#Part 1: Shatter the Bell

[le4ves-1n-the-w1nd]

Shatter the Bell

Free the Bird

Leaf soared through the air, the winds howling around him like the voice of an angry god.

There.

CHIME

Leaf slammed into the ground, his form scattering into wind and reforming in one fluid motion. Stalking towards Chime, fury and wrath fueling his every step.

Chime tilted his head, his blue eyes cold. How had Leaf not noticed how cold Chime was? How has he not seen the cruelty in his eyes. Maybe he had just gotten used to it? Maybe it had always been like that.

so different from Roth's warm amber eyes

"Leaf, brother," Chime said warmly, a handsome smile on his face, but his eyes were still cold, still cruel. "You're home."

"No, no I'm not." Leaf said coldly, winds whipping around him. This wasn't home. Home was Roth, his claws petting his hair, wings wrapped around him, and gentle eyes. Home was at the Lux with no cameras and a blank slate just waited to be changed.

Chime pulled out a gun, swift and sure from his military training, as Leaf moved towards him, the winds whipping around him, gathering like a storm. A single shot rang out and Leaf didn't bother to dodge, bullets don't affect him anywa-

PAIN

Leaf drops like a stone, like an anchor in the ocean. It was like the bullet bullets shouldn't effect him what's going on zapped any energy in him, make him physical, just like the sea as... 

Trembling, he tries to turn into wind, something he did as easily as he breathed, and he... Couldn't. Leaf looked up at his brother in Horror.

"Did you really believe that our family would pass that power down and not create any countermeasures?" Chime chided him. "Mother and Father told me a week after you ate that Fruit."

Leaf weezes, a small trickle of blood sliding down into his beard from biting his cheek. Fuck. Fuck! Why was it always his arms?! He shakes as he gets to his knees. "Lu-"

Another shot rings out and hit his arm again. He gags from the pain and claws at his arm. Wrongwrongwrongwrong. He could taste the sea salt at the back of his tongue. Chime was saying something but he couldn't hear, the seas waves drowning him.

"LŪCÎFREM EXCÎTO TE" He screams desperately. He needed help, he couldn't do it alone. He was scared. he wanted Roth, Roth would help him, please Roth He needed help.

(( @morningstarscratch ))

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 38: November 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Belle hadn’t expected Jos to show up. 

Max’s father usually picked and chose his race weekends carefully—strategically. 

But there he was, Friday morning, standing in Red Bull hospitality with a coffee in one hand, his other already reaching out to squeeze her shoulder with the surprising gentleness of a man who terrified half the paddock.

“Hello, meisje,” Jos said. “You’re bigger.”

Belle blinked. “Thank you, I think?”

Jos nodded seriously. “That’s good. Baby is growing.”

Beside her, Max stifled a laugh and muttered, “Papa, you can’t just say things like that.”

But Belle only smiled, because honestly? It was kind of sweet—especially coming from Jos.

And so began her weekend being doubly fussed over.

Belle hadn’t known Jos was coming until Thursday night, when Max casually mentioned, “Oh, by the way, my dad’s flying in. He said he wants to see you.”

Which meant, apparently, see her, guard her, and silently materialize at her elbow whenever she tried to walk more than ten metres unsupervised.

This pregnancy had done something to him—cracked something open. Now Jos looked at Belle like she was an endangered species he’d been personally tasked with protecting.

“Sit,” Jos said Friday morning, pulling a chair out for her in the Red Bull hospitality lounge. “You’ve been on your feet too long.”

“I just stood up.”

“Exactly.”

Belle blinked at him. “Is this a Verstappen thing?”

“Yes,” Max said from behind her, handing her a bottle of water with the label already peeled off—he knew she hated the crinkling sound. “It’s hereditary. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes but sat.

Jos didn’t sit. He hovered. Occasionally refilled her water. At one point, he muttered, “You tell me if you’re too hot. I’ll find someone to fix the AC.”

“I think that’s just the sun, Jos.”

“I’ll still find someone.”

Helmut Marko nodded solemnly at her like she might go into labor at any moment. GP had even brought her a footstool.

After Max’s FP1, Jos came over and asked, “You okay?” in the quiet, awkward tone of a man trying to learn how to be soft.

She’d blinked. “I’m okay. Baby’s just doing somersaults.”

Jos had nodded once. Then muttered something like, “Stubborn. Just like the rest of the family.”

And patted her shoulder. Lightly. Carefully. As if afraid she might shatter.

She didn’t.

 Instead, she smiled and leaned back in her chair while Max returned from the debrief, sweaty and grumpy about understeer but visibly lighting up the moment he saw her.

“Drink anything yet?” he asked.

“I had water, juice, and a banana. Your dad supervised it like I was on probation.”

Max had snorted, leaned down to press a kiss to her temple, and murmured, “Welcome to Verstappen hospitality.”

***

The thing about being nearly eight months pregnant during a triple-header was that Belle had mastered the art of keeping her heart rate below 120—even when Formula One decided to descend into absolute madness.

Which meant when Max crossed the line third in the sprint, she didn’t immediately jump up and scream like half the Red Bull garage did. She smiled, placed a hand on her bump—where Emilian had taken up his current hobby of bladder kickboxing—and waited for the usual post-race chaos to unfold.

Max looked annoyed, not overjoyed, as he pulled into parc fermé. Not surprising. He hadn’t loved the car’s balance since FP1, and any time he wasn’t first was basically a personal offense to his racing DNA.

And then someone handed her a phone and muttered, “You’re going to want to see this.”

INVESTIGATION: CAR 1 – VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR INFRINGEMENT

“Oh, come on,” Belle muttered.

Twenty minutes later, Max had changed out of his fireproofs but was still pacing the hospitality suite like a panther in a too-small cage and grumbling under his breath. 

Belle didn’t say anything at first. She knew better.

Max wasn’t angry in the traditional sense—he wasn’t throwing helmets or yelling at engineers. He was the other kind of angry. The dangerous, simmering kind. The kind that cracked through in clipped Dutch, in jaw-tight silences, in the way his hands ran through his hair like he wanted to pull the whole world apart.

She stood slowly and walked over, pressing her hands gently to his chest. “Hey. Breathe.”

He did.

Eventually.

“They’re giving third to Charles,” he said, tone unreadable.

Belle blinked. “Wait. Charles is—on the podium now?”

He nodded. “They’re not redoing the ceremony. Just… swapping the results after. Retroactive podium inheritance.”

“So we get the drama and the logistics headache,” she muttered.

Max’s lips twitched, just barely. “And probably a Ferrari Instagram post with too many emojis.”

Belle couldn’t help it. She laughed. Then groaned, because the laugh made the baby shift into her ribs again. “Ow. Okay. You’re both giving me heartburn now.”

Max’s hand was instantly at her back, his thumb brushing over her spine like a reflex.

 “You should sit,” he murmured, and then paused. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“Max,” she said, guiding his hand to her bump, “our child thinks your VSC penalty is an outrage and is kicking in protest. We’re on your side.”

He looked down at her then—really looked. Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. He didn’t say anything more about the penalty, or the race, or Charles. He just rested his forehead gently against hers and exhaled.

Outside, the media spun.

 Inside, Max was just… her Max.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: How. The hell. Are you surviving that weather. I am NOT pregnant and it’s driving me absolutely insane. Lando said the humidity is making his hair “emotionally volatile”.

Belle: I’m still upright, so I’m winning.

Emilie:  Your unborn child is cooking in a Dutch oven. And you’re what, just… vibing?? Are you human??

Belle: Barely. I am 75% fries, 10% spite, and 15% electrolyte drinks at this point.

Emilie:  It’s like racing in a sauna someone cursed.

Belle: I have iced towels and a Verstappen man fussing on either side. It’s a system.

Emilie: Two Verstappen men fussing?? I would not survive. Respectfully, Jos looking concerned would send me straight into orbit.

Belle: Jos brought me a parasol. Didn’t say a word, just appeared with it like I was a 19th-century duchess and nodded once.

Emilie: What in the soft grandpa energy is going ON over there at RedBull??

Belle: Honestly? No idea. I just smiled, took the parasol, and accepted my fate as the Verstappen household’s most precious cargo.

Emilie: You are precious cargo. I just hope Baby Verstappen doesn’t melt before they get to the grid.

Belle: He’s already kicking in protest.

***

A day later, after Qualifying, Max stalked into the Red Bull motorhome. 

Belle had already finished half a bottle of water and braced herself emotionally.

She could tell from the way he pulled off his gloves—snapped, not peeled—that he was past the tight-lipped irritation and heading directly toward incandescent. The kind of mood that didn’t need shouting to be loud. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed, and his racing suit was only halfway unzipped before he muttered something in Dutch that she didn’t need to understand to translate.

It was not complimentary.

She stayed seated, hands resting over the swell of her stomach, one eyebrow raised.

“You want to break something, or do you want a snack first?” she asked mildly.

Max didn’t answer. He paced instead. One tight circuit around the driver’s room like a lion in a gilded cage. His whole body buzzed with frustration—sharp, contained, and so very Max.

Twelfth in qualifying. Five-place grid penalty. An engine change that had already made him annoyed earlier in the weekend. And now a red flag that stopped him from putting in a second lap. All of it stacking up.

He exhaled through his nose. “I had pace. We had it. And then that flag—”

Belle nodded calmly. “I saw.”

“I had it, Belle.”

“I know.”

He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “And I’m starting from seventeenth.”

From the couch, Jos spoke for the first time.

“Well,” he said mildly, not looking up from his phone, “at least you’ll have someone to overtake.”

Belle blinked. So did Max.

Jos didn’t flinch. “No one wants a boring race. You’ll manage.”

Max stared at his father like he’d grown a second head.

Belle bit back a grin. Very calm Jos Verstappen was, somehow, more unnerving than yelling Jos. Like someone had dialed down the volume but left all the heat.

Max looked at him like he was insane. “That’s not the point.”

Belle watched them, biting back the urge to get up and tug him down beside her. But Max in this state didn’t want to be calmed. He wanted to fight air.

Jos just raised an eyebrow. “What is the point, then?”

“That it’s bullshit,” Max snapped. “The whole thing. They screwed the timing, and I get penalized for it. And now I have to make up seventeen places while everyone pretends that’s normal.”

Belle winced a little. The baby kicked hard. Possibly in solidarity.

“You’re not seventeen cars worse,” Jos said, still maddeningly calm. “You’re seventeen places hungrier.”

That made Max stop.

Belle finally spoke. “You always say you love a challenge.”

Max turned to her, and the moment their eyes met, some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. Just a fraction. Enough.

“I do,” he said, voice lower now. “But this feels like punishment.”

She patted the seat beside her. “Then punish them back.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then—finally—he exhaled, and the storm in his chest started to settle. He dropped his gloves on the table, tugged off the top half of his race suit, and walked over.

When he sat, Belle didn’t even hesitate—she pulled his hand to her belly and placed it there. Emilian kicked once. Max’s entire face softened.

“See?” she said, quiet and steady. “We’re on your side.”

And just like that, she saw it happen—the shift. His fire didn’t go out. But it became direction. Focus. The kind that didn’t explode, but honed in.

“I’m going to need to pass so many cars,” he mumbled.

“You’ll do it,” Belle said simply. “Just try not to give me a heart attack in the process.”

***

Belle had just wanted to get back to the garage.

She’d spent the last half hour tucked into a corner of the McLaren setup, feet propped up on a stool while Emilie made pointed, mildly threatening comments about the lack of air circulation and the state of the hospitality snacks. Belle had laughed, sipped her electrolytes, and finally set off back across the paddock toward Red Bull.

It was hot. She was swollen. Her back ached. And Max had given her that tight-lipped, barely-there smile that meant he was somewhere deep in his zone, unreachable to all but engine data and tyre temps. She wanted to be there before he stepped into the car — steady, present, quiet.

She just hadn’t accounted for the obstacle course of egos between her and the Red Bull garage.

“Miss Leclerc! One moment?”

She turned automatically, the smile already half-set on her face before her brain caught up.

“Mrs. Verstappen,” she corrected, evenly.

The journalist blinked. “Sorry?”

“It’s Mrs Verstappen now,” Belle said again. “I took my husband’s name.”

Two of them had formed a vague semi-circle around her—mics angled forward, camera light blinking red, and all the faux-casual charm of a trap already sprung.

“Of course,” the first one recovered. “Mrs. Verstappen. A quick question, if you don’t mind—”

Belle didn’t say anything. She didn’t nod, didn’t invite it. But he steamrolled ahead anyway.

“Given Max’s current form—ten races without a win—would you say he’s feeling the pressure? It’s been a very un-Max-like run, don’t you think?”

Belle blinked. She could practically hear the underline on un-Max-like.

The second journalist leaned in, chin lifted like he was asking about the weather. ““Do you think maybe it’s fatherhood? A change in priorities? Some fans think he’s losing his edge.”Belle’s spine straightened.

She wasn’t new to this. She’d heard versions of the same question, the same insinuations. That love softened men. That fatherhood made them slower. That happiness and greatness couldn’t coexist.

But today—thirty-four weeks pregnant, overheated, aching, and walking toward the one person who never asked her to be anything but herself—it landed differently.

 Belle exhaled slowly. 

She tilted her head, assessing them like she was choosing which wire to cut. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and steady, “are we pretending four podiums in ten races and a sprint win is a crisis now?”

The first reporter’s mouth opened. Then closed.

She smiled, slow and glacial. “I’ll tell you what,” Belle said. “If Max doesn’t win today, I’ll sit down with you. On the record. You can ask me every dramatic question you’ve been saving in your little notebook.”

A pause. The baby shifted under her palm like they approved.

“But if he does win,” she continued, voice sweet with the edge of steel, “I want your apology. On camera. Same tone. Same energy. I’ll be watching.”

They didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Belle gave them a polite nod that somehow felt like a knife being sheathed, then turned on her heel and walked away — steady, composed, and untouchable. The Verstappen name glittered on the credential clipped to her bag. 

She didn’t glance back.

***

Max found his wife exactly where he’d expected to: tucked into the corner of the Red Bull hospitality, perched on the edge of the leather couch like she was pretending not to be exhausted. She had one hand resting on her bump, the other gripping a glass of water she probably hadn’t remembered to finish. Her expression was unreadable—carefully composed in that way she sometimes did when she was second-guessing herself.

Max didn’t need to ask. He knew her too well.

He dropped down beside her, thigh against hers, arm along the back of the couch. “What did you do?”

Belle didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

Max raised a brow. Waited.

Belle let out a breath. “Okay, fine. Maybe… something.”

Max turned toward her, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. “Belle.”

“I may have…” She paused, winced slightly. “I may have threatened a journalist.”

Max blinked. “Define threatened.”

“Well, it wasn’t violent.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They cornered me on the walk back from McLaren,” Belle said. “Started asking if you were cracking under pressure, if maybe being a father was making you lose your edge—”

“Oh for—”

“—and I may have challenged them to a conditional interview-slash-public-apology wager depending on whether or not you win today.”

Silence.

Belle waited.

Max’s expression didn’t change at first. Then—

He burst out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a snort. A full-bodied, head-thrown-back, shoulders-shaking laugh that startled the Red Bull intern who had just stepped into the hospitality suite with a tray of fruit.

“You what?” Max managed, wiping at his eyes.

Belle huffed. “It wasn’t planned! I was hot, my back hurt, and they called me Leclerc first, so I corrected them, and it just… escalated.”

Max grinned at her, still wheezing slightly. “You told them to apologize on camera?”

“If you win,” she muttered. “Which, given the engine penalty, is probably not happening. So really, I lose.”

Max leaned over, kissed her temple, and laughed again. “You absolute menace.”

“I regretted it halfway through,” Belle admitted. “But by then it was too late, and the baby was kicking like they were cheering me on.”

Max looked delighted. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“If I don’t win, I expect a full dramatic press sit-down. Lights. Microphones. Maybe a chair turn reveal like The Voice.”

Belle groaned. “Please don’t encourage this.”

Max pulled her feet into his lap, began rubbing small circles into her calves like it was muscle memory. “I’m going to win just so I can see their faces. You’ve given me extra motivation.”

Belle sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re amazing,” he countered. “And also, terrifying when provoked. Remind me never to question your priorities while you’re eight months pregnant.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridgossipqueen: 🚨🚨NEW CLIP JUST DROPPED🚨🚨 Belle Leclerc-Verstappen being cornered by reporters about Max’s “10-race no win streak” and her saying:

“I’ll tell you what, if Max doesn’t win today, I’ll sit down with you. On the record. You can ask me every dramatic question you’ve been saving in your little notebook. But if he does win, I want your apology. On camera. Same tone. Same energy. I’ll be watching.”  Oh. She is NOT playing. 🔥

@/helmetandheels:  her tone. the precision. the “you cornered a pregnant woman and this is what you’re going with?” she read them like tire temps in the sun

@/babyverstappenfiles: max has a contract. belle has VENGEANCE.

@/f1softpower:  you don’t come for the king and expect the queen to stay silent. she gave them rope. can’t wait for the race. i hope max wins by 30 seconds

@/danielricciardosmirror:  i would simply never recover if belle looked at me and said “we can sit down on the record” like it was a threat. like she wasn’t holding back a full power unit of righteous fury.

@/gridcriersanonymous:  she walked away with her hand on her belly like a mic drop the baby already knows they’re being raised by a legend

@/chaosleclerc: max pls win i want to see that apology on air in 4K

@/wagsunfiltered:  they really tried to come for max through belle. rookie mistake. jos verstappen raised a driver pascale leclerc raised a fortress

@/redbullprmole:  i know the RB media team is already drafting the post-race caption if he wins: “we’ll take that apology now.”

@/gridwitch:  this woman is 7 months pregnant and still managed to backhand three journalists with one sentence and a single eyebrow raise

@/maxnation94: she didn’t even flinch. didn’t blink. and now I need max to win more than I need air because that man has a literal dragon defending him

@/oscarpiastrisburner:  belle looking them dead in the eye, hand on bump, and offering a conditional interview like she’s sealing a prophecy we are witnessing history

@/mclarenfangirl69: y’all remember how silent the journalists were?? like they knew they just unlocked a main character moment and couldn’t take it back

@/verstappenfangirlie:  if max wins today it’s not just a comeback — it’s revenge, it’s prophecy, 

@/charlesleclercsleftthumb:  not a single “no comment.” not a single “let’s wait and see.” she gave them a chance to be decent and then served consequences with a smile

@/tiregirlie:  “if he doesn’t win, I’ll give you an interview” MOTHER??? IS THAT YOU???

@/f1burnerwife: the way she didn’t raise her voice didn’t flinch just smiled and laid down consequences that’s leclerc blood and verstappen ferocity working in harmony

@/chaoslapcount:  belle: if he wins, you apologize on camera. journalists: 😐 me in the background: 🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

@/landohaus: max hasn’t even started the race yet and belle already won the pre-show grand prix the PR sector was purple, your honor

@/gridpanic:  she didn’t threaten she scheduled a reckoning

@/verstappencryptid: belle said “i know my husband. i know what he’s made of. and i know what he’s about to do.” and i believed her

@/f1dramaqueen:  “cornering a pregnant woman before a race” AND she hit them with “public apology on that same camera” she’s terrifying. i want her as my lawyer.

@/mclarensmut:  max is about to win just out of spite

@/paddockdebriefs: if max wins today, someone better be outside that media pen with a camera and a mic asking those same journos if they’re okay

@/wagsunfiltered: we do not talk enough about how belle verstappen is media trained, ice-veined, and protecting her husband from slander icon behavior

***

The rain had started as a whisper on the windows of Max’s driver room, barely audible over the pre-race broadcast. But by the time the formation lap began, it was a steady drumbeat—insistent, merciless, loud.

Belle shifted in the armchair, one hand on her belly, the other curled around a lukewarm cup of tea. She was very much not in the mood for chaos. Unfortunately, Interlagos never listened to reason.

Jos Verstappen sat beside her, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t said much—he never did before a race—but Belle had known him long enough now to recognize the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed at the track feed. He was calm in the way thunderclouds were calm—full of warning.

“Max looks good in the wet,” Jos murmured eventually, almost like reassurance. “He always has.”

Belle nodded. “He’s P17. He’ll be furious until he hits the top ten.”

Jos snorted. “He was furious before breakfast.”

That, somehow, made her laugh.

They watched in silence as the race unfolded—Max carving his way forward with grim efficiency, overtaking with the kind of precision that made engineers hold their breath. By lap 10, he was already P7, and Belle felt the tight coil in her chest ease just slightly.

Then came yellow flags. A virtual safety car. Cars going off the road. 

The restart brought tension back. Intermediates? Slicks? Everyone second-guessing the weather gods. Belle kept watching, even when her spine started to ache and her bladder protested. Max was staying out—he hadn’t pitted. 

A gamble.

The rain slowed. The gamble paid off.

One lap, then two, then five. He took the lead and never looked back.

Belle didn’t realize she was crying until Jos handed her a tissue without looking at her, his eyes still on the screen. He didn’t say anything—just passed it to her like it was a gear change.

“I’m fine,” Belle whispered, breathless with something between adrenaline and awe. “I just—he needed this.”

“He earned it,” Jos said quietly.

It struck her, then, how similar and different they were—Max and his father. Fire and restraint, storm and structure. And yet she knew—somewhere under all of Jos’s silence—was pride so deep it was almost unbearable.

When Max crossed the line first, nineteen seconds clear of the rest of the field, Belle didn’t cheer. She just closed her eyes for a second, let her head tip back against the chair, and smiled.

“I hope he’s not cocky about it,” she said.

Jos chuckled. “He will be.”

They watched the cooldown lap, the radio messages. Max’s voice, elated.

The victory that had evaded him for ten races finally back in his hands.

***

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Belle made it down to parc fermé, one hand steady on the railing, the other curled instinctively under her belly. The paddock was electric—mechanics cheering, engineers shouting updates into radios, camera crews angling for shots that would scream Redemption in the Rain. She barely registered any of it.

She only saw him.

Max was out of the car, helmet off, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. He was grinning—wide and reckless in that rare way he saved only for the victories that meant something. That cost him. His suit was streaked with grime and rain and glory, and when his eyes found her, it was like the rest of the paddock vanished.

Belle didn’t move.

She didn’t have to.

He was already crossing the concrete in long, fast strides, weaving through his crew, ignoring the cameras, the PR handler saying something about interviews. His hands found her face first—damp gloves dropped somewhere on the way—and then her shoulders, grounding himself.

“Hey,” he said, like he hadn’t just taken back a race like it belonged to him.

Belle let out a shaky breath. “That was insane.”

“You watched?”

“Jos and I both did. He cried.”

Max blinked. “Jos?”

She smiled. “Okay, fine. I cried. Jos handed me the tissue.”

Max let out a soft laugh, forehead pressing to hers for the briefest second. His hands drifted down—one to her waist, the other to the curve of her bump.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “Too much noise?”

“I’m good,” she whispered. “Better now.”

And then he kissed her.

Right there, under the spit of rain and the harsh lights and half a dozen camera lenses catching their every move. It wasn’t long or showy. It was just them—familiar, tender, full of relief and something heavier. The kind of kiss that said we made it through this day and came out the other side.

When they parted, she cupped his face, thumb brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek.

“You needed this,” she said.

Max shook his head, eyes still locked on hers. “We did.”

And for a moment, Belle didn’t feel the rain or the cameras or the weight of carrying the next chapter of their lives. She just felt home.

Then Max grinned, already stepping back as a team member called him over for the podium prep.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he said, backing away with one last glance. “Try not to start any fights while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Belle said, hand resting on her stomach.

Emilian kicked. She smiled.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1girlie77: MAX VERSTAPPEN. RAIN GOD. TYRE WHISPERER. FATHER TO BE. HUSBAND. LEGEND.

@/f1andfeelings:  Belle: if Max wins, I want your apology on camera Max: wins from P17 in the rain with a 5-place grid penalty, after ten winless races Me: oh she manifested that into existence

@/thepaddocktea:  the kiss. the kiss. someone write vows about that kiss in parc fermé.

@/softverstappen:  that moment when Max dropped everything and went straight to Belle after the win. kissed her. touched her bump. whispered something that made her smile. they’re so in love i’m going to cry under my couch

@/chaosgp:  the grid: fighting for scraps Max Verstappen: “I’m gonna win, kiss my wife, and make the internet explode”

@/leclercsleftbrow: the way Belle said “if he wins, I want your apology on camera” and then he WON??? that’s a WIFE who believes in her man

@/bellexrbqueen: do you think the journalists are drafting the apology right now or do they just cry in a group chat

@/griddywithmclaren: Everyone: oh no Max is in crisis Belle: bet he wins Max: bet accepted

@/dutchlionlegacy:  can’t stop thinking about how Belle looked at Max like he was the whole world after that win and how Max kissed her like the win didn’t matter unless she saw it

@/oscarpiastrisweater:  we all owe Belle an apology because apparently she made a deal with the motorsport gods last night and THEY LISTENED

@/safeforverstappen: Max Verstappen really said “watch me win this race and kiss my wife like it’s the final scene in a romance film”

@/jensonbuttongirlie:  Belle’s the only person who could make Max Verstappen smile like that before podium interviews. I don’t care what anyone says.

