “Those are just words, too, huh?” 

Yoongi kicks his head back with a smile, one that cuts instead of mends. “Nah… Not tonight.” 

“Not tonight what.” 

“We aren’t doing this tonight.” 

“The fuck we aren’t.” It’s his turn to walk away, with a slow head shake that you really don’t like. “Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere.” Yoongi shifts his head to the side, but not enough for you to fully see him. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want you to. “But you’re going home.” 

Something’s off. There’s something completely off but all you feel is sadness and rejection in your ribcage. “So this is how it happens, huh. Now I’m just like everyone else.” 

He finally faces you, miles away even though you’re just rooms apart. “You’re gonna go there?” 

“I am.” 

“Wow.” 

That’s what he comes back with? This is gutting you from the inside out and you have no idea what’s happening but now rage is flaring into your mouth, “You think I wanted to come here? After what all of you did?” 

“Do you even know?” 

“No! But how the fuck would I? You don’t tell me shit!” 

“That’s cus—” 

Your response sears over his floors, “I can take care of myself. But none of you told me about that dude from the court. None of you.” Breath shaken, you continue dumping out all your thoughts and previous concerns, “If I had known? That whole Dalo thing could’ve been avoided and I would’ve ran.” 

For a person that you’ve come to know as so warm, Yoongi’s entire aura freezes you over as you keep talking. “And today? You know how fucking scared I was? If I… I…” 

All he does is stare. Why isn’t he doing anything else? Is he really flipping the switch and choosing to legitimately let you leave this time?

Fine then. 

“You know what?” Giving up, you laugh—harsh, and breathy, and without any joy at all. “Forget it. You’re not even listening anyway.”

“I swear to—I just said not tonight.” 

Frustration from the game, fear from the ambush after, anxiety from not hearing from them. All of it coalesces into something you can’t even control anymore. Your buffer shuts off, the monster you created seizing the reins, “No, I get it. I do! You want me gone. Sure. See you in three more months.” 

Stunned, Yoongi huffs in disbelief, jaw working overtime. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes, I am. Trying to help you but it looks like you don’t even want that. So good fucking bye.” 

And it looks like he has a beast of his own because his next response to your last attempt has you reeling back in shock, 

“Who asked you?” 

Dark liquid drips onto your soul. 

You can only stare, unblinking and feeling like you’re in an entirely different universe. “Who asked me? Who asked me.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Forget the question of who asked you because… Who are you even talking to? Who is this person standing in front of you because it’s not the Yoongi you know. It’s so jarring and hurtful and strange that you truly feel thrust into the middle of a nightmare. 

You’re gonna do it. You’re actually gonna leave this time. 

“You know what? Kiss my ass, Yoongi.” 

God, it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts.

You don’t even know where this is all coming from. All you know is that you’re angry and there’s no stopping the hot magma bubbling in your center. 

Silence fills the room.

And it rains. It pours.

But finally, you hold a sob back before burning a shaky path to his door, wrestling with the lock before yanking it open—

Only to have it shut back in your face, so thrown when you realize you’re getting spun. Air whooshes out of you before your shoulder blades connect with wood—  

And this is the goddamn breaking point. The walls you haphazardly built to keep you upright collapse and tumble. It’s so potent and blinding that you don’t even realize your hands are connecting with his chest in the weakest, saddest ways and you are outright screaming. 

“God, what the fuck! I told you to—We didn’t hear from you for hours and I—I didn’t know if you were okay—” 

“Whoa, hold u—” 

“I thought the worst and I—didn’t even get a chance to—I finally told you want I wanted and you—Fuck—” 

“Just listen—” 

“Don’t ever do that again! I don’t wanna lose you and today was so fucking scary and I’m not, fucking, leaving—” 

Your lips are smashed to hell, his lips bruising so hard you feel it in the back of your skull. And it’s a whole storm as Yoongi pins you against the door, leg wedging between yours and his hands gripping you like a vice. It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. 

“I swear to—” 

You don’t know what to do. What to do what to do what to do, and all your madness jangles as you’re yanked and slammed against another wall, breath leaping into his open mouth before you tug at his hair, digging anger through his shoulders. 

“Can’t fucking listen, can you?” 

“No,” you rip from your throat, shoving him back only to gravitate right back and lock lips again. 

And he rips at your clothes, tearing the front of your shirt so far your chest emerges on full display. Before you can even react to the cuts on his face, Yoongi’s hand clenches around your throat, making you gargle just how you fucking want to right now. 

“Shouldn’t even fucking be here.” 

“When has that ever stopped us.” You groan as you get rapidly led back into something hard, and you realize it’s the dining table digging into your ass. 

“He’s still home.” 

“So?”

“Shouldn’t you—”

“Then kick me out!” you taunt. “For real. Let me go. Fucking do it then.” 

Yoongi works his jaw before gripping tighter, making you groan and your gut flare into something primal. Nostrils flaring, he moves to grip your head hard enough to make your stomach flip but not firm enough to scare you. 

Never to scare you. “You aren’t gonna leave me alone.” 

Your eyes are ice. 

“Are you.” 

You solely watch in determination, breath harsh from your nose and billowing out like steam. Drilling your answer into his eyes, you charge the surrounding air enough to spark like the flashing sky outside. 

And Yoongi cracks like lightning. 

“Goddamn it.” 

Everything happens at once and in quick succession. Teeth grit to hell, Yoongi pulls you upward before fast stepping you to his bedroom, slamming you through the door before you shove him right into his desk. 

Things teeter and shake and clang with each impact, your storm disrupting everything in its path and creating a tornado of desire and thoughts in your brain. 

Something swirls and twists between your souls, tightening and condensing into emotions darker than midnight. And as angry as you are, it’s slipping into a dangerous mania, and you’ve never been this excited for anything in your life. 

“Stubborn.” 

“Coward.” 

Your back stings as you’re pushed back into his door, the wood smacking into the spackle of his wall. Rough lips smother yours as you claw at his shoulders, neck, hair, and you hear him growl into your mouth, 

“Want me to kiss your ass? Suck my dick then we’ll talk.” 

“Fuck you. I give better head than you anyway.” 

His words rival the deepest growl, “Prove it.” 

“Make me.”

Whirlwind. Storm. Tempest. At this point, it’s a whole goddamn high. Your body is thrumming and the only way to feed your anger is to channel it through actions. 

And truth be told, you need this. You both do. With all the high strung emotions that had nowhere to go until you collided?

This is liberation. 

You’re shoved onto your knees before Yoongi dives into his pants, and you’re already hungry and impatient enough to help him shrug his sweats down before he can do it himself. 

“Choke on it,” he commands, holding his dick and watching as you note how hard he already is. When you waste no time taking him in, you elicit the deepest groan you’ve ever pulled from him when you fling spit onto his length. 

Maybe his reaction is to your face. Because you’re still mad as fuck and you aren’t done letting him know that. 

With a passing thought, you realize that this is all new. But you’re welcoming it because it’s working. Only Yoongi can bring out this passion even in anger, or maybe the two of you were going to get to this point no matter what. 

“Fuck.” He steadies the bottom of your chin while you suck him off. “Uh huh. Got anything else to say?” 

You flick him off, and he hums with a rumble, his cock reacting and hitting the back of your prideful throat. 

“Fuck you, too, doll.” His talks devolve into hisses, grunts, moans when you slobber all over yourself, and your cunt is already dripping with your own slick. “There you go. Gonna take it all? Or are you gonna keep running that mouth?” 

And you pop off before taunting, “Find out, pussy.” 

And you’re swallowing him before he shoves you all the way forward, your body arching up in a gag but filled with him him him, your nose flat against his pelvis and his dick squeezing tears from your eyes and your throat overstuffed to hell and there’s no way he’s gonna forget this moment. You’re making damn sure of it. 

Another middle finger raises as you’re tensing around him, and you can barely hear him above you but you do know he’s massively pleased. Tears stream down your eyes when you’re yanked off, gasping for air and being pulled off the ground. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Throat hoarse, you attempt speech but it doesn’t matter anyway, because his lips steal them all. And your cunt is slapped with a whole palm, making you flinch and shoot out a whine into his kiss. 

Before you know it, your body hits the bed before he joins you, arms bulging as he rips your top open completely. You can’t even think straight as he teases your earlier efforts, “I’ve had better.” 

“Oh, you fucking—Shut the fuck up,” you growl, a moan leaving without permission as he palms your cunt again. Just when you think he’s gonna top you, Yoongi hauls you up, hastily leading you around the bed until your back connects with another wall. 

You love that shit. And you’re starting to think Yoongi is very, very aware of this fact. 

“Take those fuckin’ pants off,” he orders. “And hands on the wall before I put them there.” 

“Can’t make me do shit—”

Fingers grip your chin before Yoongi gets right into your face, primal instinct making you go on full alert. As his tongue prods his cheek, your whole lower body quivers. “I can. And I will, if you don’t behave.” Tapping your jaw in a warning, he hums. “Now do what I fucking say.” 

Holy shit, he’s not playing around. Which only heightens your desire to peaks previously unreached, and you’re shucking your bottoms off while he yanks his drawer open for condoms. Hurrying, you fling your clothes away before planting—

Yoongi smashes his whole front against your back—pinning your whole body against the cold, rough wall—before intertwining long fingers with yours. “Good girl.” 

Hitching your hips back, he sticks your ass out as you slip, and you feel his cock tease your entrance. Groaning, you grip your hands into fists as he continues to rub your cunt but never enter. Denying, denying, denying. Smacking your pussy and still not letting you feel him inside. 

And it’s maddening. “Please!” 

“Please what,” he asks, giving your ass a spank that has you flinching into the wall. 

And, without any shred of mercy, this goes on for longer than he’s ever held out. It’s so sickening that tears start flowing from your eyes, and you devolve into saying anything to get him to fuck your brains out. Between spanks on your ass, slaps on your tits, and aggravating kisses on your back, Yoongi doesn’t let you phase him for minutes. 

It’s when you choke on a sob that he finally, finally squeezes inside of you, checking for your nod before wrecking you completely. 

“Oh, fuck—” Your eyes shut tight as you try to keep yourself upright, hands pushing against the wall as your legs shift with every thrust. 

“This ass. Fuck.” Yoongi’s pace is relentless, hands bruising your hips and your cheeks smacking into his pelvis over and over and over. “It’s a goddamn problem.” 

You’re trying so hard. So, so hard to stay on the wall. But your hands are too sweaty; they're starting to slip with each attempt. “Bed,” you command. “Bed now.” 

And he obliges immediately, pulling out and yanking you back. Mouth to your ear, he both checks in while making your legs jelly, “You tapping out?” 

“Break my fucking back,” you rasp in return, hearing him growl in satisfaction before burying you facedown into his bed. As he plunges inside again, you grip at his sheets, driven to the brink and reveling in all the things he’s saying to you while feeling him in your stomach. 

Suddenly, you feel your arms pulled back, and you yell into his mattress as he buries himself even deeper. Everything you’re screaming makes no sense, but the phenomenal sensation you feel as you go limp renders you speechless anyway. 

Yoongi knows exactly what he’s doing as he pushes his thumb into your asshole, because you clench so hard around him that he chuckles darker than dark. Careening into space, you kiss the edge of euphoria before he inconveniently pulls out, launching a sling of insults from your mouth. 

“What was that?” 

“I said fuck you!” 

“Thought so.” 

Not done in the slightest, Yoongi hauls your thighs so flush against him that you have to use your fingertips for support. Just as you’re about to argue, he rams into you from a new and impossibly enticing angle and holy fuck it feels so good you want to weep.

“Put that fucking hand down,” he growls, smacking away the fingers you didn’t even know were on your mouth. “If you wanna talk shit.” 

“Fuck—!” 

“Uh huh. Let it out, baby girl.”

You’ve never felt this out of control. This wild. This out of body. Your head is yanked back, your back pressing into the front of his shirt before you feel him so far into your guts that you quiver. 

Now at the mercy of his tongue in close range, you hear his gravelly tone in your ear, “What’s my fuckin’ name.” 

“Asshole—” 

A hard smack to your tits has you crumpling with a whine. “Say it.” 

“I’ll say it if I wanna say it—” 

Another spank to your inner thigh and you’re gone. Eyes roll as he tweaks your nipple, and your words are almost garbled when he grips your chin from behind. “This what we’re doing? Hmm?” 

You laugh breathy before you taunt, “Uh huh.” 

“Mm…” Despite your laugh, you shake. “I wouldn’t do that, doll.” 

“Make me. Bet you can’t.” 

Tensed and veins angry, Yoongi grips both your tits before snarling, “That’s enough.” 

Swiftly, he shoves you down into the sheets, muscular frame pinning you as he strokes up into you just right. Again. Again. It’s all too slow and too effective and you’re trying to stay mad but all you can feel is perfection, your back arching at his thrusts and mewling at his low growls in your ear. 

“You wanted this.” Another thrust. “Talking shit.” Your jaw goes slack. “Pissing me off.” 

Your groan is downright erotic. Why why why? Just knowing you’re making him this mad flutters your cunt and, from the sinister chuckle shooting into your neck, Yoongi definitely felt that. 

“Fuckin’ thought so.” 

When he reaches to grab your breasts, the last thrust has you crying out in a flurry of pleasure. 

Every single thought is Yoongi, from beginning to end in a biblical cycle of debauchery. Exertion leaves you slick, sweat coating the expanse of your skin only to press into his bed, your mess your mess your mess. At his hands. The smacks of his cock. The rolls of his hips. Are you gone? Are you here? If he’s bruised then you feel like you are, too, and you welcome the temporary pain as Yoongi’s fingers dig ever deeper into your waist fuck one’s now pinning your head down. 