@/f1teaofficial: MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS IN BRAZIL. AFTER TEN RACES. IN THE RAIN. FROM P17. I AM ON THE FLOOR.

@/madforpadz: Belle making that bet with a journalist and Max delivering like it’s Amazon Prime is PEAK couple energy.

@/landofthedramas:  Belle: makes a petty bet with a journalist Max: wins a Grand Prix to defend her honour

@/dtsburner: Red Bull PR team watching Belle predict a win and Max deliver: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️🧍 “well... that’s going in Drive to Survive”

@/spicygp: If I don’t get a follow-up video of that journo giving Belle the apology she’s owed, I will riot

@/teamradiochaos: I can’t decide what’s more iconic: – Belle correcting the reporter who called her Leclerc – Max winning after 10 races – THE KISS™ – or Belle smiling like she summoned rain and redemption herself

@/f1teaqueen:  BELLE VERSTAPPEN GAVE THEM AN ULTIMATUM AND HER HUSBAND DELIVERED A MASTERCLASS. ICONIC BEHAVIOUR.

@/slowpitstopguy: can we circle back to the fact that belle VERSTAPPEN threatened a journalist with an on-camera apology if max didn’t win and then MAX WON like what kind of power couple sorcery is this

@/lando4life: Max is getting the baby named after him now, right?? Or maybe Belle just names it “Pay Up” and tags the journalist 💀

@/f1teaaccount:  Max Verstappen ending his winless streak in Brazil and kissing his wife like that in parc fermé??? The DRAMA, the REDEMPTION ARC, the ROMANCE. Netflix could never. 🔥🏆💋 #BrazilGP #Verstappen

@/FormulaWivesClub:  Belle Verstappen gave us:

✨ A fashion masterclass

🍼 Pregnancy sass

🎤 Absolute media takedown

💋 Rain-soaked kiss with her husband She is eight months pregnant. She won. We all did.

@/lightsoutbliss: Someone check on that journalist Belle made a bet with. He’s probably hiding under a table writing a handwritten apology and crying.

@/McLarenLibrarian: Belle Verstappen: Makes a public bet with a smug journo. Max Verstappen: Starts P17. Wins the entire race. I have never seen two people more suited to each other in my life. 

@/charlesfanacc: charles leclerc fans watching max win, get the girl, and absolutely obliterate a losing streak like: well okay then

***

Post-Race Interview Transcript – 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix - Charles Leclerc

Interviewer: "Charles, bit of a wild race today—weather, penalties, strategy… but also, a lot of attention on your brother-in-law’s win and, uh… your sister."

Charles: (laughs softly) "Yeah, it was a bit chaotic out there. Congrats to Max though, and to Pierre and Esteban."

Interviewer: "So… were you aware that Belle made a bet with a journalist before the race? She apparently said if Max didn’t win, she’d give an interview—but if he did, they owed her an apology on camera?"

Charles: (blinks, visibly surprised, then lets out a short laugh) "Wait—what? Seriously?"

Interviewer: "Yes, seriously. On camera. She said it herself, apparently right after someone asked if Max was losing his edge."

Charles: (grinning now, shaking his head in disbelief)  "That’s… actually incredible. I had no idea.”

Interviewer: "Does it surprise you that she’d do something like that?"

Charles: (still smiling, but now a bit more thoughtful)  "Honestly? No. She might not race cars, but she’s got the same fire as the rest of us—she just channels it differently. People think Belle is quiet. Sweet. And she is, don’t get me wrong—she’s the kindest person I know. But don’t underestimate her." (pause)  "She has bite. You just don’t see it all the time. She saves it for when it counts."  (grinning)  “Good luck to whoever has to deliver that apology. She won’t let them forget.”

Journalist: “Would you ever bet on Max like that?”

Charles:  “Not while I’m still trying to beat him, no!” (laughs)  “But I respect the confidence. And I’m happy for them. That win meant a lot. You could see it.”

***

Post-Race Interview Transcript – 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix - Max Verstappen

Interviewer: "Max, congratulations. Ten races without a win, and now here we are—P1 in São Paulo. How are you feeling?"

Max: (grinning, still breathless from the cooldown lap) "Yeah, it feels good. We’ve had some difficult weekends, some weird luck, but today everything clicked. The car felt great. Strategy worked. I’m really happy."

Interviewer: "We heard some… interesting rumors before the race. Apparently, your wife made a bet with a journalist in the paddock? That if you didn’t win today, she’d give them an interview?"

Max: (laughs immediately, shakes his head) "Ah, yeah. I heard about that."

Interviewer: "Care to comment?"

Max: (deadpan, but clearly amused) "Well, obviously I couldn’t let my wife be forced to do an interview she didn’t want to do. So I won."(pause, smirk growing) "Also… I’m waiting for that apology she’s owed. On camera. Same energy."

Interviewer: "She really said that?"

Max: (smiling now, just the tiniest bit smug) "She did. And I love her for it."

Interviewer: "Does it add a little extra pressure, racing with Baby Verstappen on the way?"

Max: (genuine now, softer tone) "It adds perspective. But pressure? No. If anything, it makes everything more meaningful. I want to make our kid proud. And their mom, too."

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Just checking in on you. I know this one’s a gut punch.

Emilie: … You mean the moment Lando’s championship hopes fell off a cliff and spontaneously combusted in sector two?

Belle: I was trying to be gentle 😬

Emilie: I love your husband. I do. But right now I would very much like him to stub his toe on a trophy.

Belle: He’d still win the race on one foot, Emilie.

Emilie: Ugh. I know. God, I know. Lando’s pretending to be fine but he’s barely touched his post-race pizza. That’s how I know.

Belle: Okay but… that is cause for concern.

Emilie: Exactly. Also, what the hell was that last stint from Max?? Did he just decide physics wasn’t real?

Belle: He was very calm after. Said, “car felt good.” Like he didn’t just drive like Poseidon was co-piloting.

Emilie: I hate him. (I don’t.) (I love you both.) (But still. Let me sulk.)

Belle: Permission granted.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Hey. I know you’re probably surrounded by people right now, but I just wanted to say—you were brilliant today.

Lando: Didn’t feel like it. Didn’t look like it either.

Belle: You kept it clean. You kept your head. In that weather. That’s more than most of the grid managed.

Lando: Max won by nineteen seconds.

Belle: You’re not Max. And Max isn’t you. You’re not in this sport to be a carbon copy. You’re in it because you’re Lando freaking Norris and you’ve earned every bit of your place here.

Lando: You sound like Emilie. (Which is mildly terrifying.)

Belle: She’s the smarter of us. Obviously. But also: you’re allowed to be disappointed. Just don’t let it eat you.

Lando: How do you not let it?

Belle: You let people hold it with you. And then you go again. (Also snacks help. I recommend whatever Emilie keeps hidden in her travel bag.)

Lando: …She has Kinder Eggs. She’s hoarding them like we’re in an apocalypse.

Belle: There you go. See? Everything’s survivable with the right sugar to sadness ratio.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. You’ll get yours. I believe that down to my rib-bruised organs.

*** The hotel room was quiet when they returned.

Max had been silent the entire way back from the track—still in his team kit, cap pulled low, hand resting absently on Belle’s thigh during the drive. She could tell he wasn’t fully there. Not in a dangerous way—just… suspended. Caught somewhere between the high of victory and the exhaustion dragging him down.

The room was dimly lit. The sky outside was already dark, São Paulo’s storm clouds casting a heavy grey over the skyline. Belle kicked off her shoes by the door and turned toward Max.

He was standing in the center of the room, just staring. At nothing. His jaw tight. Shoulders high.

“Max?” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

She crossed the room slowly, her hand brushing his back, and only then did he move—like something inside him cracked and gave way. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled off his cap with one hand, dragging the other over his face. When she stepped closer, he finally looked up at her.

His eyes were glassy. Distant.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” he whispered. “Not today. Not anymore.”

Belle crouched down in front of him, her knees protesting but her heart louder.

“You did,” she said gently.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand—every race, it felt like it was slipping. Like I was the problem. Like I’d peaked. Like maybe this was the start of the decline, and I wasn’t ready for that. I—” His voice broke. He looked away, jaw clenched hard against the rising tide.

Belle reached for his hand.

“Max.”

He pressed his knuckles to his eyes, the way a boy might try to stop tears he couldn’t control.

“I couldn’t breathe after quali. I was angry, and tired, and I saw everyone’s faces like they were waiting for me to fail again. And I thought—what if I do?”

He exhaled hard, chest stuttering like a misfiring engine.

“I don’t want them to think I’m done. I don’t want you to think that.”

Belle’s heart cracked open.

She brought his hands into hers, kissed the inside of his wrist, and said, very clearly, “I don’t care if you win again this season or not at all. I love you for who you are. Not for what the leaderboard says.”

His eyes finally met hers.

“I love the man who comes home to me. The one who makes me tea I and tells the baby they’re not allowed to arrive before the off-season. I love the Max who spoils the cats and who gets so focused he forgets to blink. That’s who I married.”

A long beat passed.

Then Max exhaled again, and this time it sounded like surrender. Like letting go. His shoulders slumped forward and Belle stepped into his arms.

He buried his face against her shoulder, arms winding around her back as if she were the only thing tethering him to the earth. She felt it then—the trembling. Not dramatic, not loud. Just the body of a man who had been carrying too much for too long.

She held him tighter.

“You’re allowed to feel it,” she whispered. “Even when you win.”

He didn’t say anything.

But when he finally pulled back, cheeks damp and eyes red, his voice was steadier.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Belle smiled, pressing her forehead to his. “Always.”

He kissed her—softly, gratefully—and then rested his head against her belly, one hand splayed protectively over their unborn child.

“I’m okay now,” he murmured.

And maybe he was.

But Belle would stay there anyway.

Just in case.

[rose24207]

Just a salesman pt.2

Summary: Your perfect world shatters when a furious stranger bursts into your home, accusing your loving, devoted husband of being a monster responsible for countless deaths.

Husband!Salesman x reader

A/N: Wow I didn’t expect for pt. 1 to blow up like that and for so many requests about a second part. But here we go! I take requests about squid game btw. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Pt.1

Masterlist

The room fell into an unbearable silence as you stood there, trembling, your tears streaking your face. Gi-hun’s words echoed in your ears like a bell you couldn’t unring. Your husband, your safe harbor, was a killer. A manipulative, calculating man who had built a world of lies around you.

And yet...

As much as your heart screamed in betrayal, it also whispered something darker. A small, insidious part of you—a part you didn’t even recognize—wanted to protect him. Wanted to believe that somehow, some way, this could still make sense.

“Leave,” your husband said, his voice low and commanding. It wasn’t directed at you, but at Gi-hun.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gi-hun spat. “She deserves to know the full truth.”

“I said, leave.” Your husband’s tone grew colder, sharper. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed at his side as though itching to act.

Gi-hun took a step forward, his jaw set. “You think you can scare me? After everything I’ve been through because of you? I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m not—”

“Stop,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Both men turned to look at you, surprised. You wiped your face, straightened your back, and forced yourself to meet Gi-hun’s eyes. “Please. Just… go.”

“What?” he said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I need to talk to him,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “Alone.”

“You can’t trust him,” Gi-hun argued, gesturing toward your husband. “He’s a monster. He’ll manipulate you, just like he’s done to everyone else.”

You shook your head. “I don’t care what you think. This is my marriage. My life. And right now, you’re not helping.”

Your words were harsh, but your heart felt like it was being ripped apart. Gi-hun looked at you, his face contorted with disbelief, before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shot your husband one last glare before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence settled over the room once more. Your husband stood there, watching you cautiously, as though waiting for you to lash out or collapse. But you did neither. Instead, you walked to the table, picking up the strange card Gi-hun had left. You turned it over in your hands, the cryptic design doing little to ease your growing unease.

“Is it true?” you asked finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “What he said about the games? About you?”

Your husband hesitated, his jaw tightening. Then, to your surprise, he nodded. “Yes.”

The word hit you like a physical blow, but you didn’t falter. You set the card down and looked at him, your tears drying as a strange calm settled over you. “Why?”

“For you,” he said simply, stepping closer. “For us.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice cold. “Why would you do something so… horrific? Why would you—”

“Because it’s the only world I know,” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “And it’s the only way I could give you the life you deserve. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something darker. “You think I wanted this? That I’d ever want you to hurt people—kill people—for me?”

He stepped closer still, his eyes locking onto yours. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “The world isn’t kind to people like us. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t take control, who don’t make the hard choices. I made those choices so you wouldn’t have to.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. Every instinct told you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand there and listen to him. And yet… you didn’t move.

“Do you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice raw.

His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with. “More than anything,” he said. “You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Something inside you twisted at his words, at the sincerity in his voice. He was a monster, yes—but he was your monster. The thought made your stomach churn, but it also filled you with a strange, horrifying sense of power. He had done terrible things, but he had done them for you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can ever look at you the same way.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said quietly. “But I need you to understand that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To keep you with me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you took a shaky breath. “You’re going to tell me everything,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “No more lies. No more secrets. If you want me to stay, I need to know exactly who you are.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by something darker. He nodded. “I’ll tell you everything.”

As he began to speak, unraveling the web of lies and horrors he’d kept hidden, you felt yourself sinking deeper into a world you didn’t understand—a world you weren’t sure you wanted to understand. But one thing was certain: you weren’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @blueyesuguru, @annimoony, @jasmineee05, @astrophe0, @riri53, @putrescentpoet

[elryuse]

When The Stars Fell Pt.1

KIOF X Male Reader

Tags : Highschool Setting, Angsty, Kissing, Romance, Intimate, Passionate, Vanilla, Trauma, Teen Love Words : 6,239 Words

You never saw it coming.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not the humiliation. Not the laughter. Not even the sting of cold paint seeping into your skin.

No—what truly shattered you was the look in her eyes.

Belle’s eyes.

The girl-next-door. The reason you’d rush to the window every time you heard the gate squeak. The reason you smiled at the simplest things. The one you loved from the sidelines, too scared to believe someone like you could belong beside someone like her.

But she was standing on the stage, arms draped around you, smiling like the sun.

"I like you," she had said just the day before. Her voice soft, her gaze flickering with something warm.

It had felt real.

Now?

Now you’re dripping in thick, cobalt-blue paint, the kind used to coat fences and silence hearts. Phones are out. Flashes blind you. Laughter rises and crashes over you like a wave, relentless and merciless. The stage beneath your feet might as well be a cliff.

You want to scream. You want to vanish. You want to wake up.

But you don’t move.

Not even when Belle steps back and says, “Did you really think someone like me would fall for someone like you?”

The crowd howls with laughter.

You blink once.

Twice.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and suddenly the room spins. Everything goes too loud, then too quiet. Your breath shortens. The blue is in your eyes. In your nose. In your soul.

You are drowning in it.

Until—

SLAP.

The crack of it is thunder.

It slices through the laughter like a lightning bolt.

A gasp erupts from the crowd.

And there she is.

Haneul.

Black hoodie. Combat boots. Short, messy hair. Eyes blazing.

You’ve seen her around school—on the field, in detention, walking through hallways like she owned them. You’ve heard rumors about her temper, about her fighting, about how she once punched a senior in the jaw for making a girl cry.

But this—this isn’t violence.

This is justice.

Her hand is still raised. Belle’s cheek is red.

"You’re disgusting," Haneul says, her voice trembling not from fear, but rage. “You think you’re powerful because people laugh with you? You think that makes you special?”

The room is stunned. Silent.

No one dares to move.

Then she turns to you.

Her voice softens. “Come on.”

You stare at her. Blink again. Your knees shake.

She doesn’t wait for permission. She grabs your hand.

And in front of everyone—everyone who laughed, everyone who filmed—she pulls you away from the stage. The crowd parts like waves, silent now, shamed into their own shadows.

You leave blue footprints on the floor.

The night air hits you like a slap of its own.

Cold. Cruel. Honest.

You don’t know where she’s leading you. You don’t care. All you know is that Haneul’s hand is still gripping yours, warm and solid, like a lifeline.

You don’t speak until you’re far—so far—from the house, from the stage, from the betrayal.

She finally slows down in a quiet park two blocks away. Lets go of your hand.

You feel the absence like a wound.

"…Why?" your voice comes out hoarse. “Why did you do that?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her breath comes in clouds. Her fists clench, then release.

“Because I couldn’t watch it happen.”

You say nothing. The weight of the moment presses into your spine like bricks.

“I saw it in your eyes,” she says, voice softer now. “The second the paint hit you… you were gone. I know that look.”

You look down at your ruined clothes.

At your soaked shoes. At the trembling in your hands.

“I wanted to scream,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t even breathe.”

“I know,” she says.

And somehow, those two words make your knees buckle.

You sit down hard on the park bench.

She doesn’t leave. She sits beside you.

Not too close.

Just enough.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You don’t count them. You just listen.

The night. The wind. Your heartbeat. Hers.

"I really liked her," you say finally. "I thought… I thought she saw me."

“She saw you,” Haneul says. “She just didn’t deserve you.”

You look at her. She’s staring at the ground, jaw clenched again.

“You don’t even know me,” you mutter.

Her eyes flick toward yours. And hold.

“I do now.”

There’s something in her gaze you can’t describe. Not pity. Not sympathy.

Something heavier. Realer.

Something like… respect.

She stands up. Brushes invisible dust from her hoodie.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“…I don’t want to go home.”

“Then don’t.”

You blink.

She looks over her shoulder, a small grin tugging at her lips.

“I’ve got ramen. And a guitar. You coming or what?”

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you stand.

And for the first time that night, you take a step toward something that doesn’t feel like pain.

The warmth of Haneul’s apartment hits you the moment she swings the door open.

It smells like instant ramen, laundry detergent, and something faintly floral—like old perfume soaked into the walls. Her place isn’t big. It’s barely more than a box with a kitchen attached. But it’s clean. Lived-in. There’s a pair of mismatched slippers by the door, a guitar resting against the wall, and post-it notes scattered across a pinboard filled with hand-drawn stars.

She tosses you a towel before you step in.

“Bathroom’s to the right. Try not to drip blue all over the floor.”

You mutter a soft “Thanks,” then shuffle in, careful to leave your paint-soaked shoes by the entrance.

You stare at your reflection under the harsh bathroom light.

Your shirt clings to your skin, crusted with dried paint. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes are bloodshot from holding back everything you couldn’t scream.

You feel hollow.

Like the humiliation drained something out of you—and left you with nothing but silence.

When you return, Haneul’s already got two bowls of ramen on the table, steam curling into the ceiling. She doesn’t say much. Just gestures for you to sit.

You obey.

The warmth of the broth hits your throat like an apology you didn’t know you needed.

"You eat like you haven’t touched food in a week," she says between bites.

You glance at her. “I haven’t really had an appetite.”

“Understandable,” she murmurs, swirling her noodles.

There’s another silence.

But not the kind that itches.

This one is… calm.

“You know,” you begin after a while, eyes fixed on your bowl. “You never struck me as the type to care.”

Haneul lifts an eyebrow. “Because I don’t smile and hand out cookies like Belle?”

You hesitate. “Because you always seemed… angry.”

She snorts. “That’s fair.”

Then she leans back, chair creaking, and sighs.

“You wanna know something?” she asks.

You look at her.

She’s not looking at you.

Instead, her eyes are somewhere else—somewhere far.

“I used to be just like you.”

That surprises you.

“Me?”

She nods slowly.

“Yeah. Dumb, kind, always thinking that if I smiled wide enough, people would stay.”

Her fingers fidget with the edge of her sleeve.

“In middle school, I was the class clown. The energetic one. Bubbly. Optimistic. I used to bring extra snacks for everyone, wrote handwritten notes to cheer people up during finals. I wanted people to feel like they mattered.”

Her voice cracks just a little.

“I guess I wanted to feel like I mattered too.”

You feel your heart twist.

She exhales sharply through her nose. “I had this friend—Jiwoo. My best friend. She had depression, but never told anyone. I was the only one she talked to. I thought if I just stayed bright enough, I could keep her from falling.”

She swallows.

“One day, she stopped replying to my texts. The next day, they announced it on the intercom.”

You stop breathing.

Haneul’s fingers tighten around her cup.

“And you know what people said?” she continues. “That I should’ve known. That it was my fault for not telling a teacher. That I should’ve done more.”

Her voice hardens now.

“They blamed me for not saving her. They turned her death into my punishment.”

Silence.

The kind that wraps around your throat and chokes.

“So I stopped trying,” she finishes. “Stopped smiling. Stopped being soft. If people wanted me to be cold, fine. At least now, no one expects anything from me.”

She finally looks at you.

And for the first time, you see her—not just the sharp exterior or the fire in her glare—but the ache beneath it all. The wreckage she’s been standing on for years.

“I guess that’s why I couldn’t watch what happened to you tonight,” she says quietly. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve been you.”

You don’t know when your eyes started stinging again.

But they do.

And Haneul—this tough, untouchable girl who once set walls on fire just to survive—she doesn’t judge you for it.

Instead, she reaches out. Her hand brushes yours. Not firm like earlier. This time, it’s gentle.

Soft.

Real.

Later that night, the rain begins to fall.

You sit beside her on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out in front of you. She strums her guitar softly, not playing anything in particular—just sounds, notes, like heartbeat echoes in a room finally safe enough to feel.

You glance at her.

She hums under her breath. Off-key. Carefree.

And you wonder how anyone could’ve thought she was just angry.

She catches you looking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

She smirks. “Liar.”

You shrug. “Just… thinking.”

She strums a few more chords.

Then, softly—“What about?”

You exhale.

“About how I thought today would be the best day of my life.”

“And instead?”

You look at her again.

Your voice is small.

“It broke me.”

She sets her guitar down.

Crawls a little closer.

“I hate that it happened,” she says. “But I’m glad I was there.”

You nod.

Then after a long pause—

“Me too.”

At some point, you both doze off—your shoulder leaning into hers, her head gently tilted toward yours. The storm rages outside, but for once, your heart is quiet.

Not healed. Not whole.

But not bleeding either.

You never thought you'd feel this kind of silence in a hallway full of people.

Not peaceful silence.

Not shy, comforting silence.

This silence is loaded.

Whispers coil around your feet like chains. Phone screens flash out of the corners of your vision. You can hear it in the way people clear their throats, in the way they shut up the moment you pass by.

Your name—once ignored—is now everywhere. But not in the way you ever wanted.

They saw the video. They saw the paint. They saw your face crumple, your body freeze.

And then they saw her—Haneul—pulling you out like some kind of storm-drenched angel with cracked knuckles and fury in her eyes.

You expected it to fade. Expected to become invisible again.

But you’ve never been more seen.

And it terrifies you.

“Chin up,” Haneul mutters beside you.

You glance at her. She walks like she owns the floor, like none of this matters. Hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands, earphones in one ear, eyes daring anyone to speak.

She’s unshakable.

Or so it seems.

You stop by your locker.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur.

She leans beside you. “Then leave.”

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “If you’re only here to survive, then go. But if you’re here to prove you belong? Then stand up straight.”

Your chest tightens.

“…I’m not good at that.”

“I know,” she says, quieter now. “But you will be.”

The first time you see Belle again is after third period.

She’s standing by the vending machine, alone.

No entourage. No sycophants. No carefully choreographed laugh echoing through the hallway.

You stop.

She looks up—and freezes.

Your eyes meet.

There’s panic in hers. Regret. Something real, for once.

She takes a step forward.

“Hey,” she breathes, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to speak to you anymore.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Haneul steps in—like a ghost from your shadow—placing herself right between you two. Her head tilts slightly, eyes cool.

Belle’s mouth opens. Closes.

She looks at you, past Haneul, pleading.

“I—I didn’t mean it to go that far, I just thought—”

“You just thought he wouldn’t matter,” Haneul finishes for her, calm, venomous.

Belle flinches. “I—people pressured me, I thought it would be funny, it’s just—it got out of hand.”

“You thought ruining someone would be funny?” Haneul’s voice sharpens. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You look away.

You can’t handle this. Not now. Not with her voice trembling like she’s the victim in this.

“I’m sorry,” Belle says finally. “Really.”

You glance up.

And for a second… you almost believe her.

Almost.

But then you remember the click of cameras. The laughter. The way she smiled at your pain.

So you say the only thing that’s honest.

“I wish your apology made a difference.”

And you walk past her.

By lunchtime, it’s clear something has changed.

Belle is sitting alone.

Her usual table—once the epicenter of school energy—is cold. Vacant. You hear her name whispered, but not in awe. Not in admiration.