The moans you let out are unending, and your thighs shake when all you get in response is a laugh of condescension. 

“Look at you. Can’t even stay mad.” 

“Fuck you!” You’re close, you’re close, you’re close again. Release is at your fingertips, but Yoongi yanks himself out to rip it away from your outstretched fingers. “No!” 

“What, doll.” 

“Please!” 

“Nah.” 

Body sore, you’re flipped over with no mercy as something else presses against your cunt. 

Fucking hell, he’s eating you out now? Shaking, you feel Yoongi’s tongue swirl around your thrumming clit before he sucks, edging you to the point of tears and heartbreak. And it proves too much as you grab at his head, yank at his hair, because he lets up when you’re close. 

Every. Single. Time. 

Your madness spirals into your curses, and he relishes in your despair, continuing to lick and suck and slap your thighs with patience. “What do you say?” 

“Please!” 

“Mm. Not loud enough.” 

“Yoongi, please.” 

“Oh, we’re saying names now?” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it aches. It’s starting to borderline hurt. “I’ll be good,” you barter, beg, plead with a head spinning off its own axis. “I’ll do anything.” 

“Do it yourself then.” 

Later, when you look back on tonight, you’ll be embarrassed and shy to hell. But right now, you’re so over any shyness that you don’t hesitate, reaching down to rub at your clit and moaning when it’s so sensitive.

And Yoongi gets a front row seat. 

His groan is gutteral. And it doesn’t take you long to quicken your pace, bucking your hips and whining to the ceiling. You’re so so so close it’s right there—

Your hand is smacked away. And after you try to wrestle out of his grip, you are a flat out, blubbering mess. “Yoongi… Please…” 

“Nah.” 

This is torture. And you’re frightened at how much you’re enjoying it. “I’m so close.” 

“You’ll come when I say you can.” 

“Please! …Please..”

“You done being a brat?” 

“No! Fuck. Yes!” If you weren’t so far gone, you may have deciphered a tiny smile of amusement. But it won’t be for months later until you’ll realize that you were wrong. 

Because the menacing flash of teeth you see is much too wide to be anything other than pride. “The fuck did I say? Use your words.” 

You know you’re still upset. You know Yoongi is still upset. But for some reason, you feel closer to him than you have in awhile, and you wonder if lust and madness are two sides of the same coin. “Let me come. Please.” 

Yoongi finally obliges with something he hadn’t pleasured you with yet. And your vision blanks as you yelp at the sensation, his slick fingers pistoning into your folds so fast you’re arching so taut. From between your quivering legs, you hear one final command, 

“Then fucking come.” 

And you burst, so hard you almost feel like something threatens to spew from your cunt. But all you can do is shake and thrash under his grip, so erratic that you feel like Yoongi’s starting to pin you down. Gone, gone, gone, you’re sure the veins of your neck threaten to break through your sweaty skin. 

Then you feel his cock thrust inside of you, and you whip your head forward only to get your airway cut off. “Again,” he calmly repeats, flinging you back to the last time this happened. 

Only this time, there’s even less room for you to make any other choice. 

“I said again.” 

Your body cannot fathom disobedience, pulsing and milking his perfect fit. Over, and over, and over. You hear rumbling from a dragon above, feel breaths of steam whooshing as it watches you come undone. 

“Yoongi—” 

A light slap to your cheek is your only warning before your chin is tugged, lips smushing into yours to swallow your straining sobs. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your body is still thrumming, inundating around his cock until your emotions spill from your core. Toes. Fingers. Everything is straining and locking in place. 

“So fucking hot.” He rips your soul right out. “Shit.” 

You fly through time and space, gathering emotions and feelings and spiraling spiraling spiraling. Crying. You’re crying. Full on crying you’re so overwhelmed with everything truly you were so mean to him you upset him holy fuck you should’ve left when he told you to—

“Baby.” 

But you cannot stop crying, choke choke gasping on sobs. 

“Babe.” 

“I—I—” 

Your name stabs you with a crisp shot, coupled with a firm grip on your chin, snapping you back to lucid. And Yoongi’s eyes are frantically searching your own. “Look at me.” 

You do. Do you? You do. And his eyes… 

They’re not angry at all. It’s pure concern. Steadfast concentration. And something reflecting your soul. “Breathe.” 

“Oh, shit,” you whisper, coughing and reaching for oxygen you didn’t know you were denying. Air rushes back into your lungs as you inhale. 

“There you go. Keep going.” 

You do, gulping down air and hiccuping a breath or two. Your cheek is being caressed, you think. And with another pass, you know it is. 

“Relax for me.” And you hiccup a sob. “Breathe, babe.” 

You do, you do, you do. Yoongi kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, and you breathe more and more through it all. “You with me?” 

“Always,” you answer, filter off because you are hanging by a thread and he’s holding the top. “Please don’t kick me out ever,” you hiccup. “Please, baby, I’ll do anything for you but I—could—never handle that—” 

You’re tenderly hushed before lips slide over yours, attempting to swallow your thoughts and your sobs and your oncoming tears. As you flood his bed with apologies, Yoongi keeps wiping them all.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I’m really sorry.” 

“Babe.” 

“You told me so many times—” 

“Breathe, angel.” 

You blink at the change in name, and it makes you focus just a bit stronger. Floating down from the precipice. 

“I wasn’t kicking you out,” he slowly explains, kissing sweat from your forehead. His words feel like a calm, rock-filled river over your eyes. “I felt like an idiot and hated you seeing me like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“Just… Like this.” 

“You’re perfect like this,” you hitch out, not caring about what flows out of your mouth. “So perfect. Always to me. I just wanted to help you, baby, I’m so sorry—” 

He hugs you so tight more tears squeeze out. 

And so do more confessions, “I… I care about you. I think a little too much. If I lost you, I wouldn’t—be able—” 

“I’m here.” 

“So please don’t push me away.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I know you don’t make promises but—” 

“I promise.” Without an ounce of doubt, Yoongi places a firm, lingering kiss on your temple. “Promise. Fuck.” As he holds you tight, you feel him shake before you hear the tiniest sniff at your ear. 

Oh. He doesn’t need to be like this, too. You try to move your hand up between your bodies to comfort him, but your whole limb feels gelatinous. So you simply whisper, “It’s okay, baby.” 

You can’t tell how long you lie like this, with his beautiful weight on yours. But time is irrelevant when your mind is unwinding from hours of whirring, starting to finally accept the fact that everyone is okay and you don’t have to be angry anymore. 

“Come on,” Yoongi rasps, voice cracked and airy. “Let’s go.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Shower.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

You’re so thrown and dizzy from what just happened that even getting to the bathroom is a blur. What you kinda feel is Yoongi holding you upright when your legs buckle, but you don’t remember when he leaves your side to turn the water on. 

As he flips on the light, your eyes squeeze until they adjust, and you watch as he tests the water while fully clothed. Air conditioning starts to give you a chill, but the shower warms up just in time because he reaches out to guide you inside. 

Wait. Is he not joining you? Bleary, you grab at his shirt when he steps away, eyes pleading. “Are you coming in, too?” 

Yoongi stops before he gives a shake of his head. “I’ll take mine when you’re done,” he says through a slight smile. “We’ll take care of you first.” 

That doesn’t make sense. Even in your depleting haze, you know something doesn’t add up. “You can join me now. I don’t mind.” When you try to lift his shirt, Yoongi visibly flinches when you brush over his ribs.

And all the murk around your head vanishes in a snap. 

He kept his shirt on that whole time. Not once did your positions allow you to see his upper body fully. And now he’s not gonna get in the shower or take his shirt off? 

Your voice lowers two octaves when you reach full clarity. “Let me see.” 

Unblinking, Yoongi tries to back away, “Don’t worry—” 

“Let me see it, baby,” you command, breath cut until he finally allows you to lift his shirt up holy fuck those injuries look so painful tears prick your eyes. “Oh, my god, Yoongi—” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re hurt.” You feel these wounds deep in your ribs, and you tell him to get your kit what the hell he fucked you while feeling those? 

Attempting to alleviate your stress, Yoongi decides to strip fully and step into the shower, ignoring your pleas to grab your med kit and promising you can take care of him when you’re done washing up. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, doll.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Promise.” 

And when his arms wrap around you, this is when you finally let go. Huge, chest-wracking sobs echo around tile, and Yoongi stays quiet through your cathartic release. 

There’s another reason you were so upset. And it has nothing to do with any of them, but with yourself. The main reason you’ve been so riled up and frustrated is because… This is technically your fault, too. 

But, unsurprisingly, he won’t let you take any blame whatsoever. 

“You got hurt cus I said to play.” 

“Nope.” 

“I wore the outfit that day.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“And lost my friends at the club.” 

“No.” 

Sniffling in quick succession, you think about one other option. Some form of closure that can double as compromise. Voice soft, you suggest the last resort you have, 

“How about we share it.” 

Yoongi blinks twice before he clarifies, “You wanna share the blame?” When you nod, he huffs through the tiniest smile of confusion. “Mm. Then it’s our fault.” 

“Okay.” 

After shaking his head, he closes his eyes, molding his forehead with yours. “What are you doing to me.” 

A sniffle. “Wrecking your water bill.” 

His laughs join yours as you barely get your sentence out before giggling, and to feel him so close and present and here makes your worries slink down the drain. 

Hands trace down your arms, walking along falling rivers before creating ponds with your fingers intertwined. “Gonna clear me out someday.” 

“Duh.” 

He’s himself again. 

And after a whole night of chaos, you feel like yourself again, too. 

That’s all you both need to feel peace. 

-

-

You keep that tranquility carrying you through his room, peeking into his closet to grab the biggest shirt and sweats you can find before drying your head. 

But no matter how much water you can dry, your body will keep being washed in relief. And it’s the calmest feeling, watching as Yoongi does the simplest things near his bed. 

Your lips curve when he pulls up his pants; your heart beats when he grabs a tee. It’s in this moment that you admit that these outfits of his are your favorites, and you gravitate to him as he slips cotton over his damp head. 

“Come on,” you softly offer as you turn. “I’ll make food and get you some ice.”

Again, Yoongi just stares with a faint smile. But his eyes are alive again, so you’re more than fine if he just follows your lead without a word.

In the kitchen, you pause amongst the appliances, the cabinets watching as you utilize your phone to find a good recipe. “What shall we eat… Stew? Or, wait—” 

Looking up, you eye him in thought before choosing to focus on something else. “Actually, let’s figure you out first.” 

Opening yet another tab to add to your hundreds, you type away before selecting a good starting point. “Okay, let’s see. You’re breathing fine, so no bruised ribs. Umm…” 

Scroll, scroll. 

“It looks really bad there, though. You sure you can move right?” 

Despite asking, you go right back to your phone before Yoongi can even respond. Scrolling and clicking and reading again. 

Scroll, scroll. 

“Okay, so no bruised ribs, and according to this you don’t have any broken bones. And nothing fractured, either, thank god—”

“I love you.” 

Time bursts.

Your chest glows. 

Everything starts to beat, beat, beat in slow motion. 

And you don’t even feel like you’re in the room anymore. “…What?” 

You need to hear it again. You need to need to need to, because if you heard him wrong, you will check yourself and bolt right out the door. 

His eyes. 

Despite the battlefield on his skin, they are dripping, and sparkling, and full. The whole world suspends as he stares right into your soul, caressing it with his wounded hands and cradling it in his bruised arms. 

No matter how hard the moon will try—for years, and years, and years more—it will never outshine this single, shaken, solidified admittance. 

“I love you, doll.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to fucking do. 

Why is Yoongi saying this now? Why is he choosing now of all times to make you the happiest person in the universe? 

No. 

Happiness isn’t even close to what you feel and you’re pretty sure you’re crying but nothing makes sense and your vision plunges under sunlit waters. 

“And you don’t have to say anything. I know I don’t deserve to.” 

What?

“I can’t be everything you want. Or need. Or whatever the fuck I’m trying to say. But I just needed you to know because I can’t fucking fight this shit anymore—” 

You lunge forward before he offers his last syllable, careful to avoid his wounds and not mush his face because he would do the same for you. 

And it’s all too much tonight. The lingering fear, the dying anger, the floods of relief, the joy. You can’t stop your sobs from coming out in bursts, your whole body wracking with overwhelming emotion as he grits into your skin,

“Goddamn it, I—”

“Yoongi—”

“—so fucking much.”

Yoongi loves you. He’s here. He loves you, loves you, loves you and the beats of your heart pulse orange and blue, blue, blue. 

Nothing will ever compare to this moment. Nothing. You will bottle this one up in a jar to place next to all the others you have stored, and when you are lonely, or hurt, or even when you’re doing just fine, you will uncork it to surround yourself with this memory and know that everything will be okay. 

He loves you. 

Fuck, he loves you? 

You choke out his name with a sob, and he squeezes you even harder. When you can’t reply with anything else, he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, his tears taking root and blossoming into beautiful vibrant fruit all along your rib cage.

He loves you.

Why can’t you seem to say it back? What the fuck is wrong with your tongue?

Maybe it’s because saying it doesn’t feel like enough. Like it’s laughable that there are words for this feeling because they don’t nearly represent what you harbor in your very being for this man. 

There’s no way any words are enough. Not for him. Nor for you. Because right now, Yoongi needs something more. And you’re going to give him more than everything. 

“Yoongi, I—”

He captures your lips in his, and you let him push you against his counter and consume you everywhere he wants to. Between his claims, your sobs have room to breathe. Which makes for a horrible showing of your attempting to say what you want to. “I… I can’t… Yoongi—”

Fingers press into the back of your head, a forehead smushing into yours and shutting you up completely. “I’m sorry,” he says, words rolling down the tracks your tears have walked. “I won’t ever be able to say that enough.” 

“Baby,” you hiccup, resting a hand over one of his. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not.”

“It is.” You squeeze his hand, feeling the lovely digs of his knuckles in your palm. His scent wafts around you like an embrace, and you know there’s nothing quite like it. At all. “You’re okay, so I’m okay.” 

After he plants a warm kiss on your temple, you feel his hands ball into fists at your ears. “I just—fuck.” 

There’s no telling what he’s thinking about in that brain of his. But you need him to know that there’s nothing more for him to be sorry for. All you care about is that he’s present, responding, and himself. 

“Babe,” you whisper, still not believing those three words coming out of his mouth. “I’m here.” 

“I know.” He sighs, smushing into your lips and holding you so tenderly, yet so tight. As he laps at your tongue, you’re more than sure he can taste your rainfall. 

None of this is real. Because you can’t believe it at all. Even as Yoongi continues his journey across your neck, your shoulders, your jaw, your face, you still can’t piece together that this is truly happening.

When you feel him hard on your pelvis, you remember that he didn’t get the same release you got earlier. But you’re not gonna be the one to suggest going again, all of this will be what he decides. 

And what Yoongi decides is to pull you closer, breathing you in while you do the same. His kisses are never ending, and your hands roam languidly along his shoulders, his hair, stretching across the expanse of his back. One that has held the weight of the world and then some.

His name leaves your mouth in a sigh, your back arching as softly as the kisses being planted along your breasts. 

“If you only knew,” he whispers, laughing to himself as he wraps an arm around your side.

“Knew what?”

“Nothing, babe.” You gasp into his next rough press to your lips. “You’re so—fuck.”

You said you’d let him lead. But as Yoongi starts to walk you into his bedroom again, you think about his injuries and feel more concerned after knowing they’re there. So you quietly stop him as you reach his bed, “Are you sure?” 

“I’ll be alright, doll,” he whispers, lowering you down and smiling so tranquilly your heart lurches. “As much as I think you enjoyed the first time, this time will be better.” 

Giggling, you fight the heat from searing your cheeks as you smile. “You enjoyed it more than I did, I think.” 

“I don’t think so.” Yoongi smirks, getting up. “Lemme get a cond—” 

“It’s okay,” you halt him with a hand, and he freezes. 

Full stop. No movement. Not even a breath. “...What?” 

“We don’t…” You swallow, stomach fluttering at his expression. “We don’t have to this time.” 

Because Yoongi’s eyes have not left your face. “You sure?” 

Then something causes you to smile. Knowing that if there’s anyone you want to do this with, it’s this man right here and now. There’s genuinely no one else in the world with whom you would wanna share this experience, and the fact that he’s still asking makes you emotional.

Cradling his face with the most tender touch you can imagine, you confirm, “Just for a little bit.” And you add something you think he needs to keep hearing. “I trust you.” 

Gulping down any extra emotions spilling from your heart’s chalice, your words come out a little wobbled. “And I want to, if you want it, too.” 

“I want what you want, doll.” 

“Then it’s okay.”  

Clothes on or off, you still feel so shy underneath him. 

But this time, you vow to shove those feelings of unworthiness to the side. Because you are fully invested in this moment above all others. And Yoongi deserves more than you can give. 

When he slowly tugs his sweats from your legs, you’re already choking back tears. As he climbs on top, you await the connection you never in your dreams would’ve imagined. 

And when Yoongi stares at you one more time, you know exactly what he’s asking. 

“Yes, my love,” you wisp into his skin, craning up to kiss him and swallowing his last slice of doubt. Knowing you’ll say it again and again and again. 

His brows pinch as he kisses you—slow, purposeful, understanding. Then he positions himself, and you can physically feel his hand brush your cunt as he does so. If he ever asks if you felt him shake, you will deny it. But only for a year or two. 

As soon as you feel him—only him, solely him—you swell with a current of emotion. And it pulls you all the way under when he’s fully sheathed inside. 

“Holy fucking shit.” 

“Yoongi—” 

“Fuck.” 

Simply having him inside, with no barriers or obstacles in between? You’re already close. There’s no early explanation, but you already feel overwhelmed enough to come. 

No no no. You want this to last forever, so you wait for Yoongi to gather himself because he appears to be fighting, too. 

Chuckling, you ask, “You good, baby?” 

And your lover snaps his gaze to your face, bangs sweeping across your cheeks and eyes unblinking. “Yeah, just...” He stares at your inquisitive expression before whooshing out a harsh breath. “Just this is about to make me bust.” 

You burst into laughter before admitting you were just thinking the same thing, and his slow grin makes you want to cry. “We’re not good at this.” 

“No. You’re too good at this. I can’t even move.” 

“Yes, you can,” you whine. “You wreck my shit all the time.” 

Feeling a twitch more prominent than ever, you giggle as Yoongi puffs out pained amusement. “Doll, if you keep talking like that, I’m pulling out.” 

“Okay, okay,” you surrender, loving how out of sorts he seems. He’s fighting for his life and you’re enjoying the hell out of it. 

“You’re a little too perfect right now.”

Maybe one day you will agree with him. But that day is far from reach, your head shaking in quiet disagreement.

“You are.”

“Nowhere close,” you whisper.

His nose brushes against yours. “Say that again and see what happens.”

“Is that what you tell all the others fuck!”

His shove up your cunt makes you see stars. “What did I fuckin’ say?” 

“What—”

Another launch has you careening through space, lip bitten and suppressing a hearty whine. “You think there’s someone else?” Again. “Hmm?” 

Again. 

You’re so dazed and mind-fucked to pieces that your speech is barely audible. But your chin is grabbed as you’re snapped straight, and your eyes try their hardest to focus on slitted ones above. “You’re gonna regret saying that.” 

You just laugh, whine pinging sharp into the ceiling as he shoves forward so hard your whole body shifts upward. “Oh, yeah?” 

Yoongi doesn’t respond with words, thrusting up again and sending you twisting and winding towards the edge unbelievably fast. “Uh huh.” 

“Make me then,” you gasp out. “Make me really sorry.” 

The sound Yoongi makes comes from deep within his stomach, the rumbling hum shooting right into your veins like liquid fire. 

And the full-on attack he bursts into renders you completely speechless. Everything Yoongi does pulls you deliciously in all directions—his thrusts, his chain hitting his chest, his grip on your wrists, the way he snags your chin. Everything. 

“Taking me so well like this.” 

“I—”

“So fucking tight.”

Fuck fuck fuck it’s habitual for you at this point, and you unhinge your jaw a split second before he smacks the side of your face. Desire lowers your lids halfway as you feel empowered, and you don’t even recognize your voice as you order him on the spot. “Do it again.” 

Yoongi doesn’t stop his pace as he keeps his eyes on you. 

“Do it again,” you growl, fully limp and a groaning mess when he does exactly what you want. 

Fuck, the pain feels good. So good that you reach up and choke him out. But the back of your head is grabbed before you feel hungry lips smash into yours. You feel your wrists pinned again by one large palm, air chilling for a moment before a hot mouth captures one of your nipples. “Oh, fuck, Yoongi!” 

“Uh uh.” 

“Please—please—” 

You’re still tensing as he devours your chest below his shirt, strokes now slower but just as powerful. 

Your arms still haven’t been freed, but there’s something about being under his control that has you loving this position. Without question. Maybe it’s the fact that you can see him now, losing himself just as he saw you washes in the throes of passion. 

And he licks, sucks, lolls his tongue all over your tits, whispered praises sinking through your bosom as he keeps a grip on your wrists. 

“Baby,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—” 

“Shit.” Air whooshes over you before you feel your arms freed and him yank himself out, and you freeze as he unloads right on your stomach, a sharp cocktail of pride and shock in your gut. 

Holy fuck, Yoongi was that close? Did he hold out as long as he could? Shit, he’s breathing so hard his jewelry shakes as it dangles. 

You’re still so surprised that your arms are still locked into bends, and he glances up at you from his kneeled state. “Fuck,” he laughs, and is that… Is Yoongi shy? “Thought I could hold out.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure through your own tiny chuckle. “Oh my god, I promise.” 

He leans down to plant a heart fluttering kiss on your lips, but you hate how he looks pained on the way down. 

Those hits he took… Now you kinda understand his perspective. Because now you want to avenge him in five hundred thousand ways—almost half as many ways as you want to show him how you feel. 

“Stay there, beautiful,” Yoongi orders as he moves to get off the bed, wincing in passes. “I’m not done with you.” 

Damn. He looks even more exhausted than before. “Baby, are you sure?” 

But Yoongi walks right to his bathroom to retrieve a towel, and your eyes may as well transform into hearts when you watch him come back to you. So handsome, even now. Even when he’s simply holding a washcloth, hair completely mussed, soul sparkling and face bruised. 

As he sits to clean your face before moving to your stomach, you can only observe his eyes. So experienced. Calm. At peace. When they drift to yours, it’s instinct that has you shying away. “What, love.” 

Another reason to crumble inside. “I just… nothing,” you whisper. 

And Yoongi finishes with the cloth before tossing it somewhere. “Tell me,” he says, lying down on the ribs with more damage. “I wanna know.” 

“Come on this side,” you tell him, and he obliges without a word. “It’s a secret.” 

“A secret?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Yoongi settles before lifting your chin, rubbing an affectionate thumb over any tears still persevering on your cheeks. “I can keep those, you know.” 

Smiling, you fold way too easily. “Okay, I’ll tell.” 

When he leans in, your nervousness and excitement to tell him almost spoils your ability to do so. Like someone gifting a present while wanting to say what it is before it’s even opened. 

“I love you, too,” you whisper, tears sprinting to your ducts as Yoongi freezes. When he looks at you, you can’t help but choke on a sob seeing his eyes get as red as the marks on his cheek. “And you deserve more than I could ever give.” 

His eyes hold the heavens and the seas. 

You’re right. Just saying it isn’t fucking enough.

You’re already liplocked again before you can think, saltwater on your face and you don’t even know whose eyes it came from.

Determined, Yoongi starts kissing a trail from your lips to your jaw, and you start to cry as he makes his own journey down the expanse of you. 

All of you.

Is this what it feels like? Is all of this actually, genuinely real?

You hope so, because you feel devotion in each press of his lips, and every touch will be remembered in its own right. Its own pocket of time.

Every single stop.

It almost feels divine when his mouth reaches your folds, lapping at your essence and swirling around your clit. When you say his name, Yoongi says nothing, instead palming your thighs and eating you out like he has all the time in the world. 

Swelling, you already feel close. 

But the way he gets you to fantasia is so natural that you slide into your quivers seemlessly. The transition into your heaven flows like a stream, and your waves engulf his tongue and coat his mouth without trouble. 

This is what it feels like. What it feels like with Yoongi. 

And you wanna keep making love until only sleep can take you from him.

Your hands jut into his hair, gasping as he keeps his pace, and no matter how you squirm he is dead set on holding you down until holy fuck you’re coming again. 

How? What’s happening to you? This constant stream of release is shocking you to the point of crying out, and Yoongi groans into your orgasm and prolongs it with the whole press of his tongue.

“Holy fuck, baby—!” Another wave overcomes the next, and you outright quake in his hands, eyes rolling and vision blinking white. Muscles lock as you can’t keep up with the pleasure, and you’re mercilessly let go only for lips to descend on yours.

Your tears spill into your ears as you kiss him back, wrapping tired arms over his shoulders and raking in deep. 

“Fuck.” And you feel his cock lodge against your entrance, and you’re amazed how hard he is again. 

Does he want what you want? Is he ready again? 

As Yoongi quietly gets up to get a condom, you’re amazed that he wants to keep going after everything that’s transpired. But, if he feels like you do, he’s ready to keep going until the sun comes up three whole times. 

When he sits next to you, your better half appears shy as he bites the wrapper. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Oh, I already know.”

“K. But god, I fuckin’ want to.”

You bite your lip to hold back your smile, remembering what he said a long time ago and bringing it back full circle for the next thing you both wanna try. “One day.”

Yoongi only grins. 

And for the next hour, your lover, your secret, your home gives you everything he has, and you come for him more times than you ever have in your life.

Every time, he drags your pleasure out, expertly tearing you down with his movements and building your confidence up with his words. He tells you you’re perfect, and he disagrees when you disagree. When you find tears on your face, he kisses those away, too. When you feel along his silver, he simply watches you in silence. 

No sadness, doubt, nor anger to be found. 

After you physically can’t do any more, Yoongi lies at your side, silent as you play with his hair. You do your best to stay still, not wanting to accidentally push into any of his injuries that you’re gonna beg him to get checked in the morning. 

Once he’s healed? That’s when you’ll never let go. Because you want to crush him into you completely. Mold into him, just so he can feel the brevity of your highest affection. 

“I’m sorry for yelling,” you finally whisper. “But I really was so mad at you. All of you.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“It won’t happen again.” 

“That’s what you said last time.” 

Yoongi stares, seeming to withhold something from you before he palms your cheek. “They were gonna follow us home if we didn’t, babe,” he reveals, snapping your heart back in two. “We all knew that.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Everything hits you at once: why they stayed, why you and Taehyung had to leave. Why Tae didn’t bring you straight back to the house. And the burns at your eyes match the searing in your gut. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about that.” 

When you start to cry, Yoongi sits up and hangs his head between his sweats. “You don’t need to think about shit like that,” he murmurs, sounding defeated as ever. “But we talked after you told us off. We won’t hide that from you anymore.” 