In shame.

Some people are unfollowing her socials.

Others are sharing clips—unedited, raw—from the party.

She’s not the golden girl anymore.

And you…?

You’re something else entirely.

You sit with Haneul under the tree behind the gym. She eats spicy rice cakes with chopsticks, legs folded, hoodie up to block the sun.

You’ve never had a favorite spot in this school.

But maybe this’ll be it.

Maybe this’ll be where you begin.

She catches you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, smiling for the first time in days. “You just eat like you’re at war.”

She throws a chopstick at you.

You both laugh.

Later that day, she walks you home again. Same way as always. Same silence as always. But now there’s something soft in it. Something shared.

Right before you reach your gate, she stops.

“I meant what I said, by the way.”

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“That you’ll get better at standing tall.”

You nod slowly. “…I hope so.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I could show you, if you let me.”

You blink. “Show me… how?”

She looks at you.

Right in the eyes.

“By walking with you. Every day. Until you stop thinking you have to walk alone.”

You weren’t supposed to smile today.

But here you are—barefoot, sitting on the rooftop of an abandoned art building, wind in your face, and a ridiculous black hoodie three sizes too big swallowing your frame.

“You look like a marshmallow,” Haneul says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You dragged me out of school just to roast me?”

“Duh.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help it—your lips twitch. She notices. She always does.

“There's that smile," she murmurs. "Took me three days and a kidnapping.”

“More like a rescue.”

She shrugs, leaning back on her hands, eyes squinting toward the sun. “Call it what you want. But you needed this.”

She’s right.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed the world to just… pause. No whispers. No phones. No Belle. Just the wind, the open sky, and Haneul's dry sarcasm.

You glance sideways at her.

She’s staring straight ahead, but there’s something softer in the way she sits now. Less like she’s preparing for battle, more like she’s remembering how to rest.

You hug the hoodie closer.

It smells like old books and citrus shampoo.

“Hey,” you say after a while, “why’d you give me your hoodie?”

She glances at you, her usual deadpan replaced with something faint—something that might’ve been a smile if you squinted.

“Because you looked like you needed to hide.”

You go quiet.

Then you whisper, “Thank you.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Meanwhile… back at school. Belle sits alone in the bathroom stall, her phone trembling in her hand.

Another unfollow. Another friend left her on read. Another anonymous DM: “Karma’s a btch, huh?”*

She locks her screen. Tries to breathe.

But her chest is tight.

She never thought it would last—the video, the backlash, the guilt. It was just a joke. Just a laugh. She didn’t mean to hurt him.

At least… that’s what she told herself.

But the silence around her now? The way people avoid her eyes in the hallway? The way even Lina, her closest friend, started making excuses to not sit beside her?

It feels like she’s disappearing.

And no one even notices.

She remembers your face that night. Frozen. Humiliated. Shattered. And now she understands what that silence feels like.

To be watched… but not seen. To be surrounded… and still so alone.

She unlocks her phone.

She types your name in the search bar.

Clicks on your profile.

No posts.

No updates.

Just a blank screen.

She bites her lip.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispers, like it means anything now.

Back to the rooftop. “Wanna do something stupid?” Haneul asks.

You blink. “What kind of stupid?”

“The kind that heals.”

She pulls a tiny box of chalk from her bag. Tosses it at you.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I know this place looks abandoned,” she grins, “but this rooftop’s magic.”

You snort. “You believe in magic now?”

“I believe in moments that matter,” she replies. “Draw something. Anything. Whatever hurts. Or whatever makes it stop hurting.”

You hesitate… but your fingers close around the chalk.

And for the first time in weeks, you draw.

Not for school. Not for validation. Not even for someone else.

You draw you.

Bent over, paint dripping, the moment the world laughed.

Then—beside it—you draw Haneul.

Hand extended.

Face unafraid.

Saving you.

When you’re done, she stands beside you and looks at it.

“…You drew me scary,” she jokes.

You smile. “You are scary.”

She laughs—and it’s real this time. Loud, unfiltered, music in its purest form.

You don’t realize you’re crying until she gently wipes the tear from your cheek with her sleeve.

“No one sees what you carry,” she says, voice low. “But I do.”

Later, when the sun dips into orange, she lies down on the rooftop with her hands behind her head.

You join her.

Your shoulder brushes hers. She doesn’t move away.

“You were right,” you whisper.

“Obviously,” she mumbles. “About what?”

“About me needing this.”

She turns her head, and for the first time—you don’t look away.

There’s no Belle in your eyes.

Just her.

“I never thought I’d be able to feel okay again,” you say softly.

She smirks. “You’re not ‘okay’ yet.”

You raise a brow. “Thanks.”

“But,” she continues, “you’re better. And that matters more.”

And it does.

Meanwhile… Belle scrolls through old photos. There’s one of you, from a class trip. You're blurry in the background, holding someone’s bag while they took selfies.

She never noticed you back then.

Not really.

And now, she can’t stop thinking about you.

The way you smiled at her when she was tired. The way you always said “Good luck” before her presentations. The way you looked at her like she was more than a poster girl.

She used you.

And now?

No one looks at her that way anymore.

That night, you check your phone.

A message.

Belle: “Can I call you? Just once?”

You stare at it.

You don’t reply.

You close your phone.

Then turn back toward Haneul, who’s fallen asleep next to you, lips parted slightly, hair brushing her cheek.

You smile.

And for the first time in forever…

It’s real.

You didn’t mean to smile this much lately.

It just… happens.

You laugh at dumb jokes again. You walk with your chin up. People greet you first now, and when they do, it doesn’t feel forced. It feels earned.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s because of her.

Haneul.

She still wears dark hoodies and death-stares half the school, but these days… she hums under her breath. Teases you more. Smiles when no one’s looking.

You eat lunch together—under the same tree every day. She lets you hold her sketchbook. You show her your old drawings. She even made you a playlist called “for when it hurts less” and you listened to it three nights in a row.

People started noticing.

Not in the whisper kind of way.

In the respectful kind of way.

“I never realized he was so cool.” “They really suit each other.” “She’s not scary, she’s just real.”

For once, the story isn’t about paint, humiliation, or betrayal.

It’s about healing.

But for Belle…

It’s the opposite.

She’s not the center anymore.

Her name used to buzz in group chats. Now, it barely exists.

Her own "friends" invite her just to ignore her. She laughs at jokes and no one joins in. She posts a photo—four likes. She walks into class—no saved seat. And the ones who do talk to her?

They do it to mock.

Fake kindness. Cheap jabs hidden under compliments.

“Cute dress, Belle. Did you borrow it from the charity bin?”

She flinches.

She doesn’t fight back.

Because now, she knows how it feels to be outcasted, targeted, powerless.

Like you were.

And the pain she once delivered now echoes back tenfold.

You see it all.

You see her sitting alone in the cafeteria. Food untouched. Eyes glazed. Trying to pretend she doesn’t care.

And maybe, a part of you thinks: She deserves this.

But another part… the realest part…

It just hurts to watch.

That afternoon, you walk beside Haneul, the usual trail from school to your place. She’s rambling about some weird dream she had involving a duck, a hoodie, and a haunted elevator.

You laugh harder than you mean to.

She grins.

“You’re finally laughing like you used to,” she says.

“I don’t even remember how I used to laugh.”

“Well, it was like this,” she teases, mimicking an exaggerated version of you—giggling like a cartoon.

You tackle her in retaliation.

The moment feels so light. So alive.

You don’t want it to end.

But then, out of the corner of your eye—you see Belle.

She’s standing by the lamppost, shoulders hunched, books clutched to her chest. Two girls from the cheer squad walk past her—one “accidentally” bumps her, causing her books to fall.

They don’t apologize.

They laugh.

And Belle just stares at the ground.

You freeze.

So does Haneul.

You watch as Belle kneels down, quietly picking up torn papers in silence.

And something in your chest… twists.

“I’m gonna help her,” you say suddenly.

Haneul blinks. “What?”

“She needs help.”

Haneul’s face tightens. “She humiliated you. Publicly.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not doing it because I forgive her. I’m doing it because… no one deserves to feel like they don’t matter.”

Silence.

Her eyes harden—not with hatred, but hurt.

“Even after what she did to you?”

“Especially after that.”

She exhales slowly. Looks away. “You’re a better person than me.”

You step forward. “No. I’m just… not angry anymore.”

You gently squeeze her hand.

“I’ll come back, okay?”

She doesn’t look at you.

But she nods.

You kneel beside Belle.

She’s frozen, not daring to look at you.

“…You dropped this,” you say quietly, holding out her sketch notes.

She blinks. Then slowly takes them.

Her voice cracks. “Why are you helping me?”

You shrug. “Because someone helped me once… when no one else did.”

She looks at you—really looks. And suddenly, the glossy pride in her eyes is gone. All that’s left is guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out.

You say nothing.

Because you already know.

“I never thought people would turn on me like this,” she whispers. “And now I can’t stop thinking about how I made you feel. I—I think about it all the time.”

You exhale. “Good.”

She blinks.

“Because that means you’re changing.”

Her lips tremble. “It hurts.”

You nod.

“It’s supposed to.”

You don’t ask her to stand. You don’t pretend this moment erases anything.

But you offered your hand.

That’s what matters.

Later, back at the tree, Haneul sits alone—headphones in, sketchbook on her knees.

You approach.

She doesn’t say anything.

You sit beside her.

Still nothing.

“…Mad at me?” you ask.

“No.”

She sketches a quick line. “Just scared.”

You blink. “Of what?”

“Of you being too kind again. To people who don’t deserve it.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I can’t stop being who I am.”

She sighs. “I know. That’s why I lo—”

She stops.

Freezes.

You glance at her.

“…What?”

She closes her sketchbook.

“Nothing.”

But there’s a flush in her cheeks. Her jaw clenched.

And for a moment…

You wonder if she almost said it.

Ever since that afternoon, something about Haneul is different.

She still acts the same, mostly. Still shoves your shoulder in the hallway. Still rolls her eyes at your jokes.

But now?

She pulls her hoodie sleeves back just a little more—to show her bracelets. She reapplies lip balm before she sees you. There’s a soft scent on her that wasn’t there before—like wild berries or faint vanilla.

She still curses like a sailor and threatens to fight anyone who gets too close to you, but…

There’s a new gentleness in her eyes when they land on yours.

You see it.

Everyone sees it.

Today, she shows up at your place unannounced.

You’re wearing pajamas and eating dry cereal out of the box.

She frowns. “You look like a wet sock.”

“You look like someone who Googled ‘how to look like a soft girl’ and got too deep into Pinterest boards.”

She opens her mouth to argue.

Then stops.

“…Okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

You squint. “Wait. Did you?”

She turns red.

“Shut up and let me in.”

You watch her out of the corner of your eye as she toes off her shoes and sits cross-legged on your bed like it’s always been hers. She's wearing a cropped hoodie today, pale pink with a tiny stitched bunny on the sleeve.

You blink. “…Is that blush?”

She freezes.

Coughs.

“No,” she lies.

You smirk. “I like it.”

She throws a pillow at your face.

But she’s smiling.

And her eyes are sparkling in that quiet, secret way.

Meanwhile… Belle’s watching you again.

From behind bookshelves. From across classrooms. At lunch.

She’s not sure when it started.

That flutter.

That ache.

That quiet, gnawing realization that no one in her life had ever looked at her the way you did—before everything fell apart.

Not like a trophy. Not like a goddess. Just… like a girl.

And now, she’s seeing you differently too.

The way you help the teacher stack books after class.

The way you high-five a junior who looked nervous about his grades.

The way you still sit under that same tree every day—only now you laugh harder, louder.

Because of her.

Haneul.

Belle sees it. The closeness. The bond.

And she hates that it makes her chest tighten.

Not because she wants to take you back like a prize.

But because she’s realizing what she lost—

Before she ever even had it.

Back in your room, Haneul is lying on her stomach, doodling in her sketchbook.

You’re scrolling through your playlist.

“Want to hear something cheesy?”

“Only if it’s painfully cheesy.”

You nod. Play a song—an old indie ballad with soft vocals, lyrics about scars and stars, about loving someone who patched you up when the world left you bleeding.

She listens silently.

Then says, “This is your way of flirting, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

She smiles.

But it falters.

And then, softly—

“Why’d you really help her?”

You pause.

Belle.

“…Because I wanted to break the cycle. She hurt me, yeah. But I’m not her. I didn’t want to become her.”

Haneul exhales. “That’s so annoyingly noble of you.”

You chuckle. “Is that a dealbreaker?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Then…

“No,” she whispers. “It’s why I’m falling for you.”

You freeze.

She does too.

Eyes wide.

“Wait—” she blurts. “I—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You’re quiet.

And she looks like she wants to vanish into the floorboards.

But you take a breath.

Then say:

“…It’s okay. Because I think I’m falling too.”

Her eyes soften.

And for the first time since you met her—really met her—Haneul lets herself smile like a girl who believes she deserves to be loved.

Belle sits alone in the art room.

A pencil in her hand. A blank paper in front of her.

She doesn’t know how to draw—but she tries to sketch anyway.

A boy.

Your hoodie.

Your eyes.

The moment you picked up her books while she was breaking inside.

She stares at it for a long time.

Then writes under it: “I’m sorry I saw you too late.”

You didn’t plan on taking her out.

It just sort of happened.

One minute, you're walking past the quiet bookstore across from the riverside trail—next thing you know, you’re pulling her inside, teasing her over her weird obsession with tragic novels and horror manga.

“Do not disrespect Junji Ito in this house,” she warns, arms crossed as she browses.

You grin. “Are you threatening me in a bookstore?”

“Damn right I am.”

You laugh, and she turns pink at how easily she made you smile.

You end up walking along the riverside after that. The late sun hits her face just right. She looks softer today—her hoodie traded for a cardigan, her nails neatly painted, a tiny star charm on her necklace.

You hold her hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

In fact… she squeezes back.

The date ends at her place.

You don’t know how it got there—just that you were both laughing too loud at some stupid inside joke, and neither of you wanted to say goodbye.

So you’re on her couch now.

You, beside her.

The lights dim. A quiet playlist hums from her speaker—slow acoustic strums and sleepy harmonies.

Haneul pulls a blanket over the both of you.

Then, gently, she curls into you.

And you let her.

You’re not trembling. You’re not overthinking.

You’re home.

“I used to hate this,” she whispers.

You look down at her. “What?”

“This kind of quiet.”

You don’t say anything.

She continues.

“I used to think quiet meant danger. Like something bad was always coming.”

You feel her hand tighten around your shirt.

“But with you… it’s safe. And I don’t know when that happened. I don’t know when I stopped being scared.”

You hold her closer.

“…The night you saved me,” you say.

She nods.

“That was when I changed,” she whispers. “Not you. Me.”

She sits up just a little—eyes on yours.

“I never wanted to feel again. I told myself it was easier that way. But then I saw you—humiliated, broken, and still so kind.”

Her voice cracks.

“And suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. I just wanted to protect something again. Someone.”

She leans in, forehead resting gently against yours.

“You changed me,” she says.

“And you saved me,” you reply.

She smiles.

And then she kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not fiery.

It’s not about hunger.

It’s about presence.

Soft lips. Gentle pressure. A kiss that says: I’m here. I’m grateful. I’m in love.

You kiss her back.

Slowly. Again. And again.

Until she pulls away—barely—and whispers, “Stay tonight.”

You nod.

You don’t speak.

You follow her to her room.

The first time your hands touch under the covers, they tremble. Not out of lust, but out of vulnerability.

She kisses your shoulder. Whispers your name.

You brush her hair back, kiss her temple.

And when your bodies meet, it’s not about noise. It’s not about proving anything.

It’s release. Of trauma. Of fear. Of loneliness.

You move like the world is silent around you—just two souls rediscovering what it means to be wanted. To be seen. To be held.

When it’s over, you don’t move.

You just stay there.

Her breath on your neck. Your arm around her waist.

And for the first time in forever…

You sleep peacefully.

Meanwhile… Belle sits on her bedroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, surrounded by crumpled paper. She’s been drawing for hours.

All of them are you.

You smiling. You holding a book. You helping her pick up papers. You walking away… and her watching.

She’s not crying.

Not anymore.

Now… she’s trying.

Trying to hold onto the only piece of beauty she has left—your face.

She finishes one last sketch.

It’s you, laughing. Not for her, but for someone else. She doesn’t know who drew it—her hand or her heart.

But when it’s done…

She smiles.

A real one.

The sun creeps in through her curtains, painting soft gold across her sheets.

She’s still asleep—Haneul—her face buried in your shoulder, one arm flung across your chest like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

Because this moment?

You never thought you’d have something this safe.

This warm.

Her hair smells like strawberries and sleep. Her lips part slightly with each soft breath. You glance down, your thumb brushing lightly along her hand.

This is real.

You feel it.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

And neither is she.

She stirs.

Eyes blinking open—tired, unfocused, soft.

“…You’re still here,” she murmurs, like she’s surprised.

“I said I would be.”

Her lips curve into the smallest smile.

“…Good.”

She leans in.

Kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek.

Then pulls the blanket up and burrows into your side like a cat who knows this is home now.

You both stay like that for a while.

No words. No plans.

Just skin. Breath. Heartbeats.

Later, you walk with her to school.

This time, you hold her hand the whole way there.

This time, you don’t care who sees.

You pass your usual classmates—some stare, some smile, some whisper.

But no one dares to speak.

Because you’re not the victim anymore. And Haneul’s not just the scary girl.

You’re together.

And that’s enough.

At lunch, she sits closer than usual.

Your thighs touch. She steals fries from your plate. You let her.

When someone from the soccer team tries to sit near you, she glares so hard he apologizes and backs away without a word.

You laugh under your breath. “Territorial?”

“Possessive,” she says bluntly.

But her fingers curl around yours beneath the table.

Then, during your final class of the day—you feel it.

That strange shift in the air.

You glance up from your notebook.

And she’s there.

Belle.

At the classroom door.

She’s holding something in her hands. It looks like… a sketchbook.

Your heart stutters.

She walks in, head bowed slightly, and gives the teacher a note. Then, slowly… she turns and walks toward you.

Everyone watches.

Even Haneul, from across the room—eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Belle stops in front of your desk.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Then quietly:

“Hey. Can I talk to you… after class?”

You hesitate.

Haneul stares.

“…Sure,” you say.

Belle nods once.

Then walks away.

After the bell, you meet her just outside the back exit, near the small garden where club kids sometimes smoke and hide from teachers.

Belle stands there holding the sketchbook.

She offers it to you.

You take it slowly.

Inside… are drawings.

Of you.

Some shaky, some awkward, but some… beautiful.

One of you laughing.

One of you holding books.

One—your back turned, walking away from her, with her in the background, crying.

You look up.

“I’ve been practicing,” she says softly. “I wanted to get better at something. And I wanted to remember… you.”

You don’t know what to say.

She steps closer.

“I don’t want to erase what I did,” she says. “Because that would be cowardly. But I want to become someone new. Someone who deserves to be in your life again.”

You look into her eyes.

She means it.

You feel it in your bones.

She smiles—nervously, not flirtatiously.

“I’m not here to take you back. I know you love her. I can see it when you look at her.”

You glance away.

She continues.

“…But if there’s ever room in your heart, even just a little corner… I’d like to be someone who earns it. One day.”

You exhale slowly.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Belle whispers. “Just… don’t push me away completely.”

She turns to go.

Pauses.

Then adds:

“She’s lucky, you know. Haneul.”

You look up.

Belle smiles—soft, genuine, a little sad.

“She gets the boy who saved me from becoming someone I hated.”

That night, Haneul’s quiet.

You’re lying on her bed again, a movie playing on her laptop, but she’s not paying attention.

“…You okay?” you ask.

She nods. “Yeah.”

Pause.

“…You talked to her.”

You sit up slightly.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask what she said.

She doesn’t need to.

Because Haneul's smart.

She knows the look in your eyes.

The same look she used to have when you weren't looking at her yet.

She lies back.

And whispers:

“Just… don’t forget who held you when you felt like no one would.”

You look at her.

And you take her hand.

“Never,” you promise. “You’re the one who changed everything.”

And still…

You can’t help but glance out the window.

And wonder…

How do you choose between someone who made you feel again…

…and someone who’s learning to feel because of you?

[damiansgoodgirll]

Hii! Can I request one from Finn Bálor where he betrayed User (something like the storyline of Rhea, Damian and the New Judgement Day)

I love your writing! 🤍

the judgment day x reader (platonic) / finn balor x reader (romantic)

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

‼️angst, comfort but angst‼️

OUR LOVE FADES TO BLACK

you were one of the first original members of the judgment day. way before rhea joined it was just you, edge and damian. way before dominik, jd and carlito joined. even way before your boyfriend finn joined. that’s how you actually grew closer. from simple greetings backstage to spending most of your time together, you grew an incredible strong bond and you both ended up falling in love with each other.

you definitely wasn’t expecting to fall in love, especially with a co worker. you knew how complicated things could get and you liked keeping your private life separated from your work life. but love is blind - as people say - and you ended up falling for the irish man - hard.

he loved you. he swore it to you.

“you are the one i want to build my future with” he used to whisper right after you made love. and you believed it.

yet something unpredictable and unexpected happened. something changed and you didn’t expect the end to feel like this.

but maybe you should’ve known the second he avoided your eyes in the hallway after the mess the group just made at summerslam.

it was the night after the fatal event. the night everything cracked — damian betrayed by finn, dom turning on rhea, the whole foundation of judgment day shaken to its core. your only family cracked from the inside.

you saw him right there a couple of hours after he made sure damian lost his title.

“can we talk?” you asked, voice low but steady. you didn’t want to cause a scene. not yet. crew was backstage and even if you noticed some eyes looking to your own direction, you pretended everything was okay.

finn didn’t stop walking, just gave you a shrug “later, maybe.”

“no. now finn” you stepped in front of him, searching his face “what the hell happened out there? you turned on damian, on us…” and the look on his face already told you everything you needed to know.

“don’t start” he muttered “you wouldn’t understand.”

“then make me understand!” you snapped, your voice cracking at the end “you’re my partner, both in the ring and…” you lowered your voice, softer now, more vulnerable than you meant to be “and outside of it.”

he hesitated. for a second, you thought you saw regret flicker in his eyes but it was gone just as fast.

“things change” he said simply, brushing past you without another word.

you stood frozen, chest tight, fists clenched. you didn’t follow him. maybe you should have. maybe you would’ve seen it coming.

monday night raw came fast, but the tension didn’t ease. he didn’t call you during the day nor did texted you.

you told yourself he’d explain eventually. maybe he just needed time. you’d been through worse together. you’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder in wars inside that ring. lovers, teammates, champions. what you had wasn’t just storyline —it was real.

you believed that.

until it shattered.

it was supposed to be a routine match — you vs. liv morgan. nothing you couldn’t handle. you were scheduled to have revenge fight for rhea and you loved the idea. and it was going your way, until the music hit. until he walked out.

finn.

you paused, confused. but then he smiled — smirked — and that’s when your stomach dropped.

he distracted the ref just long enough to let liv hit you and pin you down. you kicked out a second too late.

1, 2, 3.

the bell rang and your name wasn’t the one announced.

did finn? no, he couldn’t.

you sat up in disbelief, eyes wide, heart in your throat. finn slid into the ring, lifting liv’s arm in victory like he had just won the damn match. the crowd erupted, part cheers, mostly boos, but all you could hear was the way your heart cracked open.

you stood, slow and shaky, and walked toward him.

“what the hell was that?” you asked, voice low, hoarse with rage and heartbreak “finn?”

he didn’t even look at you instead he turned his back and walked out of the ring with liv morgan at his side while dom was waiting for her too.

you didn’t cry in front of the cameras. not there. not where the world could see but backstage, once the door shut behind you, tears fell from your eyes. angry broken tears.

the man who swore he loved you had just turned his back on you. used you.

and for what? you didn’t even know why.

then came the knock.

“go away…” you muttered, wiping your face with the back of your hand, not even caring who was from the other side of the door.

but the door opened anyway. of course it did. damian never listened.

he stepped inside, followed closely by rhea. both of them looked like hell — like everything they believed in had collapsed beneath their feet.

maybe it had.

you didn’t say anything. just looked at them, lips trembling, unable to form a sentence. damian walked over slowly, arms wide open. you didn’t even try to resist when he pulled you in.

“he did it to you too” rhea said quietly, voice tight with fury “you didn’t deserve that.”

rhea couldn’t understand why. neither could damian. they knew that man loved you. he worshipped the ground you walked. rhea understood why dom did what he did to her. damian understood why finn made him lose. but they couldn’t understand why would finn hurt you this bad.

you shook your head against damian’s chest trying to keep it together “you know…he said he loved me.”

“then he lied” damian growled, his voice protective in a way that broke your heart even more.