Sniffling, you whisper out a thank you. But you don’t want Yoongi to feel like he has to distance himself, so you untangle him—slowly, gently–-before bringing him into your chest. 

After dealing with all that and the tempest in his living room, this man still let you in. From the looks of things, there’s a lot that he had been fighting, and you’re more than appreciative that he opened his door. Not knowing how to put these feelings into words, you say the first things that come to mind. And for some reason, they feel heavier on the way out, 

“Thank you for letting me in. It was raining really hard.” 

Yoongi stiffens hard before holding you closer. 

“Babe?”

No response. Just another batch of weighted quiet. 

Worried, you tilt your head. “Hey. Look at me.”

If he stays right where he is, you’ll have to respect that decision. But he ends up pushing himself up, and as soon as you see moonlight catch on a falling tear, all your instincts reach for him, “Oh, fuck, come here.”

You surround him with everything you have, wanting every single bit of warmth birthed from his love to fill his space instead of yours. Whatever he needs, you will give. “It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, holding him so close but not nearly close enough. 

Never close enough.

His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you will let him live there whenever he needs to. “I’m not mad anymore, okay?” God, you hate how he’s still so silent. You get it, but you hate whatever made him default to this state. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

After light rain fills the room, your soul breaks at a sniffle, and you crush your love even tighter.

“This isn’t about that, doll,” Yoongi finally whispers, burying wet eyes further into your shoulder. “It’s just…”

It’s what? What’s he thinking about? Hopefully it’s not anything—

“It’s so fucking better when you’re here.” 

When you choke out a sob, his body locks, words pouring from nowhere and everywhere. “I sleep better. Eat better. Fuck, I even feel better even if nothing else changes.”

“Yoongi…”

“It’s true.” Sighing, he sniffles again before letting his weight drop onto you in resignation. Or relief. “I mean that.”

“Then… Those three months…”

“One day, I’ll tell you everything,” he offers, making you wonder what the hell he’s been through in the past. And if it has something to do with that guitar he smashed to pieces. “But from now on, you can be here whatever you want.” 

Many things have shifted tonight. As if an earthquake had upturned everything between the both of you, only peace has settled in its wake. A peace you had never felt before. As you brush fingers through his hair, you joke, “So I can come to those parties you host, too?” 

“Those weren’t my idea, by the way. Jimin made me.” Kissing your shoulder, Yoongi continues to admit, “He was worried. And hoping you would show.”

Oh. That’s news to you. 

“I knew you wouldn’t. But.” He exhales before nestling in further. “I did hope to see you, too.” 

“It’s okay.” You rub the back of his neck, your fingers feeling nothing but warmth and the softness of his clothes. “It would’ve been too obvious.”

“What would’ve.”

“That I wanted you all to myself.”

“You already have that.”

When you stiffen, your words are tiny. “You know what I mean.”

Yoongi laughs soft, taking one of your hands in his and bringing it up for a kiss as you blurt, “My brother was the one that invited me. To come to those, I mean.”

The way he blinks is comical. “Huh.”

“I know.” It’s your turn to bring his hand close, kissing along his knuckles before you stare out the window behind him. “It makes me wonder if he knows.”

“What if he does?”

You snap your eyes right to his. “Does he?”

Yoongi watches your lips linger on his fingers before he tells the truth, “No.”

“Okay. But you’re sure I can stay?” 

“Who do you think you bought those groceries for?” 

Oh. Wait. “What?” 

Grinning so sly, Yoongi reveals the plan he had all along, “I get you for a week, right?”

Oh. Holy shit. You cannot quite possibly deal with what this man is saying. That whole time you were shopping for his list… No wonder he was already done with dinner when you got there oh you’re gonna get him back for that. 

Light bursts from your center as you grit out through a grin, “You sneaky little—” Pulling his tilted mouth in for another kiss, your heart pulses little pink stars as he leans in with a laugh, and you meet lips again and again until he slowly, reluctantly stops. 

“One day,” he murmurs out of nowhere, and you flick your eyes to his. “I’ll be better.”

Of course he will. You have no doubts. But, just like he always does for you, you’re gonna start offering the same reassurance out loud, even if he knows it’s there. 

And you can’t contain your little laughs at your own joke, despite him just staring into your face right after you crack it, “Don’t make it just one day, silly.” 

Even if you’re very serious, it’s in your nature to lighten things up. Especially after hearing such wonderful news for what’s coming. Clutching a little bit of his shirt, you whisper with complete devotion, 

“We’ll make it as many as we can.”

You hate how you feel him freeze, knowing what that means, what plaguing little thoughts are embedded in that tiny shift. 

Yoongi’s still hesitant to accept.

Because you are, too. In many ways. But this man has been picking you up and making you stronger day after day—in both his presence and absence—that you can’t help but fight to do the same. 

Does he ever think about you? Does he know that you’ll always be with him? No matter how close or far apart you are? You hope so. Because it’s so true that your heart is searing that promise into your soul, branding it as a reminder to reciprocate all this genuine love you’ve never been given before.

He loves you?

You still can’t accept that as fact.

…Maybe one day.

You chuckle to yourself, deciding to keep talking because Yoongi is still so very quiet. “At least. Until the day I get to meet my cat,” you huff in triumph. “Then I’m running away with her.”

It’s a perfect strike of a match. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pretend to pout. “But I’m starting to think she ran away already and you won’t fess up.”

Yoongi laughs so suddenly you flinch. After a playful scoff, he tries to make you feel better, “She’s still here!”

“Lies.”

“How much are you betting, doll.”

“How much are you willing to lose, babe.”

“This much,” he finally says, pinching your sides and hissing laughter when you scream. “Maybe I’ll make you leave after all if you’re gonna be a problem.” 

“You did threaten to kick me out before.” 

“Huh? When?”

“That day I showed up,” you remind him through a chuckle. Thrown back to that first night, you start to see all the parallels between then and now. And how vastly different things have become. “Said you were gonna kick me out for hustling you.” 

The glorious laughter from the depths of his belly makes you grin, and you cringe when his brows pinch in both laughter and pain. “I should’ve!” 

He needs to get those hits healed. “You really should’ve.” 

“Played me from the very start. You happy with yourself?” When you nod, Yoongi shakes his head. “Course you are.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do.” Your eyes meet, which proves dangerous for you because he bites his smirk before pulling you in for a kiss. “Thought I was gonna say it, huh.” 

“No!” You lie. Because no, you certainly were not! “…Maybe.” 

“Guess what.” 

Suddenly paranoid, you give him a look, already expecting to be tricked again. 

But Yoongi captures your lips without warning, curling your toes into sheets you’re now achingly familiar with. After a few passes, he shifts above, planting a hand at your side and letting his chain slide against your chest as he slots a leg in between yours. 

Yet again, you think about that first night, that first time. The first of apparently, surprisingly, wonderfully unexpectedly many. 

Who would’ve thought rain and a broken ego would bloom into something good? Who would’ve believed a person so close to your roots would be your home? 

As he lets up with one last slow stroke of his tongue, you whisper, “What were you gonna say?” 

At this, Yoongi spreads closed lips, taking his time planting a peck on your nose. “I just fucking love you, doll.” 

Oh. He’s a menace and the most annoying tease on the planet. 

When you can’t do anything but flee into his chest, Yoongi immediately laughs, forcing you back out of your little shell. “You can’t hide now, babe.” 

“I can!” 

Leaned forward in your struggle, you give him no choice but to swoop his head into your neck. Which backfires on you immensely because he decides it’s the perfect time to rasp deep against your ear, “I love fucking you, too.” 

His name flies out of your mouth in disbelief and embarrassment, and his heightened amusement puffs into the burning column below your chin. 

This is the moment something comes over you. Slams into you. Washes you in present nostalgia like lingering footsteps on a balcony. 

And it hurts. It really, really hurts. 

Instead of laughing along, you come down from your high, squeezing him like the pillow that couldn’t replicate his warmth for months. “I miss you.”

After a second, Yoongi questions, “How? I’m right here.”

You know that. You do. But with every hello there’s a goodbye, and you don’t want that this time. Especially now that your heart knows that his beats the same. 

Breathy and shaken, you rest your head in his chest, hoping he doesn’t hear but does at the same time, “I still miss you.”

Strong fingers weakly press into your sides, and while you can’t see him, you know for a fact that his smile is gone. Because he also knows goodbye is coming again, and you can’t stay here forever as long as this is all a secret. 

You feel a sigh wisp over your head before words that make no fucking sense follow it out, “I can’t do shit like this anymore.” 

…What?

No. No no no he can’t be done just like that you both just confessed everything you need to fight say something anything anything—

“I wanna do this the right way.” 

Oh. 

Yoongi’s chest… It’s shaking. 

Pushing yourself up, you search his eyes for answers. “What are you saying?” 

When he looks at you, there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it has been there all along, and he only needed a spark to set it ablaze. “I’m saying I’ll tell him, doll. Just me.” 

Oh. Oh, shit. Didn’t he say not yet? Didn’t he say he needs more time? He said he’d figure it out what is with the sudden…

Your tears are automatic as Yoongi roams his gaze from one eye to the other, and he’s swallowing before taking a step. A step you didn’t think he’d make. One you didn’t have the courage to take yourself. 

When he utters the words, your soul lets rain fall just as the storm resides.

And right as moonlight shines through his blinds.

“I’ll tell him everything.” 

-

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tbc. :)

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so... how did it go! | join the server!

a/n: so. here we are, over two years and 250k+ words later. thank you for sticking with me if you're still here, and thank you for being the most amazing readers a writer could ever, ever ask for. if you can interact or let me know what you enjoyed/like, i would be eternally grateful. these two parts took all of me, and i'm gonna take a break for a little bit before starting on the next part. a/n 2: thank you for also being here despite the highs and lows! things have really weighed on me for awhile, which prevented me from working on this part forreal. but my mental feels a lot lighter now, and i am ready to keep running with y'all. so thank you for your support and encouragement, no matter how you show it! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

[zorostitties]

Intertwined; 3

⤕ Luffy and you were like two sides of the same coin: opposites in every way, but similar in what mattered the most. Tied by a vow made with the purity of a child's heart, life keeps trying to tear you apart - but the vow that intertwined your destinies would not be broken so easily. Or, Luffy promised to marry you someday when you were kids. This is how he keeps his promise.

pairing: monkey d. luffy x (f) reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, toxic family relationships, death/grief, when i say slow burn i mean it

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: Helloooo world!! As I promised last chapter, we're finally getting into Plot™ now! Shit gets real from now on!! Thank you so much for all the comments past chapter. Feedback is ALWAYS much welcome and appreciated! Enjoy! <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

➛ 10

Beautiful blue skies. Seagulls sang happily above your heads. It truly looked like the perfect day –and you couldn’t be angrier.

Why couldn’t the weather collaborate? Why couldn’t there be a hailstorm or a cyclone to ruin everybody’s plans?

Not that it’d make a difference, of course – it could be raining fire balls from the sky and it wouldn’t be enough to make Scarpia Drachen change his mind. Your father was many, many bad things, but he was many good things, too, and his stubbornness linked with his ability to make plans were unstoppable. If he decided he was going to do something, then he would do that and nothing would stop him. He would accomplish it with painful punctuality because, as he always said, time is money.

Which meant that this little family trip was extraordinarily expensive.

Having the entire family gathered in one place at the same time was some sort of miracle. After all, each of you were usually busy with commissions in different parts of the world at the same time. The only ones that were at the Scarpia island more often were your parents and your grandfather; these three not only stayed to manage the business, but also because they were way too expensive for most of the contractors. Scarpia Drachen and Virgus refused to step out of the mansion for anything less than five hundred million berries. As for your mother… she was unavailable most of the time.

But the entire Scarpia family was reunited for that banquet, from the oldest to the youngest, all on board of the black ship sailing the still waters of the Calm Belt, and that was definitely a very expensive miracle.

The banquet hosts were royalty, however – which meant they could pay for it.

If it was a normal day, maybe you would’ve felt some sort of excitement when the Germa ships appeared in the horizon. You had read about the incredible structure that formed Germa Kingdom: thousands of ships interlocked, forming a gigantic floating platform big enough to bear a castle and their splendid army. If it was a normal day, maybe you would’ve been impressed by the fact that the kingdom wasn’t even fully reunited, yet it already looked colossal – how big would the full fleet look like? Maybe you would’ve been excited to see the giant snail species that carried most of the ships.

But no, you weren’t excited. No, it wasn’t a normal day, and not only because of this strange expedition.

It was your tenth birthday – and instead of being granted your gift of free unsupervised days, you were stuck in that ship heading to a banquet you didn’t care about.

Your father was strangely kind about it... well, maybe “kind” is too strong of a word: he didn’t sound apologetic (he never did) and didn’t look like he cared, but at least he said that you could choose another week for your vacation. That was a little comforting… yet, you’d never seen any of your brothers have their gifts delayed. Wasn’t Drachen the punctual man? Why then when it came to you, things could be delayed?

Yes, you were angry.

Fuming, in fact. You hated all of this. Why were your wishes so easily brushed aside even though you spent a year working tirelessly? Another year of no failures on top of that. How long would it take to cross the Red Line? Even though you were considerably close to the continent, you would never make it to the East Blue in less than a week. No ship was that fast. You’d have to wait until a commission took place conveniently close to take your “days off”.

Which meant Luffy would be waiting for days – maybe months – having no idea why you didn’t show up on the agreed day.

Would he wait for so long? It’s been a year… maybe he had already forgotten about you. Maybe when you finally got to Dawn Island again, he’d be angry or not care about you.

You didn’t want to imagine that your year of relentless and tiring work would go to waste like that. Going back to Dawn Island was your sole motivation, after all; the thought that after all this, you’d be able to turn half of your brain off and rest with Luffy and Ace and the Mountain Bandits, to play and chase animals and maybe visit Miss Makino… but all of that could go to waste because of your insufferable father and his business meetings.

So, yeah. You wished the day was a little less pretty. You wished that a slightly smarter sea king would bite the ship despite the Seastone lining and swallow one or two of your brothers in the process. Not this beautiful blue ocean from all sides and the comfortable weather and gentle breeze. Why couldn’t the climate be on your favor for once?

From an outsider point of view, no one would even suspect you were that angry, of course.

Not only because of the white wolf mask covering your face completely. Your posture, calm breathing, utter silence… everything about you expressed serenity. As if your emotions and body were two disconnected entities. As if there wasn’t a person under that mask.

That wasn’t a talent exclusive to you. The entire family stood in line, side by side on the ship’s deck as it docked on Germa, with similar serenity and silence, faces hidden behind well polished masks, standing from oldest to youngest. Scarpia Virgus, your grandfather, wearing his owl mask. Your mother, Scilla, the viper. Urso, your older brother, the bear. Crowley wearing his crow mask. The white wolf. Saqr, the falcon. Samuel and Esmael, the coyote twins. Scarpia Drachen stood in front as the head of the family. His intricate dragon mask was the most impressive of all.

All the noise came from the Germa men yelling orders; the Scarpia servants with their black masks and tuxedos didn’t make a sound, only speaking when necessary without screaming. Quiet and expressionless and boring as usual.

You knew that your brothers were as annoyed and confused as you were, but stayed postured as usual. None of you really had a choice: your father wouldn’t answer any questions and he didn’t even like to be questioned in the first place… so all you had to do was wait to find out why the hell you were walking into Germa Kingdom.

Could it be a commission that would require the entire family? But that wouldn’t make any sense… Germa 66 was known as the most formidable army in the whole world. They didn’t need assassins. They also weren’t the type to not dirty their hands – everybody in the underworld knew that the Vinsmoke Family were mercenaries themselves. So this option was quickly discarded.

Could it be a new business partnership? That was very plausible. The Scarpia family could benefit from their high tech weapons. But what would father offer in return?

You got so curious for a moment that you almost forgot that you were angry. Yeah, screw all this. I don’t caaaare. I didn’t even want to be here!

So your mind traveled far when you saw Germa’s King and his entourage approaching – Vinsmoke Judge, the impossibly big man with his blonde mane, golden helmet and severe expression. He was followed by three color coded boys, all of them seeming to be Urso’s age, except for a girl in pink who looked slightly older. The stark difference between the families was a bit comical, even – Scarpias in all black; Vinsmokes in rainbow. Could your family be even more boring?

You didn’t pay attention when Judge and your father greeted each other with empty cordiality. Father could definitely kill him if he wanted, you quickly noted, but we’d all be dead by his soldiers in a minute. Physical power isn’t all. You rolled your eyes when Vinsmoke Judge congratulated your mother on her pregnancy – empty words again, and your mother was always pregnant, so whatever.

Then you all walked towards the castle.

The adults talked. Well, your mother kept quiet, but the others talked. You and your brothers walked in complete silence. The Vinsmoke kids chatted among themselves and seemed unable to walk on a beeline, sending you all side eyes, though they didn’t make any attempts to talk to you. Thank God they didn’t. They were loud and annoying, but not loud in a Luffy way or annoying in an Ace way – these kids were mean. That was as clear and obvious as the blue sky above. You didn’t even need to exchange words with them to realize that. Their loud antics were a very clear and obvious attempt to intimidate.

It probably would’ve worked on any other kid, but not on you or your brothers. Even the twins were unfazed, not paying them a drop of attention. Walking in silence. Perfect posture.

Boring.

You side eyed the only girl from the Vinsmokes. Her pink tulle dress and white boots were… cute. Her silver tiara, earrings and bracelets matched; a lilac cape that resembled butterfly wings completed the look. Cute, you thought again. She’s even wearing a bit of makeup. Which made you feel self conscious for the first time; your black formal dress and leather shoes were boring in comparison. The only “accessory” allowed was the red scorpion brooch the entire family wore over the right side of the chest. You were the only girl from the family, just like her; why couldn’t they allow you to wear something cute too?

Boring, boring.

Vinsmoke Judge guided the families inside the castle. Germa soldiers and Scarpia servants followed the entire way. Germa 66 flags could be seen everywhere; the décor with golden arabesques and many (many) paintings of the King and his children felt a bit tasteless and, well, boring. Your father and Judge talked nonstop. You had to admit that even though Judge was taller, your father didn’t look less intimidating than him… and he was certainly much more elegant and well-spoken, too. But you weren’t paying attention to whatever they were saying, so – boring boring boring boring.

After what seemed like an eternity, you arrived at a huge dinner room. It was slightly prettier than what you’d seen up until that point: one of the walls had floor to ceiling windows that granted a privileged view to the front square of the castle and the sea ahead. The large dinner table with velvet seats and many butlers were ready. Judge’s seat was more flamboyant than the others, as expected; he sat at one end of the table, Drachen sat on the other end. The rest took their seats following their respective family heads.

At least I’ll get to eat good food. Though eating with this mask is a pain in the ass.

The butlers brought the starters first – it looked like ceviche, though you weren’t sure. While the Vinsmoke kids started eating unceremoniously, you and your brothers waited patiently until your father finally held a fork.

“Your kids are well-behaved, Drachen.” Judge’s thunderous voice caught your attention for the first time. “I’m impressed.”

He didn’t sound impressed… Vinsmoke Judge’s voice always had a condescending tone to it. Well, what could be expected from a megalomaniac king?

“They’re assassins first, kids second.” Father replied with slight nonchalance. “This is the Scarpia way.”

Judge tilted his head slightly. “I’m curious to know what type of training they endure. It could be implemented in our troops.”

By that sentence alone, you already knew that your grandfather would intervene. “There are secrets that should not be unveiled, Judge.”

He didn’t sound angry or confrontational at all, but you saw with the corner of your eyes how the Vinsmoke kids froze for a second… because grandfather called him Judge. Not Your Majesty. But Judge wasn’t offended. He knew better.

A dry, humorless chuckle passed by the king’s dry lips. “Of course, Virgus. The entire underworld knows about the secrecy revolving the Scarpia family… my men are thrilled to even be in your presence. Many people think you’re myths.”

Drachen nodded slightly. “And we are honored to be in your presence today.”

You were thankful for that mask. It allowed you to roll your eyes as many times as you wanted and go unnoticed.

You took a small bite from the plate. Yep, ceviche. You’d be grateful if there was a bottle of hot sauce to pour on it. Oh well. These masks should have holes for the mouth. Put the food under the mask and make sure to not reveal a lot from your face was annoying, made eating less pleasurable… not that ceviche was that good of a food anyway.

I wonder if Luffy likes ceviche? Ugh- stupid question. He likes anything. He’d eat mud and call it yummy.

Luffy… you wondered if he was at the top of the hill waiting for you. You wondered if he’d be too pissed at you for not showing up…

“Soon we’ll all be family, however, so there won’t be secrets between us anymore… isn’t it, Virgus?”

That made you freeze.

You noticed Urso and Crowley freezing at your sides. Saqr and the twins on the other side of the table froze as well.

...What?

Grandfather nodded. “Of course. As soon as we become one, our partnership will be mutually beneficial.”

What?

Judge held his glass of wine and stood up, making everyone else follow instinctively. “I’d like to propose a toast, then, to the union of our families.”

What?

Union of the families?

Was… was this a betrothal banquet?

Who’s getting married? Your eyes flew to the Vinsmoke girl; she looked as surprised as you, which was somehow comforting. Maybe that’s why she was all dressed up? Was she the bride? So it’s Urso – that was the only plausible answer. Urso was the oldest, after all… it was appropriate for him to be the first one to get married.

“Finding a worthy partner to any of my children isn’t easy. The Scarpia family, however, with its tradition and prestige, is certainly the right choice. There isn’t anyone better to be Ichiji’s bride-to-be.”

The boy in red gasped.

What?

Your father lifted his glass of wine slightly.

“And I am sure my daughter couldn’t be in better hands.”

You lost the ability to breathe.

You froze completely as if your muscles became pure ice. For the second time that day, you were grateful for that mask. You couldn’t control your expressions anymore, you couldn’t control the sweat forming on your forehead or the way your jaw dropped or the way your eyes widened.

...WHAT?!

His daughter?! With that… with that boy?!

You turned your head slightly. The other three Vinsmoke kids eyed Ichiji, the red haired one. He looked as shocked as you, and maybe slightly irritated…

Then, he turned his head in your direction.

You avoided his gaze.

No no no no no no no. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

They kept talking nonsense, but your ears were plugged – you couldn’t hear anything but your irregular breathing. Yes, this was against the training, but you were far too dazed to care about it. You knew all the brothers were looking at you from under their masks. You knew your mother was paying close attention to you, probably uneasy that you could do something disrespectful. But no, you couldn’t even move.

Your tenth birthday.

A family reunion announced last minute so you wouldn’t be able to run away.

The Scarpia family could benefit from their high tech weapons.

But what would father offer in return?

His only daughter. You.

As soon as the banquet ended, you found a way to escape the room.

Silently, sneakily, before anyone could notice your absence. You didn’t even know where you were going; you just hid behind big plant vases or tables, trying to get away from them, trying to not hear their unbearable voices, desperately wanting to not be watched by anyone for a second.

After taking a few turns, you found an empty room and entered it.

You leaned your back on the wall and just breathed.

Your fingers were shaking. Your heartbeat increased by the second. You wanted to get that mask off to let some air touch your face, but you couldn’t, which made everything worse. You held the fabric of the dress over your chest, feeling your legs lose strength, feeling genuine despair.

They didn’t even ask me anything.

Which was a stupid thought – they never asked your opinion on anything. But this was, in a way, much worse than anything they’d ever done. When were your brothers ever subjected to anything so life changing like this? It didn’t matter that it’d still take years for that marriage to happen. How… how was your father able to sell you away like that–?

“Found you.”

You froze.

The shaking, the panting – everything stopped the second you put your body back on “autopilot”. You straightened your back and turned around.

It was Ichiji.

He wasn’t alone. His two brothers entered the room as well. The blue guy, Niji, and the green guy, Yonji.

You didn’t like their mischievous expressions. Not at all.

You didn’t like the way he called your name. Your real name. You hated that he even knew it. You despised his mocking tone, the way he almost sung it.

“Why is my bride running away like this?” Ichiji said as he approached slowly. “I’m not pleased with that.”

“I think she’s scared.” Yonji remarked. “She looks scared.”

“How do you know if she looks scared? We can’t see her face…” Niji observed with sarcasm.

Ichiji held his chin and hummed. You didn’t like his stupid face and his stupid red bangs falling over his right eye and the superiority look he sent you.

“That’s a real problem, you see. How can I marry you if I haven’t even seen your face? I mean, what if you’re ugly?”

“I bet she’s ugly.” Niji chuckled. “I bet all of them are ugly. That’s why they hide behind masks.”

“What are you gonna do if she’s ugly, Ichiji?” Yonji asked.

“Well… I’ll have to crush her face, then, until it gets pretty. But I should get rid of this mask first, right?”

The three got closer. And closer. They towered over you.

You didn’t move.

Their mean smirks and cruel eyes were overwhelming.

You didn’t move.

Ichiji lifted his hand to grab the mask.

You kicked him.

The movement was way too fast for him to react. Your foot planted on his stomach with such force that the red boy was sent flying away until his back hit the wall on the corridor outside.

The other two boys were shocked.

You straightened your posture. Your fists tightened. You stared at Ichiji in a way so intense that, even though your eyes were hidden under the mask, he could feel it.

“If you try to touch me again,” your voice was quiet. Serene. Menacing. “I will kill you.”

And that wasn’t an empty threat.

A part of you knew that was irresponsible. You felt the hardness of his skin when you kicked him; you had to use much more strength than first assumed to send him back, as if he was made of stone instead of flesh. You felt that he and his brothers were unnaturally strong. You knew that Ichiji just received that attack because you caught him by surprise, and that maybe fighting the three of them at the same time would be way too much.

But there was that other part of you, too. The one that was sharpened like a blade. The one that knew how to kill. The one that had killed many before.

These three? They had training. They had strength. But they didn’t have real battle experience, and you knew that.

That would be your advantage.

Ichiji stood up slowly while holding his stomach; with his other forearm, he cleaned the drool from his chin. His eyes were widened – at first, in shock –; it almost looked like he had never been hurt like that before.

Then… his blue eyes hardened in pure anger.

“You bitch–!” He panted. “How dare you hit me?! Who do you think you are?!”

He entered the room at fast steps. You didn’t move. The two other brothers looked at you with similar outrage.

“Niji, Yonji, hold her,” the red-haired Vinsmoke ordered. “I’ll teach this dog a lesson!”

They got ready to hold your arms, one brother on each side. Ichiji pushed the sleeves of his blouse back. Your got into a fight position for the first time, expanding your senses, getting ready to battle.

Niji and Yonji were a centimeter away from grabbing your arms–

Their touch never came.

Your eyes widened at the new presence towering behind you.

Landon.

The butler held the two boys back by their arms, keeping them away. Even though he wore the standard black mask, you knew it was him. Landon was watching me the entire time? I didn’t even notice him!

You were reminded once again of why he was assigned to train you.