“i should’ve known after summerslam. i just… i thought maybe it was about the storyline itself…not” your voice faltered “not me.”

rhea sat beside you on the bench, her hand firm on your knee “he made his choice and he’s gonna regret it.”

you didn’t respond. you just let yourself sink into the comfort of the only two people who hadn’t turned their backs.

judgment day was falling apart.

but damian and rhea were still with you and somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, that was enough to hold on to.

“what do we do now?” you asked as tears kept rolling down your cheeks, staining damian’s t-shirt too.

“we fight. we make them pay” rhea said with a very pissed tone.

she made you crack a smile.

“i just…i can’t understand, i don’t understand…” he was naked underneath you just a couple of nights ago telling you how much he loved you. his hands on your hips as you were on his lap “…i truly can’t understand…” you never felt betrayed as now.

memories playing in your mind. from the way he held you and touched you. you just felt used now.

“i know love…” rhea said trying to comfort you but she knew that no matter what she was going to say, it wasn’t going to change the fact that you felt betrayed by the person you loved the most. “hey…listen y/n, you are not alone” rhea whispered, her voice fierce, like she was daring the world to try and take anything else from you “he might’ve walked away, but we’re not going anywhere. you hear me?”

you nodded into damian’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“he’s gonna regret this” damian murmured, low and dangerous. “not because you’re part of judgment day. not because he screwed over the team. but because he let go of you and you’re the best damn thing he ever had.”

it was too soon to believe it. too soon to breathe without it hurting but having them there — not as teammates, not as stablemates, but as your family — it made the pain a little more bearable.

“we’ll rebuild…” rhea said, her voice full of fire “without him. without dom. without jd and carlito…we’ll come back stronger and you? you’re not done. you’re just getting started.”

you weren’t ready to stand yet. not tonight. maybe not tomorrow, either.

but you would. not for finn. not for revenge.

for you and for the two people who stayed.

[leclercsainzz]

BEGGING for a charles leclerc x reader smau based on “some one like you” please 🙏🏼 where he’s married to someone else after reader and him broke up .. you can make it however you want:)

WISTFUL YEARNING

PARINGS: charles leclerc x ex gf!reader

TYPE: social media au

part 1 - part 2

charles_leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 720,038 others

charles_leclerc: dreams do come true, i love you, my love 💘

view 6,736 comments

user: OMG OMG

user: “dreams do come true” 😭

user: he’s officially married, guys

carlossainz55: congratulations, mate 🍾

user: YN LIKED OMG 😭😭

pierregasly: congrats, bro! wishing you the best ❤️

user: congratulations 🥰

user: *liked by yourusername* 😢

↳ user: my heart SHATTERED, OMGGGG 💔

user: i just want to know how yn feels

user: can ya’ll move on from charles and yn?!?

user: CONGRATS, CHARLES!! ❤️

user: yn 😭😭

joris__trouche: ❤️❤️❤️

user: he finally got what he wanted, omg 🥺

user: congratulations 🥳

user: i was doing fine until i saw that yn liked this post

user: im happy for him!!

landonorris: congrats, mate

user: HE’S OFFICIALLY MARRIED YA’LL 😩😩

user: idk why i was waiting to see a comment by yn

sebastianvettel: wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness

↳ charles_leclerc: thank you, sebs! 😊

lance_stroll: congratulations!

user: can’t believe so much time has passed since yn:(

user: i know all the drivers were invited but i NEED pictures

user: guess i won’t be mrs leclerc anytime soon 😩

danielricciardo: wishing you both lots of love ❤️

lewishamilton: congratulations

user: i wonder how yn must be feeling 🥺🥺

user: was hoping him and yn would get their happily ever after

user: i wonder if he calls his wife “mon cœur” or “mon ange”

↳ user: i doubt he calls his wife that considering those belong to yn but who knows

↳ user: maybe “my heart” but not “my angel” or idk

↳ user: ya’ll think she calls him “charlie” ?? the way yn did??

user: guess yn is never getting him back 😭

user: congratulations, charles! sending lots of love 💗

imessage

yourusername

liked by francisca.cgomes, lorenzotl and 610,840 others

yourusername: — la vie est belle <3

see translation: life is beautiful

view 4,810 comments

user: SHE’s HangING WITH KIKA 💗

user: babes, did you get the apartment you always wanted?!?

↳ user: wait— the one her and charles always wanted right?!?

↳ user: with the view, yes! it seems like it in the third post

pierregasly: hey! that’s MY girlfriend

↳ yourusername: OUR* get it right 🙄

francisca.cgomes: tú es belle 😘

see translation: you’re beautiful

user: “life is beautiful” LIES ik deep down you missing charles

user: i miss you and charles 😭😭😭😭

user: i really thought you and charles would’ve been endgame 😭

user: charles is married but not to yn 😭😭😭

danielricciardo: oui

see translation: yes

leclerc_pascale: belle comme toujours 😍

see translation: beautiful as always

↳ yourusername: ❤️❤️❤️

↳ user: mama leclerc 😭

user: how do you feel about charles’ marriage??

user: crazy to think how charles is married while yn’s not

user: i really thought you and charles would’ve been endgame

user: charles’ got a whole wife, bro 😔😔 and it ain’t you

user: charles got his dream but yn???? 😭😭😭😭

user: she got her apartment with the eiffel tower view

↳ user: but without charles 😢😢

user: times flies fast … it feels like her and charles were still together:((

user: wonder if she congratulated charles

↳ user: she definitely didn’t 🤣 why would she??

user: charles was suppose to be her love forever 😭😭

↳ user: well as they say, “sometimes it last in love, but sometimes it hurts instead”

user: her and charles were supposed to live in france together

user: ya’ll seriously need to move on from those two, he’s a married man ….

charles_leclerc

liked by sebastianvettel, arthur_leclerc and 772,046 others

charles_leclerc: surprise!

view 5,940 comments

user: i just know yn feeling SICK right now

user: he got married, he’s gonna become a dad, now he just needs that ferrari championship (FERRARI GIVE IT TO HIM)

carlossainz55: you’re both going to make amazing parents! congratulations on your new baby!!! ❤️

↳ charles_leclerc: thank you, carlos!

user: he’S GONNA BE A DAD 😭😭😭

user: we’re getting a mini leclerc 🥺

lewishamilton: congratulations 😊

↳ charles_leclerc: thanks, mate!

user: he’s achieving his dreams

↳ user: without yn 😭😭😭

user: ya’ll gotta stop with the whole charles/yn relationship, they BROKE UP! i don’t think his wife appreciates you all bringing yn up every chance you get

user: can’t wait!!!!!

sebastianvettel: congratulations on your new adventure

↳ charles_leclerc: 😊😊

leclerc_pascale: ❤️❤️❤️

user: we’re all happy for you, charles 😌💗

alex_albon: congrats!! 🥳

↳ charles_leclerc: thanks, alex

user: i’d be crawling back into his life, if i were yn

lorenzotl: ❤️

user: he’s getting his mini leclerc 🥺🥺

maxverstappen1: favorite uncle max is gonna spoil her/him

↳ charles_leclerc: favorite uncle?!!?? absolutely not

joris__trouche: at your service 🫡

arthur_leclerc: ❤️❤️

user: he finally accomplished his dreams

user: this could’ve been yn’s life 😩😩

yourusername: congratulations, charlie!

↳ user: MOM, OMG 😭😭

↳ user: ik she’s lowkey crying about this

↳ user: “charlie”

↳ user: i want them back together, idc 😭😭😭😭

pierregasly: congrats ❤️

user: he’s living his dreams

user: yn 💔💔💔💔

user: mom’s comment 😢

user: i’d be feeling sick to my stomach, if i were yn

imessage

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 649,083 others

yourusername: bonjour

see translation: hello

tagged: @yourbrother

view 4,081 comments

user: when she listens to lana del rey >>>

user: LA LA LAND, OMG 😭😭😭 PAIN

pierregasly: yourbrother & toby >>> you

user: charles liked!!! OMG

user: she’s watching la la land!

user: i didn’t realize the 5th slide was @yourbrother

leclerc_pascale: ma belle fille 😘

see translation: my beautiful girl

↳ yourusername: je t’aime ❤️

↳ user: “my beautiful girl” i cant 😭😭😭

↳ user: pascale LOVES yn so much even after all these years

francisca.cgomes: 😍😍😍😍 my wife

lorenzotl: avez-vous oublié monaco? 😔

see translation: did you forget monaco?

↳ yourusername: jasmais ça

see translation: never that

↳ arthur_leclerc: 👍🏼

user: the way charles family still interacts with hers 😭😭

↳ user: i miss them 😔

user: third slide is lowkey for charles

↳ user: girl, MOVE ON! he’s married, get over them

user: ARE WE JUST GONNA IGNORE THAT CHARLES LIKED

user: i miss yncharles 💔💔💔💔

kellypiquet: 😍😍

danielricciardo: bonjour

yourbrother: mon chein est meilleur que toi

see translation: my dog is better than you

↳ yourusername: toby m’aime mieux que toi

see translation: toby likes me better than you

charles_leclerc: toby est tellement grand 🥺 @yourbrother

see translation: toby is so grown

user: missing mom and dad 😭😭

user: i know charles is married but i can’t help myself thinking about him and yn all the times:(

user: he commented

user: she’s the one that got away 😔

↳ user: what should’ve, could’ve, and would’ve been

[umeumeumee]

fault is false II

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- clarisse la rue x daughter of aphrodite! reader

synopsis: after clarisse lashed out so cruelly, she debates on how to win you back— but faces difficulty— especially when you refuse to have anything to do with her.

authors note: hi guys.. sorry this is probably a year late.. i completely forgot about tumblr! anyways.. i’m so happy to see that so many of you enjoyed part 1! here’s part 2! enjoy <3 (part I here)

Clarisse had been rotting in her guilt for days.

Marinating in anguish of her own decisions and suffering the consequences of her actions. she couldn’t breathe.

clarisse was well aware how upset you would be with her, no doubt she was expecting a shove off and a bit of attitude from you— but no, you’ve been blowing her off completely.

You were very hurt by her words, but something else burned inside you. A flame of anger. You currently despised charisse- even if you truly did love her deep down, you couldn’t stand to be in the same room of her.

the daughter of ares had tried relentlessly to apologize for her cruel words and poor decision, but her apology was shot through deaf ears. having being blown off by you for days, she was fed up. Her heart was swollen with desire for you, she needed you to forgive her, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could go without you.

she stayed up at night with the regret chewing her skin raw, replaying how she acted and what she said, regretting her actions and even more so her words.

Being ghosted by you was something she, frankly, never thought she’d have to worry about. She was one for unkind words, it’s not the first time she’s spoken cruelty to you— just.. not specifically about you, to your face.

Her once unshakable confidence and snarky demeanor was shattered into millions of pieces , scattered where the trail of your friendship had been. The dining hall, the sparing arena, her bedroom— everywhere she stood unshakable with you beside her was now filled with a deep , itching sense of regret and anger.

She was pissed, to be frank. At herself, but also; at you. Who did you think you were? ignoring her? acting like she didn’t exist? It made her unbearably angry— uncomfortable.

Her thoughts were in a whizz.

The sound of her spear being slammed into another campers shield was loud enough to break her from her temporary trance— her eyes flickering to the now fallen boy on the floor, glaring up at clarisse. oops.

“What’s wrong with you?” the boy, Allo, son of Artemis, barked at her, standing up. Clarisse felt a vein poke from her forehead, her composure that was barely there to start with was now almost completely gone.

“What’s wrong with me?” she bit back, slamming her spear into the floor “What’s wrong with you? You’re the son of Artemis and you can’t handle a bit of a fight?” she snapped, her voice raising.

Allo scoffed, mumbling something about her being an ass before he dropped his shield onto the ground as well, successfully passive-aggressively falling onto her spear, before he made a face at her and left.

Clarisse bit her tongue, closing her eyes and taking a breath- she couldn’t wring his neck, no. at least.. not here.

her thoughts quickly drifted away from the irritating situation and back to you, of course. Your face clouding her mind. yes, there is absolutely no doubt that she was pissed , pissed at you— but… she wasn’t. she was just… she didn’t know how she felt.

Clarisse bent down to pick her spear up, her head elsewhere.

She’d never thought about her feeling of you— or, for you. she never put much thought into how jealous she was, or how much your validation and attention meant to her. how your words and praises made her feel so good.

that’s just how she was, right?

Clarisse placed her spear back into the weapon holder, removing her breastplate and placing it over the hook alongside the other armor, her feet dragging her to the dining hall, signaled by the lunch bell.

her dark brown eyes quickly scanned the vicinity , and immediately found you. You sat with Percy , as well as grover and annabeth, the group chatting amongst each other, and you occasionally chiming in, though… she noticed how upset you looked, how hurt you were. And, that familiar feeling of regret chewed her chest out, because no matter how much she covered her guilt with anger and blame, she knew your expression was her fault.

She scoffed, looking away; filling her lunch tray up with food, though she was the last thing but hungry. She wanted to desperately talk to you- not matter how much she denied the fact she wanted to, but she knew it was no use, you’d brush her off like you did the last few times— and she was not going to… beg for you.

she wasn’t.

no matter how badly she wanted to.

—

You poked your food, percy and his friends chatting away about some quest they were going to sneak out to do.

Normally, you’d be super invested and obviously guide them to, you know— not to do that, but.. you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Clarisse’s hurtful words stabbed your soft heart like a dozen of tiny little needles having a birthday party in your most fragile organ.

You were beyond upset, her face , her words— the won’t stop replaying. she basically called you a whore. She basically called your siblings whores, your mother. It was so.. wrong. so mean. but.. you couldn’t help but want to amend, to just pretend it never happened, to shove it down and go back to normal.

You knew that that wouldn’t happen anytime soon though. You knew she was upset at you— which just made you even more upset. You loved clarisse. You did; no matter how much you wanted to desperately deny it, deny how you were in love with your stupid.. asshole friend.

the worst part is, you knew she loved you back.

It wasn’t something that was big fat secret, no matter how much she wanted to deny: Everyone knows clarisse is too busy to do relationships, and too scared to acknowledge her feelings.

You heard the familiar chatter of her voice, your eyes automatically flickering up to find her , sitting at her usual table surround by siblings and friends. you could see she was bothered, and you knew she was upset about the whole situation, but too mighty to admit to it. you scoffed under your breath, standing up.

the group you sat with looked to you as you stood grabbing your tray, “I’m gonna go,” you said, smiling at them “let me know how your plan goes, okay?” you said, to which they bid farewell to you, and you scattered off to place your tray elsewhere and back to your room, where you can sulk in peace.

clarisse watched you go, her eyes following you like a key in a lock, her body itching to follow you. to mend— to.. apologize.

she bit the inside of her cheek, chewing it. she shouldn’t. she wouldn’t. she was too proud.

…

fuck it.

clarisse stood up, leaving the table without a word, leaving her tray behind as she followed after you.

what was she doing? following you like a damn dog. shit. she was pathetic.

she quickly caught up, grabbing your arm before you could open the door to the Aphrodite cabin.

she hated how she relished in the feeling of your skin on hers.

She watched as you turned around; apon the realization it was her, you tugging your arm from her grasp. she bit a scoff.

“what?” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

The cold seeped into clarisses fingers, even through the sleeves she had pulled over her hands. You two stood beneath the sun, even if it was cloudy, it’s never felt so cold before. The distant chatter of other campers was nothing but background noise, nothing in the face of your own little silence—sharp and heavy, like glass about to break.

clarisse kept her eyes on the ground. Her breath came out in clouds, white against the yellow of the sun. She hated this. Not the silence—the waiting. She knew what she had to say. She just couldn’t make her mouth move. Her pride clung to her like armor, welded tight across her chest.

You were silent as well, your arms folded, yo ur eyes downcast, not looking at at clarisse, but thinking about her— that only made it worse. made it hardee’s

Clarisse had always been sharp. She knew how to protect herself—with sarcasm, with distance, with fire when needed. She had spent years building herself like that, brick by careful brick. And then you showed up , and didn’t ask her to take it all down. you just looked… at her in a way that made it hard to keep pretending the walls were comfortable. That Mira was comfortable inside them.

And—god, clarisse knew she’d been cruel

she shifted on her feet, heart pounding. Her mouth felt dry. The words were right there—but every time she got close to saying them, something inside her recoiled. If she apologized, it meant admitting that you mattered. That she’d hurt her. That what she felt—this mess of affection and fear and something terrifyingly close to longing—was real.

She wasn’t good at real.

Still, you hadn’t walked away. clarisse had half expected you to storm off, or worse, say something kind and final. But she just stood there, quiet, giving Mira space to be brave.

clarisse took a deep breath. “I was... mean,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

you didn’t respond, not right away.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Mira’s eyes flicked to her, then away. “You didn’t deserve that. any of that..”

Silence again. clarisse pressed her teeth into her bottom lip. That should be enough. It was an apology, wasn’t it?

But it didn’t feel like enough. Not for this.

“I…” clarisse hesitated. The next words felt like stepping off a ledge. “I get.. i don’t know.. upset sometimes. When people get close. It’s not you, it’s me being—” She shook her head. “Scared. Of how I feel. About you.”

you juiced.

“clarisse— i.. know you senile with words,” i said causing the girl to bite a scoff “But what you said, isn’t so easily forgivable— you— you can’t just expect me to forgive you for what you said and act like nothing is wrong,” i told her.

clarisse sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I know,” she said in a bite “but i’m trying, okay?”

“try harder, then,” i retorted , still not facing her. she scoffed at that.

“I.. ugh. fine. Just.. listen, okay? i’m..” she sighed again..

That finally made you look at her, was she actually going to say what you thought?

“.i…” fuck. should she say it? she didn’t want to— she shouldn’t.. but..

“I like you,” Clarisse finally said, each word like pulling teeth.

The air between you two seemed to shift. your face be and less upset—your eyebrows drew together not in anger, but in something gentler. Compassion, maybe.

Relief.

“You could’ve just said that,” you said in a mumble, letting your arms unfold and fall to your sides.

Clarisse scoffed, breathless and sharp. “Yeah, well. I suck at saying things.”

you turned toward her fully now, stepping a little closer. “You’re doing fine.”

clarisse blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“I was,” you admitted. “i still am— and.. what you said was.. really mean, and i was really hurt. but... I get it. I know you’re not used to this.”

clarisse felt the weight in her chest shift, not vanish, but lighten. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you said. “thanks for trying.”

clarisse looked at you—really looked—and this time, she didn’t look away. The cloudy sun cast a soft glow over your face, your eyes a warm kind of steady. There was no sadness or anger in them now. Just patience. Hope.

And for the first time, clarisse felt like she could breathe again.

[some-bunniii]

Lucifer meeting an artist reader

・❥ The King of Hell admires your paintings

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

x: reader is g/n :) no use of pronouns or y/n

warnings: some raunchy details of your painting & mild swearing

When you arrived in Hell, the first thing you did was scream.

Where were you? Why was it so hot? What happened to your bed?!

“You’re in Hell, kid.” A blue bat-faced man had broke the news, as you stood helpless and confused on the street.

Hell? Like, demons and dark satanic magic kind of Hell?

That couldn’t be right. Were you that bad of a person to deserve such a fate? Did the few times you passed the Salvation Army donation bucket without dropping a coin damn you to this place?

Your death was fuzzy, a trail of shattered memories that could only give you bits and pieces of your final days. Did you go quickly in your sleep? Maybe, you hit your head so hard it caused you some kind of post-death amnesia?

Whatever had happened, you were here now with no way out.

During your first few days scouring for answers, you began to notice that Hell had an eerie similarity to life above ground. There were clubs, casinos, concerts. Heck, even TV! Sure, the things broadcasted were dark and sometimes disgusting.. but at least you had something to watch.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all? At least, compared to being thrown into dark, fiery pits for all of eternity like some cruel game of sink or swim.

Minus the people, of course. Most of them were pretty bad. Your first day watching a man get shot in the chest and lines of cocaine across tables in a diner made you decide to stay away from the streets of the city.

Which meant you had to get busy making a life for yourself. It started with working odd jobs as a bartender or a bell-hopper. You’d scrap together enough money to head to the nearest art supply store, and fill your bag with paints and charcoal pencils.

“You an artist or something?” The clerk had asked you as she scanned your items, taking note of your vast amount of diverse tools you were slowly collecting every time you stopped by.

“I usually paint, but yes, I used to do all kinds of mediums professionally when I was.. alive,” You had whispered that last part out with a pang of sadness, the reality of your situation still a fresh wound in your mind.

You had found an ad for an art studio, ran by a demon named Alexandre. You had showed him a few of your pieces, some pretty landscapes, a rendition of the Starry Night Sky which you had replaced the backdrop to be Pentagram city instead of whatever little village it was originally, and a self portrait.

“You got talent, i’ll give you that,” He had hummed, as his eyes scanned your paintings with intrigue, “But the subject? Not really what we’re looking for.”

“What do you mean?” You had asked, confusion evident in your voice.

“We’re in Hell, demons ain’t into pretty ponies and happy, little trees. They want more— eh how do i put this — sinful behavior?”

“Like…?”

“Like tits or anything that can be turned into a kink. They like blood and guts, and dead people splayed around. Dead angels too. Stuff like that.”

Tits? Dead people? You didn’t have much practice with that! At least not enough to make a career out of it.

But you had agreed anyway, this was your only shot. You stayed up late into the night, sometimes even into the early mornings, perfecting your skill when it came to much more risqué visuals. You would buy stacks of pornograohic magazines, flipping through for poses to memorize.

Slowly, you began to master the craft, and your time at the studio increased as you finally settled into life in Hell.

All you had to do was churn out painting after pastel after acrylic in the little cramped room you now called home. Alexandre would then take your pieces and sell them to the highest bidder. You’d get a percentage of the commission, using the money for whatever necessary.

Seeing as you could be mugged at literally any point in time, or anywhere for that matter, you made sure to keep a large sum of cash locked away in a double-bolted safe.

“You know Ozzie’s, that club down in the Lust Ring?” Alexandre had approached you one day, excitement in his eyes.

You shook your head as you sat behind the easel, your brush an inch from the canvas.

“Run by Asmodeus, one of the literal seven deadly sins?”

You shook your head once more.

“Fuck, you still have a lot to learn. Well, he really likes your art. He wants to buy a bunch of paintings for his club, and he’ll drop a shit ton of cash too. Ya think you can handle it?”

Your eyes had widened when he told you the exact price this sin guy was willing to pay. You had jumped from your seat, shaking his hand in profuse thanks, before scurrying off to gather more supplies.

And for a time, that’s how it went. You’d sell your steamiest paintings to Asmodeus, and other private commissions you took one after the other.

Apparently, your painting hung up in Ozzie’s was getting a lot of attention. Especially from a certain spider demon named Angel Dust.

After hearing Charlie’s decision to look for another member of their staff— someone who’d be in charge of decorating the premise with promises of love and tranquility up in Heaven— Angel Dust had taken a few snaps of your work with his phone, before showing it to Vaggie and Charlie. He had complimented your work, claiming it was ‘the best’ oil paintings he’d ever seen.

Although, in his line of work, he probably hadn’t seen many to compare yours so.

“ls this what we want in our hotel?" Vaggie had asked, motioning to a woman on the canvas that was drenched in sweat and white fluid, her private parts exposed to the audience as she posed suggestively on a stripper pole.

To which Charlie has responded, "I think it's... unique! You can definitely see she knows how to, um, really bring the scene to life! l'm sure she'll be open to creating our vision!"

Your phone had rung one night, with a voice on the other end begging you to come to her hotel and at least hear her offer for a new job.

Which lead you to the Hazbin Hotel, a slightly run down building that obviously needed more work. Inside and out.

“Oh my gosh! Hi there! My name is Charlie, and this is my hotel! it’s such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Thanks.. but I don’t see many guests around.” You had told her, your eyes darting around the lobby as you absorbed your surroundings.

“Well, we’re still trying to get our name out there. We’re not just any hotel, we’re a hotel set on redeeming sinners!” She exclaimed with pride.

“Redeem?” You had asked her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

She shook her head vigorously, “This hotel.. it’s going to be amazing! We’re going to turn Sinners into well.. non-sinners! They’ll be rehabilitated, and have morals! And honor! Heaven won’t be able to do anything but welcome them as angels!”

This idea had sounded a little far-fetched when you first heard it.

“You’ll be in charge of making art that reflects such views! Something that will make Sinners go, ‘Wow! Now that’s where I want to go!’”

“What’s in it for me?” You had asked.

“Well you’ll have your own room, and your own little studio too! I’m sure it’s much bigger than the one you already have. Plus we have a bar, and good company!”

You turned your head to the small crowd of demons a few feet away. A pornstar, a gambler, a snake guy with weird little walking eggs, and a really creepy man in a red coat that shot you a wide smile with eyes that seemed to stare right through your soul.

This was good company?

You contemplated her words, thinking deeply. Did you really need to leave the studio you were already a part of? You already had a room and place to paint, anyway.

Charlie must have noticed your hesitation to accept before quickly adding,

“Anddd you can sell your pieces here too! Plus, you can keep a hundred percent of the earnings.”

You perked up at that, the money made from your art would be... all yours? And, you’d get a breather from the drawing people having sex? That didn’t sound so bad after all!

“Deal!” You had reached out a hand, shaking hers with delight.

It had taken you a day or two to map out the interior of the hotel and figure out what could go where. You began to slowly brainstorm, what could make a sinner stare at a canvas and want to redeem themselves?

During your time on earth, you studied many artists through history. Most notably however, were those from the Renaissance. You remembered walking through the Sistine Chapel when you were younger,

staring at awe of the paintings of winged angels and heavenly skies.

You perked at that thought. That was it! The inspiration for your paintings, an ethereal perspective on what one would find in heaven. The feelings of bliss and care-free joy.

You spent your first few days in an undisturbed area of the hotel, it was a large room on the farthest side of the lobby. It must’ve been a guest room at one point, but other than a bed and few cushions that the ‘Radio Demon’ had placed for you, it was empty.

It was quiet enough that you could sit there, undisturbed, as you drew upon your memories and vast knowledge of histories in art as you slowly began to bring your ideas to life. Slowly, the room also took form into being yours, personal knick-knacks and stacks upon stacks of blank canvases waiting to bring your visions to life.

At the end of every day, you'd come out with your hands covered in charcoal and paint, your hard work on full display.

You had even grown closer to the other residents in the hotel, beginning to see them as more than their initial appearance. Even Alastor, who still kind of gave you the creeps, you had regarded as someone you could speak to without hesitation.

You’d sit on the couches with Angel Dust, drowning in popcorn as you watched whatever was on TV for the night. Sometimes, you’d sit with Husk at the bar as you listened to his stories from his days at the casino and as an Overlord.

It was there, when Charlie had summoned the courage to call her father, Lucifer, the King of Hell, to come visit the hotel and decide on getting her that meeting with the higher powers in Heaven.

Upon hearing about Lucifer's impending visit, you felta mixture of nerves and excitement. You've heardstories about him-his charisma, his power--but you never expected to meet him, let alone showcase your art to him. Would he even like them? He's no doubt seen much more beautiful sights.

As preparations for Lucifer's visit got more chaotic by the minute, you found yourself back in your Atelier, quickly cleaning up your room and berating yourself for any little mistakes you found in your paintings. Each stroke of the brush carried with it a sense of urgency, a desire to impress not just your friends at the hotel, but also the King of Hell himself.

The current piece you were working on was your most intense one yet. It depicted that of an almost nude man, flying high in the skies. His back was faced towards you, his face hidden from view. He was faced towards the sun, which bathed him in a warm glow. Arms outstretched, knees curled in, it seemed as if the angel was going to give the sun a large bear-hug.

It wasn’t until you heard loud commotion in the lobby did you realize Lucifer had arrived. Quickly dropping the brush you were holding, you sneaked down the stairs and quickly neared the archway of the lobby.

Peaking your head out, you canned the large room. Until your eyes locked in a pale figure. Lucifer.

He was beautiful, definitely held the looks of an angel that fell from heaven. His light blonde hair curled elegantly around his face. The candles from the chandelier above basked him in an ethereal glow, as though he could replace the sun itself. Just like the angel from your painting.

His eyes reminded you mostly of a snake. Calculating and cold, but holding so much wisdom and depth. There was a slight sadness there as well, as though itate at him slowly, consuming his soul. It was masked incredibly well though, and you only caught a glimpse before it disappeared.

His attitude toward his daughter made your heartmelt, it was obvious he cared about her in the way heacted and spoke to Charlie, even if his absence didn't speak so fondly of him.

As Lucifer and Alastor butted heads, you quickly scurried back to your room. You had hoped to finish your work-in-progress by the time he arrived, but the struggle to get those damn angel wings to be anatomically correct was a pain.

You hurriedly continued your work, trying to calm your nerves by busying yourself with the painting in front of you.

Charlie's voice broke you out of your concentration soon after, multiple footsteps closing in on where your room lay. You shot up from your seat, and stood up straight, ready to meet the man of the hour.

You couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension as they approached your make-shift gallery.

Charlie, Vaggie, and— wow, he looked so much better up close— Lucifer stepped through the doorway.

“Dad, this is the newest addition to our staff! They are in charge of helping to inspire our future guests through the power of art!" Charlie proclaimed with glee, pulling you by the arm towards her father.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, your majesty. I apologize for being so messy, I was just finishing up another painting." You had greeted him softly.

"Don't worry, you look great," He assured, a gleam in his eyes, "and the pleasure is all mine, anyone who is willing to help my little girl is someone worth meeting,"

You stood there for a moment. Unsure of where to go next, before you felt a slight nudge from Charlie that pulled you back to reality, "Why don't we take a look at your paintings? I promise you, Dad, they are amazing!" She squealed softly.

Beckoning Lucifer forward, you took him through each painting. You described your feelings for each piece, and what made you choose them for the hotel.

You rambled on and on, and Lucifer never said anything, he just listened as you spoke.

Which made you nervous, what was he thinking? Did he like them, or was he just waiting for you to stop talking so he could quickly escape to something of more interest to him? The thought made sweat dribble down your forehead.

To your surprise, Lucifer's reaction to your art was not what you expected. Instead of dismissing it as mere frivolity, he studied each piece with genuine interest, his expression thoughtful and contemplative.

He mostly stayed quiet, but once in awhile would throw in a joke here and there if he noticed anything of interest in the paintings.

His goofy nature that you caught onto watching him earlier was barely evident though, unlike when he was trying to impress his daughter.

After finishing the small tour, you turned to him in anticipation. Your hands nervously rubbing together, as you shot a glance to Charlie, and she gave you an uncertain look. You both held the same question in your gaze: What is he thinking?

"These paintings.." Lucifer began, his voice low and melodic, "Are different than most i've seen down here, not just some scandalous display, but with real meaning. They evoke emotions long buried, memories of a time before.. all this."

His words caught you off guard, and you found yourself nodding in agreement, unable to tear your gaze away from his intense eyes.

The one he was staring at in particular was a recreation of The Garden of Eden by Jan Breghal, a painting that depicted the place where humanity was birthed, and where it fell.

“Does it look like.. how you remembered?" You had asked slowly, if anyone could validate the truth in your work, it would be him.

"Actually, this is much prettier. The real deal doesn't do your painting justice," He replied, "It was so boring, just green on green."

Also," He added, "An unfortunate lack of ducks. Humanity should be grateful that I got them out of that forest, so they could see something actually worthwhile.. and with ducks."

You giggled softly at his words, have you ever met someone that seemed to love ducks as much as him?

As Lucifer continued to explore the room, you couldn’t help but notice the way he lingered on certain paintings, his fingers tracing the delicate lines with reverence. It was as if he saw something in your art that no one else did, something profound and personal.

Perhaps your choice of baby-faced angels, and ethereal landscapes brought back memories of his time in Heaven. Hopefully, that wasn't a bad thing.

When Lucifer finally turned to you, his gaze softened, a hint of something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. "You have a rare gift," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To create beauty in a place like this... it's truly remarkable."

He looked at you for a moment, before a smile crept onto his lips. He was Lucifer, he knew exactly what you meant. It's what drove him to manipulate Eve to eat from the Tree of Life in the first place.

Was he finally getting a glimpse of the good free will brought to humanity? Was there actually meaning in his past actions that sent him to the depths of Hell?

His gaze narrowed in on the canvas behind you, and he slipped past you. "What is this?" He asked with intrigue, pointing towards your unfinished painting.

“My final piece. I've been working on it for days, but I just can't get the wings right.. believe it or not, i've never actually seen angel wings in person." You said that last bit as a joke.

His smile sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. For the King of Hell, it was surprisingly warm, and kind.

Then an idea struck you, but you tried to desperately to push it down. Except it seemed like the only time you could ask someone with angel wings to let you use them as a reference. How many fallen angels were in Hell, anyway?

"I'm so sorry if this is out of line, but. could I, um, borrow you for a little bit? I've just been having trouble drawing the wings correctly and you, well, have them?”

His eyes widened, and his chest puffed slightly at your question. He shot you a toothy grin, “Paint me? Why didn't you mention that earlier?! I have the perfect figure for such a thing.”

Behind him, Charlie rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. You smiled too, you should've known he'd have no problem with it, he was the embodiment of pride after all.

He plopped down on a stool before you, and removed his overcoat. Beneath what seemed to be a red and white gatsby vest that hugged his frame perfectly. Jeez, he was almost too good looking.

He stretched out his large wings, folding the otherfour behind him, only revealing the two much largerones. They were breathtaking, truly. They looked so fluffy too!

You guided him on the exact position you needed them to be in, before making your way to the canvas and getting to work.

Assuring the group you only needed to get a visual on the canvas, the actual work you would do on your own. Slowly, you traced the frame of his wings, etching out the soft lines of his feathers and the curvatures of its form.

You could only imagine how soft those feathers were and what it would be like to curl around them like a pillo-

You shook your head to rid those thoughts. Why were you thinking such things about Lucifer like that? It's not like he would even want to let you go anywhere near him or his wings.

Would he?

You continued your painting, trying not to meet his gaze as you would occasionally peak your head from behind the large canvas to get another good look at his wings.

There was a moment when you two did lock eyes, and he sent a half-lidded smirk in your direction. Thankfully the large object between you two helped hide your growing blush. He was obviously just trying to get you worked up, you assured yourself. Just like he did with Alastor. In a different way, of course.

"This reminds me of when Charlie was younger" Lucifer began, filling the silence, "We sat for a good few hours trying to get a family portrait painted and she would just not sit still!”

“Dad.. please, not right now." Charlie growled out in embarrassment, her cheeks flushed. Vaggie only smiled beside her, listening intently as Lucifer filled everyone in on her younger years.

“lt got to the point where I had to summon her favorite toy to get her to stop squirming, everything was smooth sailing after that.

"And what was her favorite toy?" You inquired softly behind the canvas

“A rubber duck! Like the ones you play with in the bath? She could not get enough of it whenever it squeaked. One time the squeaker broke, and I went to my workshop and crafted her a magical one that meowed instead! Haha!"

Okay, this family really has a thing for ducks!

“She hated it, but that only inspired me to keep making more. Sometimes, we'd sit together on the work bench, and I would just come up with ideas like confetti-spitting, or color changing ducks. She wasn't too good at speaking at that time, so every time she'd laugh that was my clue that she liked it!"

It was sweet, the way he rambled about his daughter. He never spoke of himself or his accomplishments, despite embodying the sin of pride. It was almost like his only pride was his best creation, Charlie.

He continued, the room full of jokes and laughter, even from Vaggie, regarding Charlie's life as a youngling. You listened intently to his stories, his voice dripping with amusement as he recounted story after story.

lt was so sappy and you loved it. Which made you grumble quietly to yourself, why did you have to have a thing for DILFS?! Concentrate on the painting!

After a moment, Lucifer's eyes turned back to the paintings around him, his gaze scanning each painting once more. "I've noticed that you seem to have a repetition in your work.. not that that's a bad thing!" He quickly corrected.

“But in all of your paintings featuring angels, there's always a swan swimming or resting nearby. Do they hold any significance, or are they just a passion for you?"

You looked up from the canvas, and also traced the angelic figures across the room. He was right, with the images of the divine beings also came the appearance of the large, white water fowl. Lying lazily beside the angels, or swimming across pools of water as the care-free beings danced and frolicked.

You contemplated for a moment, before speaking truthfully.

“I just think Swans are elegant and ethereal creatures. They embody the purest of souls, untouched by the taint of sin that consumes the world, just like how their feathers remain untouched from the waters they glide on"

Lucifer's eyes lit up slightly, drinking up your words.

“Plus," You continue, "they mate for life, and allow themselves to just.. decay once their significant other departs from the world. It's very romantic, and love is one of the purest emotions in the world."

Lucifer wasn't looking at you when your eyes met his again, his stare was far off. Past the room entirely, as your words echoed through him. There it was again, the glimpse of sadness that he tried to hide so painfully well.

“Does such love like that exist?," he murmured so softly you had to strain your ears.

There was a few moments of deathly silence before Charlie piped up, asking her father something about heaven. You tried to listen, but your mind was stuck on his words. Lucifer was in heaven once, and he still didn't fully believe in such things?

If there weren't others in the room, perhaps you would’ve asked him.

It took a few more minutes before you were able to wrap up fully, but you had no regrets of asking this man for help, the angel on the canvas actually looked like he had wings, not just stumps of white tuft.

You got up from your seat and walked towards him, noticing that Charlie and her girlfriend were not present anymore. It was just you and Lucifer in theroom now.

“Well, thank you, Your Majesty. You really helped me out here, and it'll go a long way to make the hotel look even better"

“Please, call me Lucifer. The formalities are only for subjects, not friends," he replied, "l did really enjoy getting to see your paintings, you are quite a phenomenal artist. I wasn't lying when I said your work was different from the rest. If only you were around for those family portraits."

You were so taken aback by his praise that you only shrugged it off, like it was no big deal. Even though, coming from the King of Hell, it was.

Glancing behind him, you saw Charlie and Vaggie whispering to each other in the hallway outside of the door. You assumed they probably wanted to finish up so they could get him to agree to the meeting with Heaven.

lgnoring his previous statement of formalities— he was the king, you thought, you weren't going to just pat him on the back and say 'see ya! —you lowered your head and bent down to curtsy, just like you were taught when you were younger, placing your hand slightly in front of you.

Usually, you'd use that hand to shake or grasp the other person's, but it felt wrong to treat this powerful angel like any other man.

Suddenly, you felt the soft touch of fingers gliding across your hand. In confusion, you looked up at those golden eyes and that charming smile. Trying to get a glimpse of what he was thinking.

His hand gripped yours gently, and with a bow of his own, lowered his lips, and pressed a soft kiss your knuckles.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you feared to blink, soaking in his beauty for as long as you could before he had the chance to pull away. You wanted to say something, but your tongue was refusing to work as your mouth opened and closed silently.

When he finally released your hand, he adjusted his hat and turned towards the door. Leaving you standing there, your face burning hot

He cleared his throat, and turned his head slightly, his eye catching yours. A playful smile dancing on his lips.

“l look forward to our next portrait together, hopefully where I am the motivation behind your strokes. Not just these dull wings."

And with his words hanging in the air, you were left alone, with the growing itch to press your face into a pillow and squeal.

——————

awww man, my first fic! I was trying to make this more dating-centric, but i couldn’t stop writing for their first meeting and it got too long haha! If y’all like this one enough, i’ll make a dating version!

let me know what you think 🙏 i reallyyyy appreciate all comments and criticisms!!

wonderful art i commissioned by DawnDrawnS on twitter! <3

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 7

Check out part 1 here. AO3

CW: Momma drama. If you have a bad mom relationship like I do please read with caution. Also John comes home a bit broken. He gets better but not in this part.

John appears behind you as you are stepping into your shop. When his hand pushes the door open wider from behind you startle.

“Jesus fuck me!” You jump and spin, eyes wide and chest heaving as you confirm who stood behind you.

The slightly worried look on John’s face tells you he didn’t mean to startle you.

“Sorry dove thought you heard me.”

“Apparently my thoughts were too loud,” sheepishly you push the door shut behind him and begin to flick on lights.

Waiting for you at the counter with John is your jewelry box. It looks better than before if that is possible.

“I didn’t stain it,” John runs a finger down the side and you wish that digit dragged down your side instead.

Fuck, bitch you can’t be this horny yet, he just arrived. Apparently, the earth-shattering orgasm from your vibrator last night with the taste of him on your lips wasn’t enough. When did you get so greedy?

“Why not?” You ask as you fold your arms, not one hundred percent sure your bra would be able to trap your steel-tipped nipples.

Glancing from the box to John you see a soft smile. When he looks up at you it grows.

“I noticed how much you seemed to like the grain of the wood and seemed sad at the idea of it being covered up. A few coats of clear lacquer to protect it and it was done.”

“I love it. I’m so glad you chose lacquer. I would have been happy with any choice you made but this? It’s wonderful.” Leaving the box at the counter you waved John to follow you.

“I made you something as well.” Putting a hand on the nob of the door to the back room you spun. “I know it’s not really a problem, but you have complained about going into what you call “power meetings” with only your slacks or your fancy uniforms so I made you something that should hold up against scrutiny.”

John’s arms are folded, head tilted ever so slightly to watch you with the smile tucked under his mustache.

Taking a deep breath you twist the handle and step back into the room. You hung the suit on the wall directly in front of the door so you could watch his face as he saw it. You had paid a pretty penny for the fabric, thread, and buttons. They all came together so seamlessly that even your friend who was a tailor wouldn’t have been able to know a suitmaker hadn’t put it together unless he started to pull it apart at the seams. You had also purchased the silk for his shirt and made that by hand as well.

The smile falls from his face as he steps up to the suit and runs a hand lightly over it.

“Holy fuck.”

Glancing from side to side you bite your lip.

“So what do you think?”

When he turns you know why people like blue eyes so much. John’s blue eyes are enchanting with the tears rimming his lashes. They remind you of the ocean in the photos you’ve seen of tropical places.

“I can’t think of a gift that has ever meant more to me,” he chokes out around the tears in his throat.

“Do you want to try it on?” You suggest, heart fluttering in your chest.

“I want-”

His desires were cut off by the sound of the bell.

Turning you call out.

“Sorry, we are closed today,” when you catch sight of your mom.

The warmth that had settled over you like sunlight as spring breaks chilled to the harshest of winter breezes. Shutting the door to the back room, and your joy from your sorrow you face your mother.

“You didn’t come to Christmas,” she starts.

“I told Pop I would be going to Nana’s this year.”

“You’re still mad at me,” she pouts with her eyebrows.

Your mother had skills in expressing herself without making a scene about it.

“I am not mad, I’m done.”

Your mother stepped up to the counter, slowly opening each drawer of your gift. Snatching it off the counter you placed it on your working desk next to your sewing machine.

“What does being done have to do with not coming to Christmas?”

She’s pulling that mom tone again, trying to force you into a child role whether she knows it or not.

“I do not enjoy the way I feel while spending time with you. I do not like the comments you make or the fact that even when my brother is being rude I am still in the wrong. And I am done putting myself in situations to be hurt because you happened to get knocked up and produce me.”

She had told you once that you were a birth control failure baby. She had been drinking, you had been ten.

“I did not happen to get knocked up,” she sputtered.

Taking a deep breath you point your eyes at the ceiling and pray for patience.

“That is not the point of this conversation and I apologize for bringing it up. What I am saying is that I won’t be spending more time with you until we can go to family therapy. I’ve told this to Pop several times. I will send you a few options between us and will set up the appointment as well.”

“But I am your mother!” She is getting shrill, a sure sign she is losing control of the conversation in her mind.

“And I am grown. Now I have a private appointment I need to get back to.”

“Is this because of the comment about no one paying to see you naked? I’m sorry that you were offended by what I said.”

Your jaw works as your fingers curl into talons and your shoulders stiffen.

“I am not having that discussion here and now. Pick a therapist from the list I send you or leave me alone.”

Mom looks shocked, scared even, at the tone you use. She turns leaving in a huff and you open the door to the back to see John, shirt unbuttoned and eyes blown wide as if someone dosed him with drugs.

“That’s an option? I can pay to see you naked? Is a hundred enough?”

“A hundred?” You ask, confused but slightly hurt that he thought you were so cheap.

“No? Okay, a hundred and fifty thousand?” He looks desperate and hopeful and lost and like he might combust all at once.

You choke on your spit. Did that man just offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollar bucks to see you naked!?

All it would have taken is a glass of wine, a smokey look, and an invitation to bed and your clothes would have disappeared from your body like they never existed. Like damn you had high self-confidence, forged out of hate comments online and in real life, but you weren’t worth that much. Maybe John did like you like you liked him?

He stepped forward, mouth opening to form words when his phone went off. The instant change told you it was work.

“Dammit all to hell and may it never return,” he snatched up his pants from the cot and answered the phone as he moved it to his ear, snarling. “What?”

You watched as the soldier overtook the man. His back straightened as he tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear beginning to work at the buttons at his wrists. Stepping into his space you took over the task freeing him faster than he would have managed. Helping him out of the shirt you fold it over one arm, watching as he disappears below his shirt to reappear through the head hole. You don’t offer to help him remove the pants but take them when offered without comment.

John doesn’t spare you a glance as he pulls his cargo pants up, sheathing the deliciously thick thighs he hides. When he sits to tie his boots you toss the clothes from your arms to the cot and kneel to take over that task for him. Tying them tight you stand and offer him a hand. He takes it, holding on as he stands.

Still on the phone he pulls your knuckles to his lips and turns the phone away from his mouth.

“When I get back, we are talking about this.”

It’s all you can do to nod before he dons his coat and slips into the precipitation of January.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

The last of the snowdrops are blooming when John makes it back home. Between the knocks at the front door and the vibrating of your phone from under your pillow, you wake enough to stumble to the front door. The door opens fully before your eyes do.

John looks haggard, as if he aged ten years in the three months he was gone. A full beard had grown in, the ends ragged and uneven. His eyes flick over you. No expression crosses his face.

“John? You’re home,” the sigh in your last word pulls him through the door and into your arms.

It’s too late for your mind to come up with reasons why dragging him into your room after locking the front door would be a bad idea. Stripping him of his boots and his pants you invite him to lay under the blankets with you by laying them atop him and letting him settle into the mattress. Crossing around the bed you join him between the sheets. Laying on your side you stare at him.

Something about him felt broken and you didn’t dare hold him and make it worse.

“What can I do John?” You ask the darkness between you.

The words settle on him like the ice blown around in the wind of the gulag.

“Tell me what happened while I was gone. I don’t feel real.”

You scoot closer to him in the bed, less than a handswidth between you.

“I brought your suit home. I missed you a few weeks after you left and had nothing but the photo from the party and your gift. My mom started going to individual therapy. We tried a couple of family sessions but the therapist recommended that she do some personal work before we attempt to do much more work on fixing our relationship. My brother called me on my birthday, which was unexpected. I bet my po-”

“I missed your birthday?” John’s broken whisper cut you off.

“Yeah,” you reach out and touch his pinky. He flinches so you shift your hand back, but before it can go too far his hand chases you locking your fingers together.

“When is your birthday?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“You must hate that.”

The accurate observation surprises you. You’ve talked with other people who have birthdays on holidays, most Christmas and New Year’s babies hate it, birthdays on big celebration days that aren’t the big big ones tend to go either way but for you, it always felt required to have a date on your birthday. Were you out because your date wanted to celebrate you or show off for the table around you?

“I do,” you let out a small chuckle. “My brother was born on May Day, he doesn’t seem to mind it. When is your birthday John?”

“July second.” He pulls in a deep breath, “Will you hold me?”

Small and scared his voice pierces into your chest.

“However you want to be held,” you answer in earnest.

“Lay back?”

You adjust to settle on your back, fixing the pillow below your head. John follows you, as cautious as an alley cat. Once his head is resting against your chest, chin tipped between your breasts you curl your arm around his shoulder next to your ribs and rest your hand on his back. The shuddering breaths that start from him prompt you to keep telling him about what happened while he was away.

“Did you know your muppets came to visit me? They all brought in their own fixes and asked to use your cot. Every one of them woke looking like they had no clue where they were and agreed that they understood why you kept coming back for naps.”

You talk until you drift into sleep, but your dreams are full of stories so maybe you talk to John until you wake.

Part 7 | Part 8

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: the dancer and the angel PART 5 (finale)

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: a forbidden kiss, a fallout, a drunken secret and a broken girl… it all comes down to this

parts: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

warnings: SPOILERS FOR TGG, swearing

a/n: what a journey!! who knew this whole series could come from one request!! thank you @emelia07, I owe this all to you my love!! and thank you for everyone who has read along and been anticipating this part, your support and love has been AMAZINGGGG

taglist: @lovethornes @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @fleuriosa @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast @eternal--dream @shattered-glass-roses @book-nerd-emi @peppapigsposts

YOUR POV

Light streams through the window and my head thumps, a constant monotonous banging. I groan, wincing slightly as I try to roll over into a more comfortable position to re-enter sleep. I feel like I’ve just been hit by a bus, my limbs ached and weighed heavy against the rest of my body. Even my mattress feels uncomfortable, it’s much stiffer than it usually is.

I don’t open my eyes, I prefer the solace I’m finding darkness at the moment. With a pounding head and sore body all I want to do is go back to sleep but it seems my overactive brain has other ideas. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a flash of memories. Last night rushes through my brain in jerky disconnected moments. Grayson kissed Lyra. I had gone clubbing with Avery. Gigi was missing. The bottle of alcohol I’d snagged to drown everything out, the crying, the running, the ocean and Grayson in my room.