“Your Highnesses, please calm your spirits.” His voice was husky and expressionless as usual. “This is a celebration day.”

The three boys were also taken aback by Landon’s sudden speed and strength… they haven’t met many people in this world able to hold them so easily. Ichiji was the first to recover, his face covered in a mask of anger once more.

“This bitch started! She kicked me!” He tightened his fists and stamped on the floor like a five year old. “I am a prince! Who does she think she is to kick me?! Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?!”

Ichiji didn’t see the person entering the room behind him while he screamed. Niji and Yonji gulped. Landon let go of their arms and straightened his back elegantly.

“Ichiji. This is no way to talk about your bride.”

The red-haired Vinsmoke turned around to face Judge.

Germa’s king didn’t look that disappointed or that upset or that he actually cared. His presence, however, was enough to make Ichiji deflate a bit.

“But dad! That dog kicked me!” His whiny voice made you want to vomit.

Your parents entered the room in time to hear that.

A small, hopeful part of you fantasized that they’d be outraged at hearing the way this boy talked about their daughter. This stupid hopeful part of you wished they’d call the betrothal off right then and right there.

But just like Judge, they didn’t care.

“His Highness was excited to see his bride’s face before the time, I’m afraid.” Landon explained calmly. “The Scarpia children are trained to never allow anyone to touch their masks. She acted purely on instinct, though maybe she shouldn’t have been so brute about it.”

Judge crossed his arms and looked at Ichiji with narrowed eyes.

“She was able to kick you?”

For the first time, Ichiji looked embarrassed.

“Y-Yes, but– it didn’t even hurt…”

Judge chuckled. “It just means your bride really is strong. Your children are splendid, Drachen. I can only imagine how extraordinary their offspring will be.”

Offspring?!

“Indeed.” Your father crossed his arms. “It’s all settled, then. I thought it was something more serious…”

“But dad–“ Ichiji tried.

“Well, they’re just kids, after all. Kids fight all the time. I’m sure they’ll get along in the future.” Judge ignored him. “I’ll make sure to educate my sons on the Scarpia traditions regarding your masks.”

The adults kept talking as if none of you were there.

Ichiji looked about to explode in frustration, which was honestly a bit satisfying. It seems he wasn’t used to be ignored.

Then, he locked his eyes on you.

He was furious.

Ichiji waited until your parents walked out to approach again. Landon didn’t move, which meant he couldn’t touch you – but it seems that he didn’t care.

He got close enough to talk on your ear. His voice dropped.

“When we get married,” he hissed. “I will beat you up so bad that you won’t ever get to walk again. I will make you swallow this mask. This is a promise.”

He and his brothers walked out.

You stood there for a good while. Landon didn’t move a centimeter.

The travel back was silent.

But not the usual Scarpia silence. It was a heavy silence. Uneasy. Hesitant. It felt that the atmosphere on board of the black ship weighed tons.

The dining room was so heavy that it was like gravity itself pushed everyone down.

Only the family members sat around the large round table, masks finally set aside. Night had fallen out there. The only audible sounds were of the waves outside and the quiet munching, cutlery touching porcelain plates. No one dared to look up from their plates. No one dared to do anything but eat.

You, however, hadn’t touched your plate.

Roasted sea beast meat with caviar and asparagus. Usually, you’d love that – but even the smell of food made you feel nauseous. Your stomach twirled around like a violent whirlpool; your limbs felt weakened. You couldn’t control your body. You couldn’t control your feelings.

How dare them act like nothing happened?

How dare them eat their dinner without addressing anything? Without explaining anything?

How dare them sacrifice you like that?

You couldn’t even breathe.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Your father broke the silence for the first time. It felt as if everyone in the room – except for grandfather – felt a slight electric shock at the sound of his deep velvety voice. “Your food will get cold.”

“It’s not fair.”

Everyone paused for a second.

If no one’s gonna bring it up, then I will. I can’t keep quiet. I won’t keep quiet.

Their eyes slowly turned to you. Father was the only one unfazed. He took another bite and licked his lips.

“What’s not fair?”

“You know what.” Your hands, resting over your lap, gripped the fabric of your dress nervously. Your heartbeat increased, you felt blood rushing to your head and face. You stared at your father, sitting across from you at the table, without even blinking. “Why me? Urso is the oldest, he should be the one to get engaged first.”

Urso tightened his eyes at you with a warning expression. Don’t drag me into this!

Father swallowed his food calmly.

“The duties of a woman are different than the duties of a man.” He took a small sip from his wine. “The wolf is a good mother. You will carry our bloodline with a suitable partner.”

You smacked your hands on the table and got up abruptly.

This time, everyone stopped eating.

You couldn’t believe that. It couldn’t be true. No. No.

Pure anger rushed through your veins.

“The wolf is a hunter!” You raised your voice for the first time. It trembled with rage. “I completed fifty commissions this year! I have never failed!”

“Precisely.” Father was still unfazed – and that’s what you hated the most. He didn’t care. He didn’t even look at you. “That is why Vinsmoke Judge chose you to be his son’s bride. You are exceptionally strong at such a young age.”

“I’m not lazy like Urso. I am better than Crowley.” You didn’t care that your brothers looked at you like they wanted to kill you. You didn’t care that the tension only heightened and heightened at each word.

You looked at your mother for a second.

Scarpia Scilla, going through her sixth pregnancy. Your beautiful, elegant and distant mother. The woman that almost never left the mansion because she was too busy being pregnant. The woman that almost never spoke at meetings and had little to no active voice in decisions regarding the business. The woman that dedicated her life solely to teaching her children. The way none of you resembled your mother – you all had inherited Drachen’s hair, eyes, skin; you were copies of him. Not her. She was just a means to an end.

And that frightened you.

“Why are you dooming me to be just someone’s wife?!”

Father lifted his eyes for the first time.

At that moment – air was knocked off your lungs.

He didn’t move. His expression didn’t even change that much. But you saw it – the ferocity in his eyes. The authority. You felt it like needles stinging your whole body, like a shockwave of heat melting your skin. You felt it in your guts, in your bones… that strange power Scarpia Drachen had to make others submit. To make others pass out in his presence. He let just a very subtle breeze of that power loose…

But that was enough to make you freeze.

Everyone else did, too. Everyone else stopped breathing. Everyone else locked their eyes on their plates, not daring to look to their sides. The only unaffected was your grandfather. You knew even the servants outside must’ve stopped moving.

You went too far.

“What are you implying here?” His voice was quiet. That was something else you hated about him – he never raised his voice. But that wasn’t necessary. The menace was there, pulsing, squeezing your heart in fright. “Are you belittling your mother’s efforts for this family?”

You, somehow, found the strength to speak despite the invisible weight on your stomach.

“N-No– That’s n-not what I meant–“

“I’m making you a princess. This is how you thank me?”

“T-That prince called me a bitch and a dog. Why will you let me marry someone like him?!”

You were impressed at yourself for blurting that without passing out – and the tension only heightened. I’m going too far. I’m going too far. Stop. Stop.

But you couldn’t.

Father was outraged.

“Weren’t you claming to be stronger than your brothers? Why are you whining, then? If you’re stronger, you can deal with that boy.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to crash your plate on the floor. You wanted to punch him.

You wanted to cry.

Have you ever wanted to cry before?

“Maybe I’ve been too permissive with you for being my only daughter. But if you want to be treated like a man, then I’ll do it. Taking your books from you will be enough? Canceling your biology classes? Should I cancel your birthday trips?”

NO.

No no no no no no no not this please not this please please please not this no no no no no.

Your body went into autopilot again.

You stopped shaking. Your breathing went back to normal. You immediately sat down and lowered your gaze.

“I’m sorry, father. I disrespected your authority. I was caught by surprise, that’s all.”

Your voice came quiet. Serene. Expressionless. Robotic.

Please don’t take my free days from me. Please. Do anything else. Punish me in the dungeons for a month. Keep me locked. Poison me until I pass out. But don’t take my free days from me. Please, let me go to the East Blue. Please, let me see my only friend.

They were all taken aback by your sudden change.

After a few seconds of silence, your grandfather let a deep sigh.

“Drachen. She is just a child.” He sounded tired… even a bit annoyed. “She doesn’t even understand what marriage means yet. Of course she’ll be upset.”

Father crossed his arms and sighed.

“Scilla. Make sure to teach her about it.” Your mother nodded. “...I won’t take your birthday gift from you. You deserve it, after all. Your year was splendid.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Apologize to your mother as well.”

“I am sorry, mother.”

“...As a woman, you’ll get used to the idea of marriage eventually. But my father is right… right now, you’re just a girl.” He took his fork again. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

“Yes, father.”

You took the fork and started eating despite the nausea.

The ocean out there. Quiet munching. Cutlery on plates.

Other than that…

Silence.

This silence stayed with you for the next few weeks.

You went on with your usual tasks. You didn’t give your brothers attention when they tried to mock you. You didn’t complain about Landon’s training. You sat down and listened to your mother talking about marriage. You didn’t speak more than necessary… as if there wasn’t a person behind these eyes. As if your soul had left your body.

A new commission on the East Blue.

The travel was silent. The commission was carried silently.

As soon as you finished your target, you made Landon a quick call.

I’m taking my days off.

It took three days to get to Dawn Island.

After nine weeks, you sat at the top of the hill again.

It was early in the morning. The sky had that familiar dark blue tone indicating that the sun was about to rise. It was, once again, silent – but a peaceful type of silence, permeated by bird chirps, the wind playing with the trees. It was chilly. You were hungry.

You hugged your own legs, resting your chin over your knees, and watched the landscape.

...All that was bullshit. Your trip to Dawn Island was supposed to be always happy. It was a small span of time when you could simply stop thinking of your family or all the struggles you faced back home.

Why, then, didn’t your father’s cold words leave your mind for a second?

Why couldn’t you forget about your parents’ nonchalance upon seeing your “fiance” calling you names?

Why couldn’t you forget Ichiji’s disgusting promise?

Why couldn’t you forget your brothers’ – especially Urso and Crowley – mockery towards you?

…

Why were you crying?

You touched your cheeks with your fingertips, surprised to see them wet. Crying? Were you actually crying? Was that a sob? Why couldn’t you control it?

For the first time in nine weeks, you got off autopilot. You took the mask off. You felt things for real.

And it hurt.

You hid your face on your knees and tried to not make much noise, tried to swallow the sobs – but that was quite impossible. Crap, stop crying! This is embarrassing! You didn’t come here for this!

But how could you not when you already felt doomed?

You tried to control your breathing, sniffed, swayed slighlty forward and backward. Stop crying. Stop. You hate to get up and walk to Luffy’s house. He probably won’t show up. Yet, you still couldn’t move… and you didn’t want Luffy to see you like this. He’d probably laugh. You didn’t need someone else to mock you.

So you stayed there until the sun rose. Until the stars disappeared and the sky got light blue. Until the golden rays painted the landscape in new, more vibrant colors.

It felt that your legs were freezing.

But then… you heard a new sound.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

It was slow at first. Almost dragged.

It stopped abruptly.

Then–

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

“Heeeeey! Four Eyes! You came!!”

Loud laughter.

You froze – and it had nothing to do with the cold this time.

Your shoulders shrinked, you rapidly cleaned your face with the sleeve of your jacket. Crap, I didn’t think he would show up!

Was… was Luffy coming here every day to wait for you? For almost three months?

That made you feel funny.

You turned around looking like a scared rat.

Luffy looked the same. Maybe a little bit taller – still shorter than you –, the huge grin that probably ached his cheeks, eyes tightened. His hair was messier than usual, which made you wonder if he had just gotten out of bed. He wore shorts, a red shirt with the number 56 stamped on it… and bandaids. He had bandages around his left knee and right wrist.

Luffy ran towards you excitedly. “What the heck! I thought I’d never see you again!!”

Then, he opened his eyes.

He saw your red eyes and puffy face and humid cheeks.

His smile fell.

You gulped and waved timidly. “H-Hi. Long time no see.”

The straw hat boy scratched his head. “Uh… did something… happen...?”

You pressed your lips and looked ahead again.

You heard Luffy go hmmmmm. After kicking a pebble away, he sat by your side, legs crossed.

Silence.

He went hmmmmm again.

You didn’t have the courage to turn your face and look at him–

A flick on your forehead.

“Hey!” You scowled at him angrily.

“What? You’re not talking to me! Are you just gonna sit here and make this ugly face?” He crossed his arms and frowned. “The hell happened to you? I thought you were dead!”

You rested your chin over your knees again. “...I think dying would’ve been better.”

Luffy hissed and leaned away slightly. “Ugh. Don’t talk like that, you’re pissing me off.”

“I’m pissing you off?!” You whipped your head at him, scowling again. “You don’t know what being pissed off is!”

“I would know if you told me.”

He looked at you as if you were stupid.

He did that a lot, actually.

But he had a point. Kinda.

You sighed and gulped, staring at nowhere in particular. You didn’t really want to say it. It felt as if, by saying it, you’d make it more real than it already was.

Yet, at the same time, you needed to talk to someone about it… and Luffy was your only friend.

So you gathered some courage.

“...I’m getting married.”

Luffy gasped.

He blinked, tilted his head to the side.

“Congra...tulations…?”

“Don’t congratulate me! This isn’t nice! My parents are forcing me!”

“Oooooh.” Luffy still had that weird expression. He leaned a bit closer. “By the way, how old are you?”

“I’m ten.”

He smiled as if relieved. “Ah. Cool. For a moment I thought you were just a short hag pretending to be a kid.” You punched his head. “Ouch!”

“Don’t call me a hag!”

“But I said you’re not!” Luffy pushed his hat back and massaged his head. “But… uh… why are you so upset? I mean, what’s so bad about it?”

Your jaw dropped.

Luffy just kept looking at you with round eyes.

He… he really lived in another world, didn’t he?

“Everything’s bad about it!” You usually didn’t speak that loud or gesticulate this much, but you couldn’t control yourself anymore. “First of all, my parents are forcing me! Second, the guy’s an asshole! Third, they all want to use me like a… like a cow!”

He quirked one eyebrow. “A cow? Do you… like… make milk?”

“No!” You gripped your own hair like a maniac. “They want me to have babies!”

Luffy still didn’t get it.

“What’s wrong with that?”

He reeeeally lived in another world.

You took a deep breath and turned your body in his direction completely, sitting with legs crossed as well.

“Have you ever seen a pregnant woman, Luffy?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think having your tummy grow into a giant ball is okay?”

Luffy held his chin in a thoughtful expression.

“I mean… I do it all the time when I eat too much.”

“I’m talking about normal people! People not made of gum!”

“Uhhh…”

“Well, I’ll tell you how it is. It hurts!” You scowled just remembering your mother’s state, her pains, her complaints, how swollen she’d get. “Your whole body hurts for months! You can’t even walk after a while! And that’s not even the worst part!”

“What’s the worst part?”

“The baby has to get out sometime!”

Luffy’s face changed slowly. It got more horrified little by little as if he never stopped to wonder how babies are born.

“How… hmm… how do they get out…?”

“From below!” Luffy got pale. “You have to push push push until the baby comes out! And it hurts and it bleeds!”

He leaned away slightly. “From the pee pee?!”

You frowned. “What? No!”

Luffy got paler. He put both hands on the lower part of his back. “From the bootyhole?! You have to shit the baby out?!”

“No! It’s not– it’s not from the bootyhole! It’s from somewhere else!”

“So, the pee pee.” It looked like he was about to pass out.

You groaned. “Girls don’t have this!”

Luffy measured you up and down as if you were an exotic deep sea creature. “You don’t have bootyholes? How do you shit?”

“We have bootyholes! We don’t have pee pees!” This talk was starting to get weird. You crossed your arms and avoided his gaze. “W-We got something else instead.”

The straw hat boy hummed again and crossed his arms as well. “Uhhh. Makino didn’t teach me any of this.” He looked down at his shorts. “...I’m glad I have a pee pee.”

“Anyways! D-Do you understand now how bad this is?! I’m doomed!” I don’t wanna talk about buttholes and pee pees anymore! “They want me to be like my mother. All she does is stay at home and have babies. Mother is always pregnant. She doesn’t work, she doesn’t participate in anything else. I don’t wanna be like that! Never!”

Luffy scratched his chin. “Hm… what if you say you don’t want to get married?”

An incredulous laugh escaped. “If it was that easy, I wouldn’t be here crying about it!”

“Why’s it so complicated?”

He really really reeeeally lived in another world.

“I can’t simply say no. I can’t even run away. My parents have eyes everywhere, and I mean everywhere!” Luffy looked around you instinctively.

“Even here?”

“No, not here. Relax.” You didn’t feel like explaining the deal that allowed you to be there unwatched.

“So they’re not everywhere.”

You groaned again and rolled your eyes. Luffy was always so relaxed. So okay. It even looked like you were exagerating.

He stuck his pinky finger inside his ear absently. “Your parents sound worse than gramps, then.”

“What about him?”

He grimaced.

“He’s sooo annoying. He wants me and Ace to become Marines.” Luffy took his pinky out, rolled the earwax into a tiny ball and flicked it away. Ew. “But I’ll just do what I want anyway, so whatever.”

You sighed deeply again, feeling your shoulders drop. His grandfather was probably just a normal old man wanting the best for his grandkids… nowhere near the hell your parents were.

“I wish I could say the same.”

Luffy went hmmmm again.

And again.

He widened his eyes slightly. It was almost as if you could see a tiny lamp light up above his head, indicating he had an idea.

“When’s the wedding?”

“When I get older. Duuh. My parents are assholes, but they wouldn’t let me get married as a kid.”

“Years from now?”

“Obviously.”

“Huh. So just marry me instead.”

You whipped your head at him again.

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

Luffy frowned. “You deaf?”

“I’m not–“ You almost gagged. “Did you ask me to marry you?”

“I didn’t ask. But it makes sense, right?” He crossed his arms again. “If you marry me before you marry this guy, they won’t do anything about it.”

“Of course they will! They’ll kill you!”

Luffy, once again, looked at you as if he thought you were stupid.

“Four Eyes, I’m gonna be the King of the Pirates when we’re older. They’re not gonna kill me because they won’t make it.” He opened his evil gremlin grin. “They got eyes everywhere? They’re super strong? What’s that compared to the Pirate King? You’re gonna be on my ship with my crew. Let them try to do anything!”

It all seemed to easy to him. So simple. So obvious.

And his idea was surely insane. Surreal. A bit stupid, even.

But the thing is.

You didn’t doubt that Luffy could become a powerful pirate in the future.

He was clumsy, dumb and naive. But he was strong. Not stronger than you… he probably wasn’t even stronger than Saqr yet. However, Luffy found a way to deal with his strange Devil Fruit, found a way to make it work. He moved and distorted his body in creative ways, he could do things no one else could. He fought giant beasts daily. He trained every single day. And he was a bit coo coo crazy in the head.

Above all this… Luffy had this dream, this goal, this motivation. It was already much more than you, who just got stronger because you were told to do so. Luffy was determined. Stubborn in a way none of your brothers were. What if he received the same training the Scarpia kids had since birth? He would already be at a much higher level.

Luffy was definitely not a normal kid… and you could see that he would not grow to become a normal adult.

The King of the Pirates?

What would your parents do if you married the King of the Pirates?

Gold Roger was a force to be reckoned with. He was feared worldwide, even after his death. Your grandfather told you once about his brief encounter with him… of how incredibly powerful he was. Powerful enough to impress Scarpia Virgus – and that was a lot.

Luffy at that level?

Luffy, the King of the Pirates?

...That could work.

Yeah. Yeah, that could work.

You put your backpack on your lap and shoved your hand there in search of something.

“We’re gonna have to make some rules, then.”

“Booooring.” He groaned.

“Shut up!” You took your sketchbook and a pen. “First of all. No babies!”

“Why would I wanna have a baby?”

“Second. I’m not gonna cook or clean!”

“I’ll have a cook on my ship anyway.”

“Third. I’m not gonna be locked up in the same place all the time! I’ll get to do whatever I want, go wherever I want, talk when I want, scream at whoever I want!”

“Duuuh. We’re gonna live on a ship! At the sea! You can’t be in the same place like that. Also, huh, I don’t care what you do. Why would I care?”

You scribbled these rules on the paper rapidly.

“What are you doing?”

“A contract. Father taught me to never trust anything until it’s on paper.”

“Booooring.”

“Shut up.” You signed your full real name at the end of the page. “Now… you sign here.”

Luffy quirked one eyebrow and scribbled a signature… his caligraphy was so bad that you could barely understand it. He just signed Luffy.

You laid the sketchbook over your lap.

“Now we have a deal!”

Sunrays touched Luffy’s olive skin, made his gremlin smile shine. He put his hat back on his head and offered you his hand.

“We have a promise!”

Yep, Luffy was very full of himself… but in a world of uneasiness, having someone being certain about anything was comforting.

For the first time in nine weeks, you weren’t on autopilot. For the first time in nine weeks, you didn’t feel crushing sadness.

For the first time in nine weeks, you smiled.

It was as if the sun finally shone through dark storm clouds. As if you could see light in the darkness again, warmth instead of cold.

He brought that with him.

You shook Luffy’s hand tightly.

The promise was made.

[violettesorrows]

A Rat Among Birds and Bats (Part Two)

Description: (Yandere! Batfam x Depressed! Reader) You tried to live life normally after your encounter with a certain hero last week, but now one of your classmates can't seem to leave you alone (2.2k words)

Warnings: general yandere behavior, implied stalking, really brief mention of being held at gunpoint, mentions of depression/anxiety and its symptoms this one is very tim drake heavy but the rest of batfam is coming i promise

part one || two || three || four

The next few weeks felt normal. Or at least, as normal as they could be in one of the most crime-ridden cities in America. Like clockwork, you went to class, then went to work, then went home to do schoolwork and maybe sleep for a few hours before you repeated the cycle all over again. The only real thing out of the ordinary that happened to you was one of the other students in your class approaching you after the day’s lecture.

He had stark black hair, blue eyes, and dressed like he would describe his family’s economic status as ‘comfortable’. He was currently talking to you about how difficult the coursework for this class could be, and how you and he should probably form a study group or something. Which was weird, because like this is the first time you’ve ever talked to him. You think his name was Jim or Tim or something? You honestly didn’t even know if he was taking this class. You didn’t know a soul in here. A person could hold a gun to your head, and you probably couldn’t name or place two people in here other than your professor.

You blinked, having zoned out while the guy in your class just kept yapping. You’re pretty sure it’s been a solid few minutes without you saying a single word, and he was still going.

“So, what do you think?”

You honestly had no idea what he was talking about anymore. You’d blocked out his chattering like at least five minutes ago. But instead of coming off as a complete ass and telling him that, you just noncommittally and vaguely agreed to whatever he was talking about. Hopefully, it wasn’t too obvious you really didn’t care.

Tim -you were sure his name was Tim now- only smiled in response. “Great! Let’s exchange contact information.”

The color drained from your face. What the hell had you just agreed to? Was he a scientologist or like a member of some other cult trying to recruit you? Regardless of your hesitations, your social anxiety made it near impossible to say no. Other people were watching. The two of you had the same class. If you made it a point to be vehemently anti-social, things would be weird, people would find you weird. 

And that’s how you ended up with a new contact labelled “Tim” in your phone that day.

---

Tim texted you pretty frequently. At first, you were reluctant. You figured he was just a pretty, rich boy who saw you as another charity case, something he could fix. He would ask you how you were, how your day was, how you slept, if you’ve eaten. The kind of normal, mundane things good friends would ask each other. Of course, you couldn’t be entirely honest with him, not without raising some major red flags. The last thing you wanted was to be put in an involuntary psychiatric hold. Or worse, getting too close to someone and getting burned in the process. 

  Some days, you were happy that someone took the time to check in with you. It made you feel like someone genuinely cared for you. Other days, you were annoyed. You didn’t want anyone to care for you. Life was just easier that way sometimes. Before you knew it, though, Tim and you were regularly meeting in person. He’d just managed to worm his way into your life. It started with him offering to buy you coffee after class and then just… kind of went from there. Before then, the two of you started hanging out regularly at least once a week like you were normal friends. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to end your newly found friendship, nor were you certain you could keep up the facade for much longer. Having a friend was exhausting since you were careful about what you said or did, afraid that he’d see you for what you were if you didn’t. You also tried your hardest not to talk about your homelife or financial situation. You doubted he would understand it anyway. That being said, you really were starting to warm up to him. After isolating yourself for so long, you had to admit that it felt…nice … to have some genuine human connection.

You didn’t even notice when some of your things had started to go missing. A pencil you swear you had put in your bag, a hair tie you could have sworn was on your wrist, an eraser or paper clip or a loose leaf paper with one of your doodles on it. But you were very obviously depressed, and depressed people tended to be forgetful, so you didn’t bat an eye at it. You probably misplaced all those things anyway

One day, Tim asked if he could come over to watch a movie at your place. He really wanted to watch one of the newer movies that had just come out. Thinking about the abysmal state of your apartment, you said no a little too hastily. He then proceeded to invite you over to his place. You sucked in a breath. You weren’t sure if you could make it, you probably had work.

“Then just take the day off or something. Call in sick,” He said a-matter-of-factly.

You balked at him, not expecting him to understand. You couldn’t just ditch work for the day to hang out with him. It’s not like you had a job for fun or as a hobby, you had bills to pay. And sick or not, if you didn’t go to work, you wouldn’t get paid for the day, and that could be the difference between your lights or your gas being turned off. 

Still, you couldn’t blame him. You purposefully avoided talking about your personal life for this very reason. The two of you lived on completely different planets. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” You said with a strained smile. As soon as you thought he wasn’t looking, your smile dropped. Your gaze looked downcast as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone. Little did you know, he was always looking. And the two of you were going to see that movie this weekend, he would make sure of it.

---

You showed up to your shift on time, despite almost missing the bus. This morning you had been scrambling to not get to work late this morning, but as it turned out all your efforts were in vain. Your workplace was closed, surrounded by police tape and sirens. Your manager was standing outside, talking to a police officer before his gaze finally caught on you. 

“What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my text? Place’s closed. Turns out the owner was involved in some sort of drug bust or crime ring,” Your manager shrugged, like he was just delivering the weather for today. Things like this just tended to happen in Gotham. “I’m not sure about the details.”

You couldn’t help but think the worst. Does this mean you’re fired? How would you pay rent? Feed yourself? You struggled to find your voice as it felt like the whole world was spinning. “What about work?” You asked with a slight crack in your voice.

Your manager only shrugged his shoulders again. “I’m not sure, kid. Things might clear up in a week or maybe those doors will stay closed forever. That’s how the cookie crumbles in this city sometimes.”

His gaze was almost pitiful as he looked down at you. “Either way, it’s best to get yourself home, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” You muttered as you pulled your jacket closer to your frame and stalked off. You needed a moment to think.