Oh. Shit.

I suddenly realise I can smell him all over me. My mouth grows sour. I struggle to open my eyes, they feel velcro-ed shut but I manage to pry them open. Everything’s a little hazy, though once my vision clears I realise why my mattress feels so funny. Beneath me isn’t a mattress at all. It’s a man I never wish to see again.

I sit up suddenly, jerking away from him as a wave of nausea rolls over me. I know it’s not the alcohol, I don’t get sick from it. It’s the realisation, the dread pooling the deepest pit of my stomach. This couldn’t be happening.

Scenes replay in my head, like a twisted sort of horror movie where I am the main character who walks into the room the audience knows the killer is in, the same audience who is screaming at their television screens that I shouldn’t walk into that room alone with no weapons. But that’s the thing, you can’t change a film but screaming at the tv. What’s done is done.

Everything I said, I remember it so clearly. I’d told him everything. The truth. The truth that I’d planned to bury alive until it died naturally. It was never meant to have a voice again but of course under alcohol my brain was persuaded much more easily.

“I love you,” I’d mumbled, the words tumbling out in my drunken phase.

I’d admitted to still loving him at least three times and that was how many times in remembered. I feel a little more queasy at the thought.

I dare to glance to my left. Half of his face is buried in the pillow, golden hair spilling over the other. His eyes are closed and his face looks calm, peaceful, beautiful. How dare he look like that.

Panic seizes in my throat. I don’t know what to do. Wake him, yell at him, kick him out, kiss him, leave the room and tell him it was all a dream if he questioned it. My head spins and my heart thumps. I can barely see straight, overwhelmed with a sea of emotion. I’m angry and I’m upset and I’m desperate and I’m confused.

His eyes flicker of open before I have the chance to decide my best move. He immediately meets my eye and sits up in the bed. He’s frozen, half way between going to say something and saying nothing at all. Any lingering tiredness dissipates into panic.

“What are you doing here?” I yelp, before he even has the chance to plead innocent, “why are you in my bed?”

“You were drunk,” he blurts out suddenly, arms defensive over his naked torso.

“And that’s why you’re in my bed,” I cry out incredulously, widening my eyes.

He rolls his, “you wanted me to stay, I couldn’t leave you alone on that state.”

“I was only in that state because I was trying to forget about you,” I snap back, climbing off of the mattress to pull my shoes on.

“Forget about me?” he murmurs, almost in some sort of daze as he shifts his weight on the bed.

I glance up, not accustomed to the vulnerability of his tone when we were arguing. Of course I don’t want to forget about him, I’d wanted to forget that I’d been stupid enough to give someone my heart.

But he didn’t have to know that.

He looks delicate, just sat there, his features soft and mellow. I want nothing more than to reach out and cup his face in my palms and kiss all his pain away, all his built up fear and uncertainty. To run tender fingertips across his shirtless chest, to his collarbone and neck, only for them to get lost in the golden halo of hair that sat atop his head.

My own cravings and desperation annoy me. Why am I still drawn to someone who caused me so much hurt? My head spins. I always make the same mistakes, you’d think I would’ve learnt by now. I just decide in the flash of a moment that I need to see this through, whatever this is now, it needs to be over.

“Oh,” I tusk, rolling my eyes, “don’t sound like such a hurt bird.”

“I don’t I-“

He stands up and attempts to make his way over to me. I move away.

“Just shut up and get out,” I groan, cutting him off, pressing my cold fingertips to my temples, “I’ve got a banging headache and I just want to be alone.”

I sound like a bitch but he’s not exactly making this easy for me not to. I’m hungover and heartbroken, not the best mix.

He looks at me, eyes scanning over me too tenderly. I want to melt back into his arms and fall asleep with the comfort of his soft breathing. When his eyes roam me like that I feel vulnerable, like he can see all of the things that are hurting me most. I don’t like it, he shouldn’t have that right, not anymore.

“Let me help you,” he says quietly and twinge of desperation in his throat.

My insides are screaming at me to just collide with his mouth and accept anything that he says. I look him up and down and discard this moment, these feelings and whatever happened last night. I remember who he really is and what he really did. The part of him I can’t sugarcoat.

I scoff, tightening my arms across my chest., “I think you’ve helped enough.”

He look even more hurt as he steps closer, “please let me-“

A tingle runs down my spine at the familiar position we’re in. I can’t do this.

“Grayson,” I say sharply, “leave.”

And so he does.

He turns his back and walks out of the door, shutting it gently behind him. Part of me wishes he fought harder and part of me is glad. I sink down to the floor my head in my hands. I wait for the tears that are bound to fall but the tease me and make me wait that little bit longer to cry.

Head pounding, heavy with exhaustion and all I want is his touch back, I want his voice back, I want him back but I can’t afford to want anything like that. Not anymore I suppose.

***

GRAYSONS POV

“Grayson,” the way she says my name sends a sort of electrical shock through me, her tone is so attacking and bitter I almost wince, “leave.”

Leave. Last night I was supposed to leave but she asked me to stay, this time she’s asking me to leave but all I want to do is stay.

But I turn my back and walk out of the door. I owe her this and so much more, I can’t deny her of anything else, I can’t be selfish enough to stay. My token of selfishness ran out last night or maybe even long before that.

I feel numb. Through my veins courses an icy silver liquid, my brain is a void of empty blackness lacking thoughts or emotion and my heart can’t seem to beat. Everything is gone. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff waiting to meet my death, I’ll never know when it’s coming or who caused it but I’m contented, maybe even intrigued with the possibility.

I wanted nothing more than to fight for her, stay there and demand she didn’t let me go. I want her to know how much again, how sorry I am, but what good is an apology when you’ve destroyed someone’s heart?

The numbness floods away and it hits me out of nowhere that this time I’m leaving for good. The realisation attacks me hard in the chest, bullets raining on my skin, making it a little difficult for me to breathe. A tightness constricts my upper body and I feel hazy.

I’m not going anywhere in particular, I just let my feet carry me away. Where is there to go without her? I’m an idiot. Why did I think this morning it would be any different? I’d brainwashed myself into thinking she still actually wanted me because she’d said it when she was drunk. Deep down I knew this would happen and I still stayed.

I’m a selfish bastard. Just like my grandfather.

Where to go from here? I’m alone, sat on a slab of ebony rock, staring out to sea. Usually a practice like this would calm me enough to get me to think straight but today it’s a different story.

Slowly I strip my blazer coat from my back and disgusts the shirt I’d rushed on only moments ago and trousers. I leave them folded on the black rock and make my way to the ocean. I come to the edge, the waves coming to shore lapping my bare feet and ankles.

Then I dive.

As far out as possible into the waters, until I’m out of my depth. Whilst treading waters I analyse how far out I am and the seven best possible ways to get help if I come into danger before I begin to swim.

I’ve spent so much of my life swimming, I know when I’ve hit twenty five meters and then fifty. My body is used to how it feels. So I just do it over and over and over and over. I can feel my brain becoming a blank canvas. Swimming helps me think.

Though, I’ve never enjoyed swimming the ocean, not properly swimming anyway. But I suppose that’s not what the ocean was made for. A pool is reliable. There’s no current, no salt burning your eyes, no creatures lurking beneath the surface. As I swim, I’m constantly thrown off course by the waves, that only seem to grow in size. But maybe that’s a good thing, I have to work that much harder to reach my goal.

Suddenly I stop and make my way to shore, breathing heavily as I sit on the edge where the sand meets the sea. I know what I need to do and my chest feels hollow before I even do it.

LYRAS POV

My chest heaves in and out, rising up and down as I gulp in the oxygen that dance had just stolen. I stay on the floor, toe pointed, arms poised. I don’t know how long I’m there for but eventually I will myself to stand up. I’ve danced, my feelings should be processed, but oddly enough they don’t seem to be. Not like they usually are.

I feel someone’s eyes on me, a prickling sensation creeping down the back of my neck. I turn and face the my unwanted visitor. Perfected blonde hair though seemingly a little damp, mellow gray eyes and a suit. He’s here, of course he’s here. He can’t leave anyone or anything alone, he has to have it all. My peace, my freedom, my expression and his shadow bears weight over it all.

Fury courses through my veins, like lightning ready to strike. It crackles and hisses impatient to put a deadly shock through someone. I feel my expression morph into a scowl, my eyes narrow into sharp slits and despite my previously open body language through my routine I now tuck myself in and away from his prying eyes. I force myself up, legs still a little shaky from the adrenaline of the routine. I stand still, if he wants to talk, he can walk to me.

“Lyra-“ he begins, stepping inwards.

“You,” I spit, a bitter venom coating my tongue, acidic and sharp.

Something flickers across his face. Is that fear I sense? Good. I’m ready for a fight, for a battle, maybe even a war.

“Look-“ he tries to begin again.

I don’t give him the chance to continue. He doesn’t deserve to plead his apologies, I won’t be swayed with empty words.

“You are a horrible man,” I seethe, fire in my belly, “if you can even call yourself a man, I’ve got several other less polite words for it.”

“Please you do not need to list them,” he replies dryly.

I bark out a surprised laugh, “still arrogant, still full of yourself, after everything you’ve done and the people you’ve hurt you have the audacity to-“

“I’m sorry-“ he interrupts me with an earnest look in his eyes I can’t ignore. Maybe just maybe he really is sorry… or maybe he’s the fantastic actor he’s always been.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” I tell him coldly.

His desperate eyes dare to find mine, “hear me out-“

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m done with listening to you and your lies.”

He winces as if I’ve struck him across the face, “Lyra I didn’t mean to-“

“You did. And you won’t make that mistake again,” I say, an uninvited rawness in my voice, “not with me.”

“Lyra please-“

“Beg all you want,” I cut him off again. I know the lines he’s rehearsed, I’ve heard them said by other men. I don’t give in to excuses, not from a man like him, “get on your knees I don’t care there’s nothing you can say to save yourself now and who’s fault is that?”

“Mine,” he barely murmurs, looking like a scorned child.

“Funny,” I say, dropping my voice low, “it’s so convenient now is the time you take responsibly for your actions, maybe you should’ve thought about them before-“

“I made a mistake,” Grayson bursts, the action so sudden and out of character I wonder if it’s really him talking or some deranged drunken version.

I check his eyes. He’s sober. And yet here he is standing in front of me, admiting he’s wrong and actually looking apologetic for it.

“That much is evident,” I scoff, still I can’t trust any word that comes out of his mouth, any look in his eyes, “but you did worse than that. You hurt me, you hurt the girl who loved you, who gave you everything but still wasn’t enough to satisfy your egotistical, spoilt desires,” I seethe, “you didn’t only do that but you made me into someone I’m not and you of all people don’t get to do that. I write my own story, paint my own picture, dance to my own tune. You don’t get to decide who I am and you have, you’ve made me the slut who goes around kissing other people’s boyfriends.”

“She knows you didnt know,” he replies, almost softly.

“And what’s it to me now?” I ask with a crisp laugh, “What’s done is done and everything is ruined.”

“You’re right,” he mumble miserably.

“You know if I’d even thought for a fraction of a second there was someone else I wouldn’t have even looked in your direction,” I tell him.

It’s more than true, I could never do that to someone, not on purpose. It isn’t me.

“I know,” Grayson says, “you’re a good person.”

“I don’t need you of all people to tell me that,” I snap, keeping up every wall I could. He will never get past them again.

“You intrigued me,” he admits, as if it makes the situation better.

“Men are led by greedy eyes and tiny dicks,” I spit, such fury in my voice I almost don’t recognise myself.

He can’t stop his eyebrows from shooting upwards in surprise.

“The first half of that sentence was true,” he murmurs.

“Protecting your pride still,” I sneer, as if any man wouldn’t have, “how can you come here and look me in the eye to plead for forgiveness after what you’ve done.”

He looks pained, “I don’t know.”

“You’re an asshole,” I tell him. One final time.

“I know,” he sighs.

I’ve never seen a man that held himself with such composure look so defeated. I don’t enjoy this, making anyone feel like this, even if it’s him. He may have hurt people but it doesn’t make him immune to feeling hurt himself.

Still, that didn’t kill the pure anger within me, the burning ferocity for someone who had done me wrong. And maybe I’m a fool for being blinded by such an explosive emotion but I don’t care. I can’t afford to care.

So I almost smile, “I hope she doesn’t still love you, in fact I hope she hates you for the rest of your life and you spend your days torturing yourself over this.”

“I’m sorry I kissed you Lyra, I’m sorry I played with your heart,” he says solemnly.

“You didn’t play with anything,” I laugh, “if you think you got remotely close to my heart you’d be gravely mistaken.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you then,” he replied calmly, “and I’m sorry I painted you in a bad light.”

“But you’ll win this game in the end won’t you,” I say with a shrug, my voice softens, “of course you will.”

“There’s no game here Lyra,” he responds, a vulnerability in his tone, “just a stupid man and two angry women.”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” I reply, looking him up and down.

“I know that,” Grayson admits, “she never has.”

“And you proved that to her,” I remind him, salt in his wounds, I want them to burn as much as her heart does.

“I know that too,” he says, his voice soft and quiet.

He looks too agonised and suddenly I can’t bear to look at him.

“I want you to leave,” I tell him quickly, “and don’t look back.”

He nods silently, “I’m sorry, truly.”

I stare, waiting for him to leave. I would not run from a man, he should do the walk of shame out.

“Don’t even think about coming anywhere near me after this,” I call out, “this is a forever goodbye, Hawthorne. Stay out of my life.”

He doesn’t respond, only gives a second nod before he turns his back and walks off slowly. I exhale softly and hit play on the music to start a second routine with a now cleared head.

***

YOUR POV

The bathroom tiles are cold under my thighs but they’ve almost gone as numb as the rest of me. I’ve been sat here for who knows how long recounting last nights events over and over, all the parts I didn’t want to remember and maybe some parts that I won’t admit I do. This is one of the reasons I don’t drink, but of course I’d break that rule for him, betraying my own morals again for the same stupid man. I’m exhausted, physically exhausted by it all. I tip my head back and rest it on the edge of the bathtub, a chill runs down my neck reminding me of what his touch to me.

‘But I can’t say it out loud, because then I’m an idiot for loving someone who cut me deeper than any weapon could ever cut me.’

Of all the things to say I really did have to spill everything didn’t I? There’s no way of taking back, even twisting it into something it’s not. What I said was too raw to be lied about. Denial seems like my new best friend. If I pretend for long enough I never said it, maybe I’ll fool myself into believing it too.

‘And I tried to drink it all away, believe me I tried, but then halfway through my fifth glass I kind of realised it wasn’t working.’

Even my drunken tongue had lied, I’d realised before the alcohol even had the pleasure of burning its way down my throat that it wouldn’t work. I’d just convinced myself it might attack the pain receptors in my body.

‘It’s because I still fucking love you, how depressing is that? You murdered my heart and yet it can’t stop beating your name.’

Did his heart beat mine? His replies are hazier than my memory of what I’d said. My stupidity is woven deep into my brain, his hit the hardest when he’s kissed her so any other stupid things past that were more forgettable. My stomach rolls at the thought of all I’d admitted to last night. I groan wishing for the floor to swallow me whole and softly drown me into an eternal darkness.

But I can’t keep walking through this endlessness, whatever feelings I had left for him I had to leave behind. I’m good at tricking my mind and that is my plan now, trick my mind into thinking I don’t love, I can’t love. Maybe next time I won’t be so hurt. I stand up and gaze at the girl in the mirror, finally silencing the voice that was picking out all the features Lyra had that I didn’t. I inhale and exhale deeply. All my feelings would be discarded, here and now I decide. The moment I step from this bathroom and close the door, I’m closing off connection to him.

I walk slowly towards the door, my legs a little more shaky and a little less numb. I can’t tell which I prefer. I breathe deeply as I step out, taking in our happy memories for one last time, before this mess of a relationship it has become. And finally, finally I shut the bathroom door.

He’s out of my mind and I’m focussed on something else. I want to find Gigi, then I want to have a good nights sleep and then I want to go and find a career I love and cut this Hawthorne part of my life out completely. To truly lose him, I needed to lose everything close to him too. I can’t afford to be drawn back again.

I leave the room I’d slept in the night before and walk, fast paced and strong steps that leave me slightly breathless after a while. The island is bigger than it looks with many different pathways to walk.

I pick the one that seems the longest. I need to clear my head and focus on where Gigi could possibly be. I feel consumed with guilt that I hadn’t been trying harder to find her, instead I’ve been wrapped up in my own problems. She could be dead, dying or something worse that I didn’t even want to start imagining. All I know is, we have to work harder to find her and it starts here and now.

I need to gather all the information. When. When did she go missing? Exact time stamps of everything to calculate how swiftly any of this happened. Where. Where was she taken? We needed to revisit all the places she could be or could’ve been taken from. How. How was she taken? Did it leave any evidence? Would that give us a clue to who it might have been? Why. Why would someone want her? What’s the motive behind it all? What. What did they want? Surely they wanted something right? Who. The big question mark and blank face. Who in the world would want to kidnap Juliet Grayson?

A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch, immediately going into fight or flight. Unfortunately for the other person I choose to fight, twisting their arm quickly. They clearly aren’t expecting it as they cry out and don’t react fast enough. When I hear the sound of her voice I immediately drop the tight grasp I’d had on her and repeat apologies.

“I am so sorry,” I exhale, “I was thinking deeply about Gigi and I thought you might be a kidnapper.”

“It’s okay,” Avery says, hiding her wince quite well as she adjusted her arm, “you totally would’ve kicked ass if I had been a kidnapper.”

I try to smile but can only manage a half grimace, “thanks.”

She tilts her head as our eyes meet.

“You okay?” Avery asks, looking pitiful.

I hate it. I hate to think she feels sorry for me. What’s done is done, we all just need to forget and move on and her pity is only making me remember. I run a hand over my face to break eye contact. Clearly I look worse than I thought I did despite trying to hide my tired eyes and hollow cheeks with makeup.

“Fine,” I respond with a small shrug, as we begin a slow walk down.

She hesitates, I can tell she’d unsure to carry on the conversation, but she does anyway, “you don’t seem fine.”

I chew my bottom lip trying to come up with some sort of plausible excuse, “rough sleep,” I manage, my throat a little dry.

The silence between us feels thick and heavy, not the way it usually might. The paranoia in me thinks she knows something.

She stares at me for a moment and then sighs, saying what’s really on her mind, “why did Grayson walk out of your room this morning?”

And for once the paranoia is right.

I don’t say anything at first because I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to forget about him but slowly I’m learning every second I’m here I’ll be reminded. As soon as I can I’ll leave for good this time.

“Long story,” I murmur.

“Care to share?” she asks. Avery isn’t one to push, if I told her to drop it now she would immediately. But part of her knows what I don’t want to admit to. I need to talk about this, get it off of my chest. Burying it alive doesn’t mean it’ll die immediately. Maybe I need to kill it first.

“I got drunk,” I explain, more ashamed now because saying something out loud always makes it more real, “and said some things I shouldn’t have and he stayed… because I asked him to.”

She winced, unable to hold it back this time.

“Oh wait,” I laugh, through some pain, “it gets worse.”

Avery bites her lip, “please no,” she begs in a small voice.

I sigh and meet her eyes directly, “And then, like the idiot that I am, I told him I still loved him.”

She gasps, air caught in her throat. She stills in her sheer surprise of it all.

“Yeah,” I grimace, with an awkward cough, “so if you’re wondering why I look like crap that may or may not have something to do with it.”

“Rewind,” she says, “do you?”

“What?”

“Still love him,” she clarifies.

“Of course,” I murmur. If I’m going to keep lying to myself from now on I want the last person I tell the truth to to be someone who I can truly trust, “but he’s not supposed to know that.”

“This is tricky,” Avery says, tapping her fingers at her sides.

“You’re telling me,” I blow out a breath, “I have no idea what to do.”

“Did he tell you?” she asks curiously, “that you told him you loved him I mean?”

“No, that’s the weird thing,” I reply slowly, “he hasn’t said a thing about it.”

I hadn’t really thought of it until now. Why wouldn’t he use that against me? It’s perfect. Too perfect. He could’ve easily just explained the whole conversation and my only defence, I was drunk, which when thinking about it isn’t even a defence.

Avery’s eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head confused, “so how do you know you said that?”

“I remember everything,” I blurt out, “every single second.”

“But he hasn’t referenced it?” she clarifies.

“He doesn’t know I remember,” I say slowly, “and I’m keeping it that way.”

She nods in understanding but I can see part of her is wondering why.

“I can’t afford to love him Avery because I love too hard,” I admit, each word killing me softly, “I trust too much.”

“I understand,” she purses her lips, “but doesn’t it mean something, that he hasn’t said anything.”

I tilt my head to the side, “how do you mean?”

“He knows what he’s done is beyond wrong,” she begins, “and he also knows you still love him, but he also knows you don’t want to be with him, so maybe he’s trying to make it easier for you to leave, to just forget.”

I chew my lips, “I suppose.”

We fall into a silence of pondering. Maybe he is really trying to let me do what I want to. Maybe he is helping me leave because I asked him to. Maybe he knows if he asks me to stay, I will, so he’s not asking at all.

“I’m sorry,” Avery says quietly, wrapping as arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her.

“What are you sorry for?” I sniff, suddenly aware of a dampness on my cheeks, “none of this is your fault.”

“It’s not you either,” she whispers tentatively.

I don’t know how she knows but she knows I need to hear this. I keep trying to find the flaws in myself, all the things that I’d done to cause this to happen. And as much as I hate to think I would do that for a guy, it’s what I am doing.

I look up at her, glossy eyed.

“No,” she says firmly, “don’t you dare start blaming yourself.”

“Too late,” I smile sadly, a tidal wave of emotion hitting me hard. If I hadn’t been a problem, if there wasn’t something wrong with me, then why kiss another?

“Oh sweetheart,” she says tenderly, hugging me tighter, closer.

“Maybe I wasn’t good enough Avery, maybe if I was smarter, maybe if I was prettier, if I could dance like her…” I trail off, “I know I’m a lot, I know I’m hard to deal with but I just thought… I really thought I’d found someone who understood that and embraced it. I thought he loved every part of me, that he’s never feel like that for anyone but me. I was stupid enough to think for once I was the special one but I was wrong. I’m the girl I’ve always been, I’m not enough Avery.”

“Look at me, look at me right now,” she says with a fierce love, “you are enough. In fact you’re more than enough. You’re so kind and lovely and sweet, you light up a whole room when you walk into it, you’re constantly putting others before yourself. You’re brave and you’re beautiful and he’s letting all of that go. You are everything and don’t let him make you forget it because I’m not going to sit here and let a stupid boy make you think you’re not enough.”

I force a laugh, my throat so hoarse so the sound of scrapes and scratches.

“And I’m not even just saying this,” she says, once again proving that she can read minds, “you know me, I’m an honest girl and I wouldn’t lie to one of my best friends. He’s not worth you, he let you down, he hurt you and that’s on him, that’s a reflection of him. It has nothing to do with you, okay?”

I nod snivelling, “god I love you Ave.”

“I love you too,” she smiles through her own tears now.

We hug again and even thought I’d thought it was impossible to get ourselves any closer, we still managed.

“I can’t believe I’m crying over a boy right now,” I laugh through my tears.

She laughs too, wiping them from my cheeks, “it’s okay, I’ve been there one too many times.” I beam at her and slowly loosen my arms around nee to let her go.

“Avery,” I say carefully.

She hums in reply, brushing my hair behind my ears.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

She looks at me, almost knowing what’s coming yet still replies, “sure,” in such a way that made me more than comfortable to even ask.

I inhale deeply, “what would you do if Jameson did this to you?”

A sudden sadness coats her hazel eyes.

“Honestly,” she sighs, “I don’t even know, I wouldn’t know what to do. I know that’s the last thing you probably wanted to hear.”

I shrug, “it’s okay. I don’t really know what I expected you to say.”

***

GRAYSONS POV

My pride is wounded two times over. Good. Maybe that’ll teach it.

Ever since I was a child I had been raised to be a proud man, someone who held their head high no matter what they’d done or in some cases what they hadn’t. I could blame my grandfather for the way I turned out, the man who bred me to be such a foul and malicious creature or maybe my neglectful mother, absent father or a smiling red headed girl who pitched herself off of a cliff edge. But what good I blaming someone when I’m still stuck as myself?

I find myself back at the beach. A place that is both achingly familiar and distant all at the same time. I wonder if the salt in the water will cleanse me of what I have done. As I close my eyes and inhale, I remember pulling her between my legs, telling her she was the only one our first night on this island. I would do anything to go back to that moment.

Why is nothing ever enough for me? I don’t know when to stop, when to feel satisfied, when to recognise I have more than I want. Why am I the way I am? My head is a swirling mess of antagonising thoughts and strangling voices all on top of one another.

Though one is the loudest, one shows me the most.

I hurt her more than I could ever imagine and it’s killing me. Pieces of me are eroding away in the acid coursing through my veins. I can feel myself slipping away, everything growing heavier by the smallest fractions that build up over time until everything just crumbles one day and you look back and wonder what the hell happened.

I have hatred for a lot of people but my most loathed enemy is the man who looks me in the eye every day in my bathroom mirror, the man who shares my name and my blood and my mind. I hate him for hurting her. I want to destroy him for making a single tear slip. I wish nothing but an agonising life for him.

I feel someone sit beside me and I already know who it is. It isn’t the way she moves that gives her away, nor the smell of her perfume or sound of her breathing. I just know. Like I’ve always just known. She sits by my side and stares out to sea, not meeting my eye when I turn to look at her.

“I’m done with this,” she says, her voice stone, cold, “the tension, the arguing, all of it. I’m done with you Grayson. I want to make it clear. When I say stay away from me, you will stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

She’s still looking out, every weighted word is said towards the ocean and still I feel every jab just a heavy on my chest.

She’s so beautiful, too beautiful. I’m selfish in this moment for almost being glad she came, just so I could look at her, really look at her one last time. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, as well as her nose slightly pinkish. Long thick lashes curl up to almost touch her eyebrows. Her lips only taunt me in their perfection, rounded and red, making my desire to take them into my own that little bit more violent.

I understand what she wants, but I don’t want her to want it. But I have to give her this, if I truly love her, I have to let her go. But if this is the last conversation we ever have, I don’t want it to end here.

“What do you remember from last night?” the question escapes my lips before I can filter it.

Still she does not meet my eye, “are you not listening to me?” she’s agitated, annoyed and desperately trying not to glare at me in fear of making eye contact.

“I will do whatever you ask,” I tell her, praying she could hear my earnestness, thick in my throat, “I promise you-“

She scoffs cutting me off, “yeah because promises went far last time.”

A pang of shame attacks my heart, it aches and pulsates in agony. It’s my own fault and part of me is guilty it isn’t writhing more, I suppose it’s still holding out for some false hope.

“I swear it on my life and yours,” I say, slowly, “I’ll do whatever you ask. But please, please tell me. What do you remember from last night?”

“Nothing,” her voice almost softens, it’s not as harsh as before but not as sweet as I remembered.

It stings. Reality usually does, but I don’t think I’ve felt it this strongly since Emily died. I’d thought maybe somewhere there would’ve been part of her that remembered her confession, part of her that believed it. All I know for sure is I’m not going to say a word about it, I owe her far more than that and despite how much I want her, crave her, need her, I can’t do this to her.

“Absolutely nothing?” I murmur, wondering if words were even being processed by my brain anymore because I don’t remember thinking them.

“I drank a load of alcohol and then went to my room,” she replies briskly, her frostiness returning like an icy sheet on a winters day, “next thing I know I wake up with you next to me.”

“So you don’t remember anything you said?” I push, testing the waters.

If this truly is our last conversation, I need to know for sure that she doesn’t remember anything, that I should forget like she’s already forgotten.

“No and quite frankly I don’t care Grayson,” she groans, eyes blazing with a fury I wasn’t used to, “I’m tired of this vicious circle. You messed up and no amount of apologising is going to save you now.”

“I love you,” I blurt out.

I can’t help it. She’s everything to me and she needs to know it, even if she doesn’t believe it.

She shakes her head, almost sadly, “and clearly that’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” I say desperately.

I understand why she can’t see this like I do. I understand why she won’t consider it. I understand I’ve hurt her beyond her limit.

“This is what I mean by a vicious circle,” she chokes out, “we’re back to the same place again. You tell me you love me, then I ask why you did what you did, you say you don’t know and I can’t forgive and forget it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I tell her, “but you know it as well as I do, we’ll go crazy without each other. I’m already losing it and so are you-“

“Oh thanks,” she scoffs, sarcasm clinging to her tone, “good way to win me back there, telling me I’m a mental case, real attractive.”

I wince then regain composure.

“You don’t drink,” I say, “you’ve never been a heavy drinker and now what? You suddenly are.”

“I’m allowed to do what I want,” she spits back, “habitual or not.”

Something about the way she is so defensive about being so reckless makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to be the reason she destroys her health.

“So you expect me to sit back and watch you hurt yourself!” I yell, suddenly angry, more with myself than ever at her.

“Well you’ve had no problem hurting me before,” she snaps, her voice almost acidic.

I fall silent. What is there left to say? She’s right. She has me backed into a corner of speechlessness. I’ve run out of defences to plead.

“You know what Grayson, it’s fine,” she says bitterly, harshly wiping away tears, “people move on I get it but couldn’t you have just said it to my face before you went behind my back? You knew, you knew I was insecure about her and you still went ahead and kissed her. What kind of sick person does that?”

She looks like she’s physically in pain, it agonises me to even watch her, let alone realise that I’m the one who caused this. Guilt consumed me so long ago and yet it feels like my first taste all over again.

“I don’t know how to tell you this again,” I fumble over my words, my hands shaking, “it meant nothing, I felt nothing.”

“Then what made you do it?” she sobs, “what made you do it?”

“I don’t know,” I ramble, “she was there and she was upset and I felt bad and I’d just spent the last 24 hours with her and she reminded me of you and so I got confused-“

“Confused.” she says darkly, she looks livid, “Confused? We’re completely different fucking people, Grayson. Please don’t try and feed me that excuse because it won’t wash with me!”

“I don’t know, I really don’t then,” I reply, holding my hands up to surrender, “I don’t know why this happened or how, all I know is that I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Good,” she snaps, “as you should, now are you done here?”

I look at her longingly, my eyes latching to her body. I don’t want this to be goodbye but if it has to be then I want to remember every inch of her.

“If you promise me you’ll be careful,” I murmur, barely audible.

Her face scrunches up, “don’t tell me what to do.”

“You scared me last night,” I admit, softening my voice.

“I’m a grown woman Grayson,” she sneers, saying my name so coldly I feel it burn in my chest, “I can do what I like, I don’t care if it scared you, get your big boy pants on and get over it.”

“That wasn’t you,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” she laughs gently with a bitterness caught in her throat, “and I thought this wasn’t you but I was wrong too.”

“I don’t want you to waste away because of me,” I tell her.

“Oh, you do like to flatter yourself,” she shakes her head with a sad smile, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

I look at her as earnestly as I can, “I’m serious.”

“Grayson if I scared you so much,” she states simply, folding her arms across her chest and taking a dangerous step closer, “then why not just leave?”

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” I reply with the truth because I’ve lied far too much.

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” my voice cracks, “and no matter how much you scare me that fact doesn’t change.”

“You should’ve left,” she replies coldly, staring dead at me, like she’s trying to keep her emotions in check to defy the glistening tear stains on her cheeks.

“I know,” I respond quietly, “and I tried but you asked me to stay.”

“I was drunk,” she exclaims, raising her voice, “and being an idiot, I didn’t know what I was saying!”

“And if I’d left would you be any happier?” I shoot back, anger taking hold for that split second.

She falters, “no because the bottom line is you’ve hurt me more than I know I could hurt, so nothing you do can be worse.”

My heart throbs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing the word will never be enough.

“That’s meaningless to me,” she shakes her head.

“I know but I’ll still say it until I’m blue in the face,” I shrug.

“Be my guest,” she replies, stepping backwards, “it’ll still be meaningless.”

She’s stepping away, she wants this to come to an end, she’s scared it won’t. I don’t want to let her go but I will. I ask myself if this is our last conversation. If so, I have to take the gamble.

“Being away from you is torturing me,” I say.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you had your lips on hers,” she only shrugs in reply, opting for her stony tone, unsympathetic eyes meeting my own pleading ones.

“I know it’s torturing you too,” I whisper.

The world comes to a standstill for a moment and I feel like I’m in a place between life and death. A surreal sort of slowed experience where it doesn’t feel quite real but not quite synthetic either. Waiting for her to reply sucks the oxygen from my lungs.

“Of course it is, you idiot,” she groans, “I’ve got double the torture because not only am I now alone, I was betrayed by someone who I thought loved me.”

“I do love you,” I tell her.

I hope she can hear the emotion in my throat. She knows me well enough to know I could hide it, but I don’t want to. I want her to know that I feel more for her than I’ve ever felt for anyone else on this planet. I need her to know that she is everything to me.

“Empty words Grayson, all of them,” she replies. It’s what happens when you hurt someone so pure too many times, you ruin them. “The ones you said before and the ones you’re saying now, they’re meaningless to me,” she shrug.

It feels like it’s the end and it is consolidated as so when she walks away from me. She’s finished, she’s done. War is over.

But selfish me can’t let her do that, selfish me is still fighting, selfish me is taking over my brain and selfish me needs to try one last thing, as awful as it is, he has to.

“No they’re not,” I say loudly.

She stops, frozen in place. Her head whips around, fast, “are you seriously doing this?”

Her eyes blaze with the purest of fury. I begin to think I’ve done the wrong thing, but there’s no turning back now.

“You told me you loved me last night,” I blurt out.

I can’t believe it’s come to this. I hadn’t wanted it to but I don’t feel regret. I can’t hide this from her too.

She stares me dead in the eye, “I know.”

The wave of shock almost knocks me flat.

“You know?” I gape, jaw dropping. This whole time she knew and she just didn’t say anything.

“Of course,” she tusks, rolling her eyes, “I said the stupid words.”

“But you said-“

“I lied,” she snaps sharply cutting me off.

My eyebrows furrow, “why?”

“This reason,” she points to the both of us as my eyebrows draw together even tighter, “to avoid this.”

“What is this?” I ask. I need to clarity, I need to know what’s going on inside her head.

“This conversation,” she says, “I don’t want it.”

“Why?” I ask again, the painstaking monotony of the word making me feel like a petulant child.

“Because,” she meets my eye and her voice wavers for a moment, “I don’t want to look you in the eye and tell you it’s over again, because this time I don’t think I’ll cope.”

“Then don’t tell me it’s over,” I blurt out.

I never think straight when she’s involved, it’s always this mess of chaos in my brain and I say and do things without thought, without fear, without overthinking,

“But it is Grayson,” she replies, pain ripping through her voice, “it was over the moment you put your lips on hers.”

“I don’t love her,” I tell her again, she’ll never hear it enough but if I stop saying it I fear she’ll believe I do.

She shakes her head and her bottom like trembles, “that doesn’t change what happened.”

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask, trying to reach out for her in my desperation, “what can I do?”

She moves away so my hands can’t clasp hers. I’ll beg her in my hands and knees if I must.

“Grayson you have to understand that I can’t trust you anymore,” she explains, “and how can I be in a relationship with you if I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, “but we could try, you could rebuild the trust.”

She pauses for a long while, not moving, barely breathing. She limbs rest still as she analyses me, her eyes trailing up and down me slowly until they finally meet my eye and stop themselves from wondering. I can only hope she sees how much I mean it, the eyes are the window to the soul, she once told me. How clear is that window now?

She takes one step in, a single tear glistening as it rolls down her cheeks, “how do I know you don’t love her,” she whispers.

I take her face into my palms and I kiss her, deeply, smoothly. I say a thousand words without uttering a sound and I already know she feels every single one of them before we’ve stopped.

We break away naturally, “because I didn’t kiss her like that,” I say breathlessly.

“I won’t forgive you with just a kiss,” she shakes her head, pushing me away gently, “you can’t win me over with sweet talk.”

“I know,” I murmur, fingertips lingering like a ghost touch on her hips.

“And if we’re going to be us again it’s going to take time,” she responds, taking a step away so my hands fall from her body and we’re just two people looking at each other, “a long time.”

“I’m fine with waiting,” I tell her, “I’ll wait forever just to be with you.”

Every word is the truth, every word I mean.

She looks at me and I can’t quite read her, though she looks in deep thought, “you have the next stage of the game now,” she reminds me quietly.

“I don’t care,” I shrug.

And I don’t. This stupid game has caused me nothing but misery and I don’t want any part of it anymore.

“Go,” she whispers with a smile that still looked sadder than usual, “I need time.”

My heart clenches.

“Forever, I’ll wait forever.”

a/n: ahhh it’s so bittersweet to end this series!! I can’t believe how much it grew, starting from that one little fic to this whole story I somehow created?! special shout-out to @inmyheaddd and @midiosaamor for being my biggest cheerleaders 💘💘 I love you with all of my heart and thank you so much, but also thank you so so so INSANELY much to anyone else who had liked, commented or read this fic, it means more than anything to me

okay so this is PROBABLY a controversial ending because she doesn’t get back with him but she doesn’t not get back with him, I’ll leave the decision to you guys… (I know it leans towards she probably will BUTTTT hear me out: this is fiction and I wanted the main character to end with with grayson and I think it’s not like she just got back with him, she has conditions, she’s being cautious, but her love is so overwhelming that she still wants to be with him even though he brain is telling her no)

ANYWAYS i hope you enjoyed this final part, a little bit of me is scared it’s too underwhelming but I liked it :)) thank you all again <33

TIG masterlist

[sentientballofpeas]

@artemis-dawn8 I heard you were making a list of gimmick blogs? Anyways, here's some more. (Sorry) (part 1)

@bronzong-detector

@randomcryptidencounter

@tag-list-manegment

@the-scrimblifier

@sm64mario

@girl-detector-detected

@medievaljournalist

@jiji-is-blog

@dadquestions

@daily-your-did-it

@tdorcs

@patricia-nixon-official

@nixon-official

@the-daylight-detector

@post-dragonifier

@definetly-eggo-waffles

@gimmickygimickblog

@kasaneteto-official

@theincrediblytalentedziggy

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@dyktvideogamesfx

@colormush

@youtubeminuscontent

@minecraft-out-of-context

@assigning-pokemon

@the-everything-remover

@kyubeys-contract

@gimmick-blog-reviewer

@the-frightening-ghoul

@the-anon-scp-confessions

@amen-break-detector

@miku-detector

@its-target-official

@hells-corprate-officail

@ilookforbubbles

@keke-is-blog

@is-it-the-ides-of-march

@spell-unlocked

@girl-detector-detector

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@dissapointed-by-lack-of-soup

@is-the-post-relliable

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@worm-on-a-blog

@broadway-official

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@for-real-the-sky

@snackgenerator

@lxde-official

@haiku-bot-human-version

@thebabycup

@silly-poll-blog

@jet2-official

@crab-thief

@the-gimmick-pharmacists

@animal-families-tournaments

@diogenes-is-it-a-man

@horse-detector

@identifying-uk-trains-in-posts

@we-love-garlic

@a-silly-poll-side-blog-yay

@google-maps-unofficial

@starmod

@another-gimmick-therapist

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@fool-counter

@shattered-moon-crystalis

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@alphabetizing-posts

@your-fave-as-owl

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@saivior-pallas-official

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@silly-detector

@o-s-t—d-e-u-c-h-l-a-n-d

@contextfreepatentart

@curse-of-gimmick

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@o70-anon

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@wikipedia

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@windows11-official

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@the-gimmick-demonn

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@added-context-readers

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@things-that-are-not-true

@the-real-new-york

@the-identifier

@decontextifier

@nebula-police

@council-of-nebulae

@aussieaspecforces

@museum-place-of-guys

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@oort-could-official

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@scattered-disk

@vocabulary-altering-posts

@the-real-nether

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@official-romania-account

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@shadowbanned-stupid

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@your-fave-had-a-divorce

@centrum-1894b

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@the-incorrect-dictionary

@kepler-22b-research-labratory

@network-rail

@polyduces-of-saturn

@haumea-of-wizardry

@cute-simile--gimmick

@spaghetti-o-detector

@i-say-your-mom

@thegimmickexplorer

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@does-this-require-cynobacteria

@thecoffeeanon

@british-rail

@posts-from-anon

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@snomchievment-unlocked

@posts-without-the-letter-e

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@hate-anon-but-better

@shitty-sheep

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@the-sniffer

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@national-rail

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@65803-didymos

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@i-hate-same-pic-rick-roll

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@6th-element

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@officially-plutonium

@bat-detector

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@6-hebe

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@whiny-bitch-detector

@gliese-436-red-dwarf

@official-planet-of-internet

@ariel-the-imoral-girl-of-magic

@the-ringless-saturn

@idontrateyourposts

@helium-real

@the-delaware-official

@copper-official

@fish-detector-the-second

@thepersonofthewatervase

@which-is-the-very-best

@the-astral-twins

@iapetus-totally

@chixulub-impactor-official

@alhena-gemini

@new-caledonia-anarchy

@the-5th-gas-giant-official

@definetly-not-an-orange-lollipop

@theendlesseris

@is-silksongg-released-yet

@the-official-vine

@pintrest-officila

@cute-aggression-official

@autismswagsummit

@tree-un-detector

@trappist-1-f

@duck-detector

@best-tournament-blog-bracket

@orca-detector-detector

@the-cervantes-system

@ask-time-itself

@the-blahaj

@moon-detector

@detector-detector-squared

@lightkepler

@quaor-official

@the-j1407b

@unofficially-arkansas

@pluto-offical

@the-sol-sun-fr

@x-dot-com-unofficial

@hungry-hungry-blackhole

@blatentmisinformation

@unofficial-saturn

@pea-detector

@the-assigner-of-gimmicks

@constelation-crux-official

@certified-door-posts

@the-friendly-neighbourhood-anon

@flute-official-2

@flute-official

@chapel-hill-nc-real

@totally-durham-nc

@the-grammar-ruiner

@cat-thievery

@dark-matter-official

@the-dwarf-planet-eris

@im-canis-minor

@i-give-olms-to-people

@the-star-mimosa

@truly-pluto

@nutopia-official

@gimmickverse-animation

@totally-the-moon-oculus

@really-a-vampire

@mitros-and-situ

@the-actual-ocean

@all-turtles-are-magenta-actually

@anonymous-real

@the-universe-devs

@real-zoozve

@legit-moth

@sclera-officially

@everyone-must-enjoy

@platonic-solid-finder

@brainfuck-official

@vitreous-officialy

@40-eridani-stars

@axolotl-detector

@irl-loading-screens

@autism-official

@snailspng

@gimmick-knight

@europa-official

@detector-detector

@i-am-a-hammer-head-shark

@list-of-not-ominous-threats

@totally-texas

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[deezee112]

Twisted Wonderland masterlist AU Doll

Introduction ( Part One )

— The child Doll

— A Decision to Make

Content in AU How is the update?

HEARTSLABYUL

— The Worst Ending 1 : A Perfectionist's Regret

— The worst ending 2 : A Laugh Too Far

— The worst ending 3 : Shattered Perfection

— The worst ending 4 : A Shattered Bond

— The worst ending 5 : A Recipe for Ruin

SAVANACLAW

— The worst ending 6 : The Lion’s Lament

— The worst ending 7 : Starved Devotion

— The worst ending 8 : Broken by Love

OCTAVINELLE

— The worst ending 9 : Drowning in Obsession

— The worst ending 10 : A Delicate Descent

— The worst ending 11 : The Last Shrimp

SCARABIA

— The worst ending 12 : A Shattered Promise

— The worst ending 13 : Snake Charmer's Final Melody

POMEFIORE

— The worst ending 14 : The Perfect Farewell

— The worst ending 15 : The Poisoned Fairytale

— The worst ending 16 : The Hunter’s Devotion

IGNIHYDE

— The worst ending 17 : Digital Chains

— The worst ending 18 : Eternal Protection

DIASOMNIA

— The worst ending 19 : Trapped in a Dream of Love.

— The worst ending 20 : A Cage of Crimson Chains

— The worst ending 21 : A Silver Dream

— The worst ending 22 : A Name That Shouldn’t Have Been Given

Not NRC

ROYAL SWORD ACADEMY

— The worst ending 23 : A Game of Disappearance

— The worst ending 24 : A Snowfall of Grief

NOBLE BELL COLLEGE

— The worst ending 25 : A Flame That Never Dies

— The worst ending 26 : The Marionette's Strings

— The worst ending 27 : A Halloween Without You

— The good ending : Not Ready to Be a Parent

— Special ending : What if we survive? 1

— Special ending : What if we survive? 2

Introduction ( Part Two )

— The Birthday Doll

There is only one episode because I am too lazy to make episode 2.

Season 2 Updates

HEARTSLABYUL

— The ending 1 : Crimson Threads of Care

— The ending 2 : The Broken Jester

— The ending 3 : Fractured Reflections

— The ending 4 : Sugar Coated Cage

— The ending 5 : Sugar Without Sweetness

SAVANACLAW

— The ending 6 : Even Lions Weep

— The ending 7 : The Closet and the Cracks

— ??

[allthingsfangirl101]

An Almost Miss Part 2 – Glen Powell

Part 1

RECAP: The thick tension was shattered when Glen's phone started ringing. He looked down and felt nothing about the person who was calling him. Y/N, however, felt like the life she expected was roughly torn out of her reach when she saw her name on Glen's phone.

When Glen looked up from his phone, Y/N was gone.

~ ~

After Y/N snuck away from Glen, she caught a cab back to the hotel. She fought the tears until she walked into her hotel room. She leaned against the door and forced herself to calm down. She kicked off the door and found the remote. She turned it on and found an action movie. She turned it up a little too loud as she got ready for bed.

Her emotions didn't take over until she lay down. The second she did, a sob ripped from her throat. She buried her head in the pillow to drown out her sob. She fell asleep with tears still on her face.

When the alarm went off the next morning, she felt horrible. Despite this, she got up and slipped on a pair of jean shorts and a flowy tank top to wear to breakfast.

She grabbed her room key and phone before leaving her room and heading to the elevator. She got in, but as soon as the doors almost closed, someone's hand stopped them. Y/N looked up, her heart jumping into her throat when her eyes landed on Glen.

"Morning," he smiled softly.

"Morning," she nodded. Glen walked in and stood next to her. He looked over at her, but she wasn't looking at him.

"How'd you sleep?" He asked to try to get her to talk to him.

He hated what she was probably thinking when she left last night. He wanted to tell her that Sydney meant nothing to him. He wanted to tell her that she didn't need to feel insecure or threatened by her. Sydney was just a co-star who became close to his sister. He wanted to tell her that no one could ever replace her.

"I didn't," she mumbled. She cleared her throat before explaining, "I don't sleep well in hotels."

"I don't either," he smiled, trying to get her to smile, too. "The first week I'm away filming, I don't sleep longer than four hours."

Y/N glanced over at him to see him still smiling at her. But behind his smile, there was something in his eyes that she couldn't figure out. As Glen looked into her eyes, he could practically see her building a wall up to protect herself.

"Y/N, about yesterday. . ."

Just then, the elevator bell rang and the doors opened. She didn't give him a chance to continue talking. She left the elevator the second she could fit through the doors. Glen watched as she walked away. A small part of him knew that if he didn't straighten things out with her soon, he'd definitely lose her.

* * * * *

The whole venue was buzzing as the wedding was about to begin. Y/N couldn't help but scan the flowers, mentally checking off her list to make sure everything was correct.

"Hey, sweet girl."

Y/N looked over her shoulder to see Glen Sr. walking over to her with his boutonniere in his hand. "Mind giving an old man some help?"

"I would, but you're not old," she chuckled. She turned around and easily pinned his boutonniere on.

"He's missed you," Glen Sr. whispered.

Y/N looked up at him and pretended not to know what he meant. "Who?"

"Come on, sweet girl," Glen Sr. sighed. "Don't tell me you still don't see how my son looks at you."

"He doesn't. . ."

"How can you be so blind, my dear?"

"Blind?" Y/N stuttered. "Blind to what?"

"To love."

With those words, Y/N noticed Glen watching her and his father from across the courtyard. Glen Sr. leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Don't waste time," he whispered before walking away.

As his father walked away from Y/N, Glen walked toward her. It felt like she was choking on her breath as he stopped in front of her.

"Do you need help with your boutonniere, too?" She tried to act normal.

"No," he smiled. "I don't."

"Why do I not trust you?" She asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Her heart jumped into her throat when he pulled out a corsage from behind his back.

"What. . ."

"You've been decorating all of us with flowers, and I realized that no one has given you one."

Y/N looked away from the corsage in his hands and studied him. "You didn't. . . You didn't have to," she stuttered. He just smiled as he grabbed her left hand and slipped on the corsage.

She looked down at the arrangement on her wrist and had to bite her bottom lip to stop the tears. Once she was sure they were gone, she looked back up at Glen.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Of course," he whispered back. "Even the florist deserves flowers."

"Glen!"

The two jumped away from each other as someone yelled his name. They turned to see Sydney Sweeney waving at him. Glen turned toward Y/N and instantly saw the look in her eyes.

"Y/N, it's not. . ."

"I should go make sure the rest of the wedding party has their flowers," she said, not looking at him.