Next thing you knew, you were kicking an empty coke can a couple of streets down the way. Your luck was so great. First, you were held at gunpoint and now this. The next bus wasn’t coming for at least another hour, and of course you didn’t have enough money for a cab. So you were stuck here in Lower Gotham, on a side of the city that wasn’t safe even during the day. You had to figure out what to do and fast. You couldn’t just stand around like a sitting duck.

You unlocked your phone, your finger hovering over a certain contact. You didn’t want to bother him, make your problems his problems, but you were really in a bind. Maybe, just maybe, just this once you could ask for help. Before you could ruminate about it anymore you pressed the call button. The phone rang and you tensed. What if he didn’t pick up? What if he was busy? What if he couldn’t be bothered with-

“Hello?” Tim’s voice answered. 

You felt like your heart was going to stop. You weren’t sure what to say, where to start. So instead you just echoed back his greeting. “Hello…” You said weaker than you would’ve liked.

“Hi,” he said again. He paused for a minute, pensive. “Is something wrong?”

“Uh…how’d you guess?” You said dryly with a forced chuckle. 

“Well, for starters, you rarely ever call me.”

“Sorry.” You said, a knee jerk reaction. 

“No! No! It’s fine, I’m sorry! You should call more often” He said, scrambling as if he’d said something wrong. You almost told him he had nothing to apologize over before he cut you off. “Just… just tell me what’s wrong. We’ll start from there.”

You held back tears. Everything, you thought, Everything is wrong. Instead, you got straight to the point. You took a deep breath, hoping to steel yourself.  “I’m kind of…stranded, I need a ride. Please. If you’re not busy.”

“A ride? Sure. Where are you? Actually- nevermind, just text me your location, I’ll be there in twenty.” Tim hung up shortly after, not even giving you time to explain yourself.

You first thought that maybe Tim was a good friend after all. He was coming to pick you up without even asking how you ended up in this situation in the first place. He had just dropped everything to go help a friend in need. What a nice guy, you thought, maybe you could trust him just a little bit. You know, with small stuff.

As promised, a car rolled up to pick you up with Tim in the driver’s seat. You were a little surprised, he wasn’t supposed to be here for another ten minutes.You shook off the feeling quickly, maybe traffic was light, maybe he was just on this side of town. 

He opened your car door from the driver’s seat, a charismatic smile on his face. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”

You sat down in the passenger’s seat before buckling yourself up. “Shopping?” You asked with a quizzical expression. Please, no. The last thing you wanted was to look at things you couldn’t afford. 

“It’s a reference? Mean Girls? No?” Tim sighed. “Okay, forget about it. Dumb joke.”

“Sorry.” You chuckled awkwardly, blushing a little out of embarrassment. You should have gotten the reference. He had taken time out of your day, the least you could do is laugh at his lame jokes. 

His arm went behind your headrest as he backed up the car. “Don’t worry about it. Anyways, where to? I could bring you home or we could go watch that movie you were talking about earlier.”

Actually, he was the one who mentioned wanting to go to the movies. You didn’t mention it though, thinking it too inconsequential to bring up. “Uh, a movie sounds nice, I guess?”

“Great!” Tim practically beamed. “Sooo, we could go to a movie theater or my place? Whatever you’re more comfortable with, of course, it’s your choice-”

He was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. Tim ignored it in favor of continuing his train of thought. “As I was saying we could either go to-”

His phone beeped, the notifications going off left and right. He groaned exasperatedly. “One moment, I gotta reply to this.”

You couldn’t see who or what he was texting. Tim was careful to tilt his phone screen just out of view. You weren’t sure if it was because he didn’t trust you or if it was just the sheer force of habit. You didn’t really care. His business was his business. If he wanted to share he would, it wasn’t your palace to go prying.

A few moments of silence passed before Tim finally spoke again. He put his phone away in his pocket. “Sorry about that, it’s just my brother. Something’s going on at the family home and.. well… there’s no other way to ask you this, do you mind if I make a quick pit stop? I just need to take care of something real quick.”

Honestly, Tim was doing you such a huge favor, you didn’t care if he had a million errands to run. In your book, you owe him one. So, you didn’t think much about agreeing to stop by his family home for a quick second. If only you could have known what the future holds. If only you could see Tim’s blank gaze as he locked the car door and drove off.

[powderpinkprincess]

License [Lando Norris & twin sister!reader]

description: You hate driving. Your twin brother, Lando, tries to help you out with that.  warnings: a few bad words

When you and Lando were kids, you shared pretty much everything. You went to the same daycare group, then to the same school, and you even shared a room until the two of you turned 8. You were twins, so it just kind of worked that way.

You also fought a lot. Over stupid things mostly – whose turn it was to pick the TV show or who got more snacks, although your parents always made sure whatever you got was the exact same amount. Classic sibling stuff. Lando was already a very competitive child when he was daycare age, and he always pulled you into his mind games.

The only thing you didn’t share was his love for driving.

You tried karting when he stared, mostly because it felt weird not to. You always went to the same afternoon activities because, for your parents, it was easier to coordinate one program than two at the same time, considering that you had two sisters and a brother as well. However, your parents quickly decided to pull you out after seeing that you were sitting on the ground and crying before most of the practices, while Lando was already speeding through other kids like nothing mattered.

That whole thing about you not liking to drive never really changed, even in your twenties. Lando was a full-on Formula 1 driver by then, and you also had your driver’s license, but you barely used it. Most of the time, you just took public transport. Driving made you nervous, simple as that. You secretly blamed your childhood experiences with karting for that.

When Lando came home for summer break, you visited your parents’ house as well to spend some time with him. You hadn’t seen him for nearly three months now, as you had your own job, your own apartment, and you didn’t have the time to travel after him. Your passion was running, and you worked as a trainer. Your family has always been a very fit and sporty one.

Of course, you and Lando quickly got comfortable around each other again, and you were back to your usual routine within five minutes, arguing and teasing nonstop. At one point, he made some snarky comment about your driving, and your mom, Cisca finally had enough.

 “Lando, why don’t you take your sister for a drive?” she asked, her hands on her hips as always when she got annoyed. “You could actually help her feel more confident instead of making fun of her, don’t you think so?”

 “What? But she doesn’t even like to drive!” Lando protested immediately.

 “That’s exactly why,” Cisca sighed. “Give her a few tips. You drive for a living.”

Your eyes widened as well. “Mom, you can’t be serious. Lando barely passed his theory test. I wouldn’t trust his advice on normal roads if my life depended on it. I wouldn’t even let him outside the track!” You were exaggerating a little, but he wasn’t the brightest in the theory, that was true. He drove out of intuition, which, in his case, worked well, but you couldn’t do that. Your intuitions would drive you into the first ditch in sight.

Lando let out a scoff. “I passed the theory. Besides, I’m still a better driver than you are.”

 “Yeah, I’m sure you’re a real menace to society in a school zone,” you snorted.

He rolled his eyes at you. “Bold words from someone who breaks down in tears at roundabouts.”

 “Lando!” Cisca raised her voice a little. You always found it amusing how it was always he who got scolded. When the two of you were young, it was mostly Lando picking fights, therefore, his name became some kind of a reflex for your parents when they heard bickering.

Lando raised his hands in defeat. “Okay, fine. We can try.”

Cisca handed him the key to the older family car – not you, you noticed -, and then you followed your brother into the garage, your arms crossed.

 "You know, you don't have to be so upset," he said as he unlocked the car.

 "You do get on my nerves sometimes," you muttered.

He shrugged and went to open the driver's side door, waiting for you to get in. You grumbled in protest, but you did sit down, fastening the seatbelt and adjusting the mirrors. Lando rounded the car and sat on the passenger seat. It was a rare sight to see, considering that he disliked giving out control of his hands when it came to driving. He put on a pair of sunglasses and rolled down the window, propping his elbow out.

 “Feeling comfortable?” you scoffed.

 “As comfortable as I can get,” he grinned at you. You just shook your head at that.

The drive started off quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Lando didn’t even say anything for the first few minutes. You were hyper-aware of every movement, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment.

 “I’m not gonna bite,” he finally said, watching you intently. His snarky attitude seemed to falter a little as he noticed how nervous you were. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He didn’t wish anything bad for you.

 “You're already annoying, and we haven’t even left the street yet,” you muttered. You pulled out with all the grace of someone trying to look calm while internally screaming. Lando was surprisingly quiet again. Too quiet.

You glanced at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just- Didn’t think we’d make it out of there in one piece,” he said. He couldn’t resist being a little smug.

You nearly slammed the brakes right there. “Say one more thing and I swear I’m turning this into a hostage situation.”

Lando raised both hands like you were holding a weapon. “Alright, alright. No need for threats. Just drive.”

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. You were constantly second-guessing your speed at every moment. Lando was a quiet observer for the first few minutes, but soon enough, the silence was broken. "You're going kinda slow," he pointed out.

 “If I go faster, I’ll crash and we’ll both die,” you mumbled under your breath.

 “Come on, at this speed here, you’re just going to break the car at worst, no one is going to die. And if you drive too slowly, that’s also dangerous,” he replied. “Just saying this because people are gonna honk soon if you don’t speed up, and you’ll freak out.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened, but you added some more gas.

 “There you go.” Lando shifted in his seat a little and leaned back, way too comfortable for this situation.

 “How are you not terrified sitting next to me?” you sighed.

He shrugged, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I have been in far riskier situations, trust me. Besides, you're a better driver than you give yourself credit for.” Lando glanced sideways at you, observing your nervous expression and your grip on the wheel.  “Relax. What are you so scared of anyway? That you’ll hit something? That you’ll break the car?”

 “Kind of both,” you bit your lip.

 "You’re being so careful, I doubt you’ll wreck the car. If you’re too nervous, though, you’ll make mistakes. You’re doing great, just don’t think about it too much." Surprisingly, his words seemed to help. You focused back on the road. The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

You were even starting to relax as you turned onto a quieter street. Your hands were a little steadier on the wheel, Lando had backed off from his usual teasing, and for a second, it felt like maybe this whole "practice drive" thing wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

Then Lando’s voice cut through the calm.

 “Shit- Watch out!”

You barely had time to register his words. Out of nowhere, a black SUV shot out from a side street – no signal, no warning – cutting right across your lane.

You slammed the brakes instinctively, heart jumping to your throat, the tires giving a sharp screech as the car jerked to a stop just in time. Lando reached over and grabbed the wheel instinctively, helping you swerve slightly. The SUV sped off like nothing had happened, only missing you by a few centimetres.

 “Jesus Christ,” Lando breathed, whipping around to glare after it. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”

You didn’t answer. Your hands were glued to the wheel, trembling uncontrollably. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt, and before you knew it, your eyes filled with tears.

Lando looked back at you. “Hey... Y/N?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too tight, and the tears came faster. You tried to blink them away, but it was useless. You were overwhelmed by the fear, the adrenaline, and the what-ifs. It all crashed down at once.

 “Okay, okay,” Lando said quickly. “Just pull over.”

With shaking hands, you guided the car to the side of the road and parked. You didn’t even turn to him. You just covered your face, shoulders starting to shake as the sobs took over.

Lando didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he let out a slow breath and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’re okay. I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong. That guy was a fucking idiot.”

You finally looked at him, eyes red, still catching your breath. “I thought we were gonna crash.”

 “But we didn’t,” Lando said. “You did everything right.”

You nodded, hiccup-crying a little, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. Lando unbuckled himself and leaned across the console to pull you into an awkward hug, patting your back. “You did great, Y/N. You’re not hurt, I’m not hurt, and even the car is fine. You were perfect, okay? I promise, it’s okay.”

 "If you didn't notice him, we would've crashed," you sniffled.

 "But you did see him in time, and you hit the brakes," Lando pointed out. "You were so quick to respond. Not many people would've reacted as fast as you did, if they would even have at all."

You sat in silence for a few minutes, Lando letting you calm down a little. After a while, you blew out some air through your mouth. "I don't want to drive home, you drive home."

Lando didn't think this was such a good idea. You were doing so well, stopping the drive with such a negative experience would definitely set you back again. Lando watched you for a moment, the tension still hanging in the air between you. He knew you were shaken, but he wasn’t about to let you give up.

 “You’re not quitting now, Y/N,” he said gently, though his voice carried a quiet firmness. “You’ve come this far, and I’m not gonna let you bail out now, okay?”

You stared at him, the exhaustion and frustration evident on your face. "But I can't do this, Lando," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

 "But you can," he insisted. "You just need to trust yourself a little more. I’m right here with you, okay? You don’t have to do it alone."

You sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his words. You hadn’t realized how much you needed that reassurance until now. For a moment, you let your eyes wander out the window, trying to steady your breath and calm the knot in your stomach.

 “Just try,” Lando said quietly, offering you a small but encouraging smile. “You’ve already done more than you think. If you need to stop, we’ll stop, but just... try.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing with doubt, but slowly, you nodded. With shaky hands, you gripped the wheel again, the familiar feel of it grounding you.

 “I’ll try,” you whispered.

Lando nodded, giving you a reassuring look as you pulled back into traffic. When you arrived home, Lando got out of the car first, taking a deep breath and trying to shake off any remaining stress. When he saw your Mom waiting, he managed a small smile. "No casualties this time," he joked, trying to ease the potential tension.

Cisca's eyebrow twitched up in disbelief, her eyes darting from Lando to the car and finally to you. "Really? No shouting, no speeding, no cursing from your brother?"

 “He was pretty decent,” you shrugged with a smile.

Cisca looked genuinely surprised. Lando’s temper, which got him to Formula 1, wasn’t always the easiest to handle when it was between the two of you.

 “See? You raised a gentleman out of me,” Lando said with a smug smile.

Cisca just shook his head with a laugh and walked back into the living room, leaving the two of you there.