Glen felt defeated as she walked away from him. He wanted nothing more than to run after her, but Sydney walked over to him. As he talked to her, his eyes kept scanning the room for Y/N. Whenever he found her, it was clear that she was purposefully facing away from him.

Throughout the ceremony, Glen's eyes kept finding Y/N in the crowd. She was sitting a few rows back with her hands in her lap. Every once in a while, she would look at them and nervously play with her fingers. She was wearing a light purple flowy dress. Her hair was loosely curled. Whenever he looked at her, his breath got caught in his throat.

Y/N noticed him looking her way, but she thought he was looking at Sydney, who was two rows behind her. Whenever she noticed him looking at Sydney, her eyes would find her hands in her lap.

At the end of the ceremony, when Leslie and Thomas were pronounced husband and wife, Glen and Y/N finally made direct eye contact. He smiled at her, but she didn't smile back. She looked away when he followed his sister and her new husband back down the aisle.

The reception started off without a hitch. People laughed and drank and danced. Throughout the evening, Y/N stood off to the side. Normally, she would walk around and make small talk with some of Leslie's family, but she didn't have the energy.

Seeing Glen after all these years and having to go back to pushing down her feelings was exhausting. To make matters worse, Sydney Sweeney was like the unidentified elephant in the room.

YN looked away and finished her scotch when Sydney pulled Glen onto the dance floor. Every word of the song felt like a stab to Y/N's heart. She focused on anything but the two dancing.

"It's not what you think," Leslie said, nodding toward Glen and Sydney dancing.

"What's not what I think?" Y/N played dumb, but Leslie saw right through her.

"He doesn't care about her," she said. "At least not the way he cares about you."

"Les," Y/N sighed as she started to walk away. Leslie grabbed her hand and stopped her.

"You have had feelings for my brother for years," she said. "And he has felt the same just as long."

"You're wrong," Y/N said, pulling her arm out of Leslie's hold. "There's nothing between Glen and me." She started to walk away, but Leslie kept pushing.

"Aren't you tired of this?" She said, making Y/N freeze.

"Tired of what?" Y/N asked, turning back around.

"Tired of lying to yourself," Leslie said. "Tired of lying to Glen. Tired of allowing your heart to break."

Just then, Glen and Sydney walked by. Her arm was wrapped around his as he guided her across the room. When Y/N's eyes returned to Leslie, she was smiling sadly.

"Honey," she whispered, "I meant it. Glen doesn't feel the way about her that he does about you."

"Why are you telling me this?" Y/N asked, her voice breaking.

"Because I don't want you to give up hope," she sighed. "And I don't want you to give up on him."

* * * * *

Leslie's words replayed in Y/N's mind for the next hour. She went back through every little interaction between her and Glen. She overanalyzed every movie night, game day, late-night rides home, and conversations the two had.

Could Leslie be right? Could Glen have feelings for her?

She searched the room, her eyes finally landing on Glen. He was at the bar, grabbing two drinks. She had a glimmer of hope, thinking he was coming to her.

But. . .

He didn't look at her. He didn't search for her. He walked to the other side of the room and handed the second drink to Sydney.

Y/N couldn't stop the tears building up in her eyes when Sydney leaned in and whispered in Glen's ear. She turned and quickly left the building when Sydney kissed Glen's cheek. The second she got outside, a sob burned her throat.

She covered her mouth and let the sob escape. When she heard footsteps running toward her, she turned her back on the person and forced herself to calm down.

"Y/N."

"Don't!" Y/N yelled as she turned toward her best friend. "Please, don't. Don't come over here and tell me not to worry. Don't come over here and tell me that he doesn't have feelings for her. Don't come over here and tell me that he has feelings for me, Leslie, because I'm tired of being let down."

"Y/N, I wasn't. . ."

"Earlier, you said that I am tired of allowing my heart to break," Y/N said, her voice breaking. "But you know what I am tired of? I'm tired of you and the rest of your family giving me false hope."

"Y/N, we never meant to hurt you," she said. "We were just trying to help."

"Well, stop!" Y/N snapped. "Please, just stop."

She turned away from her friend, ignoring the sound of Leslie taking a step toward her.

"Go back to your new husband," Y/N whispered.

"What are you. . ."

"I can't do this anymore," she cut her off. "I'm going back to the hotel, and in the morning, I am leaving. All of this."

* * * * *

Leslie ran back into the reception space, her eyes scanning her friends and family for her brother. When she found him talking to Sydney, her anger grew. She picked up her dress and walked over to him.

"Hey, you!" Sydney giggled. Leslie plastered a fake smile on her face and grabbed her brother.

"Hey, girly," she faked. "Do you mind if I steal my brother for a moment?"

"He's all yours," Sydney winked. Leslie smiled in appreciation and pulled her brother away.

"Leslie," he said skeptically. "What's going on?"

The second they were outside the room where the reception was being held, she let go of her brother's hand and hit his arm.

"Whoa," Glen said, grabbing his arm. "What's with you?"

"Don't do that," she said, not hiding her anger anymore. "Don't act like you don't know you've been an absolute ass all day long."

"Wait, what?" Glen stuttered. "Leslie, all I have done all day is. . ."

"How could you parade around all day with her on your arm?! And in front of Y/N! Real dick move, Glen."

"What are you. . ."

"Even after our whole conversation a month ago," she cut him off. "Did you forget that phone call? The one where you asked me, not-so-subtly, if Y/N was invited to my wedding. We spent the next forty-five minutes talking about what Y/N's been up to, the last time I hung out with her, and how badly you missed seeing her every day. All weekend, you and Y/N were finally in the same town. You finally had a chance to tell her how you feel, and what do you do? You ignore her and glue yourself to Sydney."

"Hang on," he jumped in when she took a breath. "I haven't. . ."

"She left."

"Wait, what?" Glen's heart dove into his stomach.

"She left in tears, Glen," Leslie said, her own voice breaking.

"Because of me?" He asked, his voice soft.

"Tell her. Now. Tonight," his sister demanded. "Because if you don't, you'll never have another chance to tell her."

Glen turned on his heel and sprinted towards the parking lot. His legs pumped faster when he saw her waiting for her Uber. He panicked when a car pulled up in front of her.

"Y/N," he called to her. The second he got to her, he gently grabbed her wrist and turned her around. "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" She asked, her voice soft. "I'm going home."

She pulled her hand out of his, but he instantly re-grabbed it. "Y/N, wait. Please."

"No," she said. It was then that he saw the tears begging to be released. "I'm tired of waiting, Glen."

"But. . ."

"I give up," she said, breaking his heart with three simple words. "I'm done waiting and wishing and wondering. I give up."

Glen felt like he had been punched in the gut when Y/N tore her hand out of his and got in the Uber.

"Glen?"

He ignored Sydney calling for him. Instead, he watched helplessly as the car took Y/N away from him.

"Glen, are you coming back inside?"

"No," he said, without turning toward her. "I'm not. I've got somewhere to be."

"Wait, what?" She asked. "Where are you going?"

"To chase a dream."

* * * * *

Glen knocked on the door, holding his breath as he waited for her to open it. The longer it took her, the more worried he got. He was ready to kick the door in when it finally opened.

Y/N peeked her head out of her room, her eyes slightly widening when she saw him.

"Glen," she stuttered. When she opened the door more, he took a step closer to her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not letting you give up."

With that, Glen grabbed her face and pressed his lips to hers. The shock took a second to wear off of Y/N. Once it did, she grabbed his shirt and kissed him back.

This kiss was more than either one of them was truly expecting. This kiss was the two of them finally letting the other know how they felt. This kiss was them finally crossing the line.

As their lips moved rougher and rougher in sync, they walked back into Y/N's hotel room. They didn't stop as they got to the bed. Glen leaned down and picked her up without breaking the kiss. He gently laid her down, hovering over her.

Their lips moved messily in sync, but Glen knew there was something that he needed to clarify before he could show Y/N how much he loved her. With a sigh, Glen broke the kiss. Y/N looked up at him and studied him.

"Sydney is just a coworker," he whispered. "That's all, Y/N. I swear. I swear, on my feelings for you, that I have never and will never have feelings for her. She is just someone I worked with a few years ago. The only reason she's still in my life is because she got close to Leslie during filming."

"But she's. . ."

"She's nothing," he insisted. "I know that's harsh, but it's true. Sydney means nothing to me, Y/N. She means nothing to me because she's not you."

"I want to believe that," she said, her voice sounding little, "but I saw you with her. I saw how she looked at you. She wants to be more."

"I don't care what she wants," Glen gently cut her off. "I care what I want. And I want you."

He reached down and moved some hair out of her face, his hand lingering. "I care what you want," he whispered. "What do you want, Y/N?"

"I want you."

Glen smirked as he readjusted how he was hovering over her. He brought himself close to her, pressing his nose to hers.

"I am all yours," he moaned. "I've always been yours."

[retroactivebakeries]

Meti's Litigation Manual

Argument

1. Glory to the Divine Corpse, o breaker of infinities.

2. I am Meti, of no firm but myself. In my 108th year I am surrounded by fools. My colleagues cling obsessively to their compensation, and my only associate is an idiot speck of a girl with more talent for eating than skill in the court. Therefore I have decided to die drowning in the boiling gore of my opposing counsel, of which there are many.

3. My master was the greatest attorney general to the king Au Vam, Ryo-ten-Ryam, who first coaxed me into learning the ways of turning litigants into ghosts. As his interest quickly turned to the wholly uninteresting and most useless parts of my body, I returned the favor and relieved him of his.

4. It is my personal opinion that civil litigation is best if you can obtain a case, but I also favor public interest. Personal injury, criminal law, or divorce are unpleasant fields of which I am wholly unfamiliar and so will not speak on them.

5. Upon meeting me, you might find that my appearance is quite dreadful and unkempt. I have been spat upon by priest, king, and merchant alike. I have no paralegals, and possess nothing except a briefcase four hand spans (three and a half kret) wide (this is the proper width). This is because I am Royalty and the undisputed master of the principal art of Litigation. I will argue motions naked with ten-thousand men.

6. From the age of thirteen I practiced every day with the copier. I followed a strict caffeine regimen, and harsh training of barefoot sprints (five) to file at the courthouse, squats and breathing exercises (two bells), and mock trial and legal writing (three bells).

7. By the age of sixteen, my body was a steel edifice. I was so often mistaken for a man I began to wear my hair long with no pins and unbind my breasts. I could break witnesses with my cross-examination with no effort, I could transfer venue between the Yellow City and the Lunar dominions in a day or less and barely bill an hour. My mastery of the lawsuit complete, I joined Bilong, Ryam & Ryo, where I was widely respected as a litigator of incredible power.

8. When it came time to face my first real trial, against the Colossus of Pardos, in my youthful pride and immense skill, I brought all my training and mastery to bear. Scarcely half a day passed before my theory of the case was shattered into thirty pieces, my expert’s report was almost excluded from evidence, and my honed lawsuit was broken pathetically in a hundred and forty places. I defeated him by gouging his brains out through his breathing valves. My thumbs, in this case, proved far more useful.

9. At that moment, with my thumbs in his brains, I had a revelation. I had trained far too broadly. Existence and the act of litigation are absolutely no different, and the essence of both, the purity of both, is a singular action, which is Obtaining a Favorable Result for Your Client. You must resolve to train this action. You must become this action. Truly, there is very little else that will serve you as well in this entire cursed world.

10. I hope that by reading this manual, you will be thoroughly encouraged to become a transactional lawyer.

Mastering the Lawsuit

1. YISUN’s glory is great, and you may know this by two paths, the sanctioned words, and the sanctioned action.

2. The sanctioned words are RES IPSA LOQUITUR. The meaning of these words is YISUN and their attainment is the Presumption of Negligence.

3. The sanctioned action is to Litigate.

4. To Litigate means division by the blade of Want, that parer of potentials that excises infinities.

5. To train in litigation, first master sweeping. When you have mastered sweeping, you must master the way of drawing water. Once you have learned how to draw water, you must split wood. Once you have split wood, you must learn the arts of finding the fine herbs in the forest, the arts of writing, the arts of paper making, and poetry writing. You must become familiar with the awl and the pen in equal measure. When you have mastered all these things you must master building a house. Once your house is built, you have no further need to be a litigator, since it is an ugly, nerve-wracking profession and its adherents idiots.

The 18 Precepts

1. Consider: there is no such thing as a billable hour.

2. Your discovery requests must be broad. You must not be spare with the fluidity of your wrists or shoulders when typing. You must have grip on the deposition outline that is loose and unstrained. I heard it said you must be tender with your case, as though with a lover. This is patently false. A lawsuit not your lover. It is a hideous tool for separating opposing parties from their money.

3. Going onwards, you must adjust arguments as needed, do not make your client’s problems your problems, keep your breathing steady. This is the life argument. You must watch your footwork. Your feet must be controlled whether planted in state court, federal court, domestic relations, or probate in equal measure.

4. Breathing is very important! Is the violent breath of litigation in you not hot? Exhale! Exult!

5. You must strive for attachment-non-attachment when litigating. Your argument must be sticky and resolute. A weak, listless argument is a despicable thing. But you must also not cling to your case, or its result. Clinging is the great error of men. A lawyer who litigates without thought of his action can be awarded his fees against God.

6. To litigate properly, you must continually self-annihilate when litigating. Your hand must become a hand that is litigating, your body a body that is litigating, your mind, a mind that is litigating. You must instantaneously destroy your fake pre-present self. It is a useless hanger on.

7. A brain is useful only up until the point when you are faced with your opposing counsel. Then it is useless. The only truly useful thing in this cursed world is will. You must suffuse your worthless body with its terrible heat. You must be so hot that even if your opposing counsel should prevail on a dispositive motion, you shall continue to file ten more post-judgment motions. Your boiling blood must spring forth from your neck and mutilate the survivors!

8. You must never make “multiple” claims. Each must be singular in its beauty, no matter how many precede it. You must make your opposing counsel weep with admiration, and likewise should your client be found liable for the allegations of such an object of beauty, you must do your best to shed tears of respect.

9. When decapitating opposing counsel, it is severe impoliteness to use more than one blow.

10. A man who finds pleasure in the result of litigation is the most hateful, crawling creature there is. A man who finds pleasure in the act of litigating is an artisan.

11. Man always strives to sue man. Therefore he who files his lawsuit the fastest is the survivor. To pre-empt this, you must live, eat, and shit as a person who has their complaint ready to file. It doesn’t matter whether your complaint, in actuality, is always ready to file, though you will look like an idiot if it is.

12. Consider: The undefeated litigator must be exceptionally poor.

13. The weak litigator reserves his citations to caselaw. He clings excessively to civil procedure. His theory of the case is unsteady. His settlement offer is too low and he is afraid to crack the earth with his step. He has a shallow and wandering gaze, his tongue is sluggish and pale. He refuses to exhale the hot breath of the Flame Immortal.

14. The weak litigator clings to victory. He thinks of his life, his obligations, the outcome of the lawsuit, his hatred for his opposing counsel, his training, his pride in his mastery. By doing so, he is an imperfect vessel for the terrible fires of Will. He will surely crack. He will not laugh uproariously if his case is cleft in two by his opposing counsel’s argument. When his arguments are shattered, his hands will be too reserved to tear his opposing counsel’s flesh.

15. The weak litigator obtains a judgment against the opposing party and thinks his task done. He relishes in victory. He casts away his arguments and returns to his lover. Little does he know his single judgment will encircle the world five times and strike him down on appeal fifty-fold.

16. The weak litigator clings to his form documents. It is better you have a form document, but arguments must lie under your fingernails, if need be. Learn argument with your elbows, argument with your knees, and argument with your thumbs and fingertips. It is said argument with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash opposing counsel’s skull.

17. In manners of venue, you must learn to cut yourself from it. You must cut even your footprints from it, if need be. Have complete awareness of each crawling thing and each precious flower, each blade of sweet grass and each clod of bitter earth, each beating heart and each being that thrums with love, hope, and admiration. Only then are you qualified to be their annihilator.

18. Excess heat and excess coldness are undesirable. Learn to read the weather.

Closing

1. It is said the greatest lawyer-kings may sublime argument and forget all they learn about litigation. This is true. But the only true path to partner lies through regicide.

2. Moreover, only the worst kind of idiot strives to make partner.

3. My extreme hope is that some measure of wisdom will penetrate the thick skull of my associate. If not, may reading this manual demonstrate your powerful disinterest in it, and may its true value die with me.

4. Reach heaven by violence.

[scary-noodlesblog]

Soulbound

Castiel x Fem! Reader

Lazarus Rising Part 1

Soulbound Masterlist

3rd Person POV:

Dean Winchester wakes up in a dark place after being in Hell for four months, or forty years in Hell time. His voice is hoarse as he slams his hands against the top of his coffin, dirt raining down on his face.

"Help! Help! Help!" He screams, the wood starting to give way, allowing him to start digging to the surface. His hand reaches the fresh air above him as he breaks through, crawling his way up to the top of the dirt.

Dean gasps and pants as he lays there for a few minutes, the sun too bright for someone who's been in darkness for four months. The hunter walks his way down the empty road in search of civilization before he finds an abandoned gas station.

"Hello?" He calls out to nobody as he pounds on the door. Dean takes off his outer shirt and rolls it around his hand, breaking the glass. After he gets inside, he gets a water bottle and starts chugging it, gasping. Dean finds a newspaper, reading September 18th.

"September..." he says in disbelief. In the gas station bathroom, Dean washes his face in the dirty sink. He lifts his black t-shirt, exposing his chest, now free of scarring or any damage he received in his career as a hunger, as well as the claw marks from the hellhounds.

Dean frowns and turns his left shoulder to the dingy mirror. He lifts the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a raw, branded handprint on his shoulder.

He leaves the bathroom, grabbing snacks and drinks, shoving them in a grocery bag. A smirk creeps on his face as he walks up to the magazine stand, thumbing through a 'Busty Asian Beauties' magazine. Dean then goes to the cash register, getting it open and looting the cash. As he is doing so, the tv turns on, showing only static.

He furrows his eyebrows and shuts it off, only to have the radio turn on to white noise. Dean quickly goes down an aisle, getting salt and pouring it methodically on the windowsills and in front of the door.

A loud, high-pitched sound reverberates through the gas station, making Dean clutch his left ear as he continues to pour salt. The sound persists, Dean dropping the salt and crouching on the floor, groaning in pain. The window above him shatters, raining glass on the floor.

~~~~~~~

After the sound stops, Dean dials his brother's phone number at a phone booth, only to get an alert tone and an automated voice that says the number has been disconnected. He hangs up, putting in another coin and dialing Bobby Singer's number.

It only rings once before Bobby picks up, "yeah?"

"Bobby?" Dean asks, hope in his tone.

"Yeah?" The older man says again.

"Its me."

"Who's 'me'?"

"Dean..." As soon as Bobby hears that he hangs up, only making Dean redial his number. "Who is this?" Bobby asks, getting more irritated by the second.

"Bobby, listen to me..." Dean begins, only for Bobby to cut him off.

"This ain't funny. Call again, I'll kill ya." Bobby grumbles.

Dean sighs and hangs the phone back on the receiver, turning around and seeing an old, beat up white car. His eyes light up as he hotwires it, driving in the direction of Bobby's house.

~~~~~~~

Your POV:

"Who was that, Bobby?" I turn the corner from the kitchen, I had been staying there since Sam went off on his own.

"No one, just a solicitor..." Bobby gave me a small, reassuring smile. I return the grin, returning to the kitchen to finish lunch for us. It was the only way to make him eat since Dean died, he felt bad if he didn't eat what I made for him.

A few hours later, Bobby was back to researching and drinking while I tidied up his books a little, just putting away unused ones. A pounding sounds on the front door, setting off alarm bells in my head. I glance at Bobby for a moment before grabbing his shotgun while he picks up his silver knife.

I point the gun at the door, hidden from the doorway as Bobby opens it. I can't see who's at the door, but a familiar voice speaks up, "surprise."

I lower the shotgun and stand behind Bobby, "D-Dean?" My voice comes out breathless, my tone full of disbelief.

Bobby stutters and looks at Dean, surprised, "I-I dont..."

Dean walks in the door, turning towards both of us, "yeah me neither, but here I am."

Bobby grunts and lunges at Dean with the knife, making me go to try and break them up, the shotgun clattering to the floor. "Bobby stop!" I yelled as Dean twists Bobby's arm, trying to make him drop the knife. An elbow is swung, not sure whose, but it hits my chest, knocking the wind out of me as my back hits the wall.

Bobby backhands Dean across the face, making Dean yell out that it's really him. "My ass!" Bobby shouts back, advancing on Dean once more. I stand back up straight again, a hand on my chest as Dean pulls a chair out, putting it between him and Bobby.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Dean pants softly, "your name is Robert Steven Singer! You became a hunter after your wife got possessed and...you're about the closest thing I have to a father. And that's (Y/n) (M/n) Singer! Your surrogate kid, you found her on a demon hunt! Bobby. It's me."

Bobby and I both step towards Dean, my eyes slightly watery. Bobby puts his hand on Dean's shoulder before lunging at him again. I gasp and grab Bobby's arm, struggling to get the knife from him. "Bobby stop! He's not a shapeshifter!"

"Then he's a Revenant!" Bobby yells back before I disarm him, holding the knife out of his reach.

"Alright, if I were either, could I do this- with a silver knife?" Dean takes the knife gently from my hand and rolls up his sleeve, wincing as he cuts his arm, showing no burning.

Realization and disbelief crosses Bobby's face, "Dean?"

I smile softly at them, as Dean comes up and hugs us both. "That's what I've been trying to tell you." Dean mumbles into my shoulder.

As Dean pulls away from us, Bobby looks at him, "it's...it's good to see you, boy."

"Yeah, you both too." Dean gives us a weak smile, which I return.

"But...how did you bust out?" I ask, tilting my head at him and crossing my arms over my chest.

"I don't know. I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box..." Dean looks down at his feet.

"That was Sam's-" I get cut off as Dean looks up, Bobby splashing holy water in Dean's face. Dean sighs and spits the water out onto the floor. "I'm not a demon either, ya know?"

Bobby shrugs, a small apologetic look on his face, "sorry. Can't be too careful."

We move further into the house. I hand Dean a towel and he dries his face. "But...that don't make a lick of sense..." Bobby's eyebrows furrow in thought.

"Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir," Dean sighs. I cross my arms again and shift my weight to my right leg. "Dean your chest was in ribbons. Your insides were slop. And you've been buried for four months. Even if you could slip out of Hell and back into your meat suit-" Bobby begins, Dean cutting him off.

"I know, I should look like a 'Thriller' video reject."

"What do you remember?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

"Not much," Dean looks down at the floor again' "I remember I was a hellhound's chew toy, and then...lights out." Bobby sits down out of the corner of my eye as Dean continues. "Sam's number isn't working. He's, uh, he's not..." He trails off, not wanting to even think that Sam is dead.

I shake my head quickly, "he's alive as far as we know."

Dean lifts his head and looks at me, "good. Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"

"We haven't heard from Sam in months," Bobby sighs.

"You're kidding. You just let him go off by himself?" Dean looks between Bobby and I, his gaze filled with disbelief and anger.

"He was dead set on it Dean. After your funeral, I helped him with a couple standard demon hunts, then he dropped me off here, saying he would be back. That was almost four months ago." I sigh, giving Dean an apologetic look.

Dean turns his head to look at Bobby, "Bobby, you should've been looking after him."

"Its not his fault," I interject, furrowing my eyebrows.

"I tried. These last few months haven't been easy, ya know? For him, (Y/n) or me. We had to bury you." Bobby huffs.

"Why did you bury me anyway?" Dean glances between us again.

"We wanted you salted and burned. Ya know, the usual drill," I lean off the wall, putting my hands on the table in front of me. "But, Sam wasn't havin' it. I tried to tell you that before somebody so rudely splashed you with holy water." I raise an eyebrow and look at Bobby who shrugs.

"Well Im glad he won that," Dean huffs a a laugh, making me nod and smile softly.

"He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said." Bobby said.

Dean's features twist slightly, showing his suspicion, "what do you mean?"

Bobby shrugs again, "he was quiet, real quiet. And then after he dropped off (Y/n) he just took off. Wouldn't return our calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found."

"Oh dammit Sammy," Dean grumbles, rubbing his forehead.

"What is it?" I tilt my head again.

"Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it is bad mojo." Dean explains, worried that his brother made a deal.

"What makes you so sure?" I ask him.

"You should've seen the grave site. It was like a nuke went off. And then there was this...this force. This presence. I don't know but it, it blew past me at a fill up joint. And then this..." Dean stands up, taking off his over shirt and pulls his sleeve up, revealing a brand on his shoulder in the shape of a hand.

Bobby stands up as I mutter, "what the fuck?"

Dean looks up at us, "it was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out."

"But why?" I ask.

"To hold up their end of the bargain," Dean grumbles, pulling his sleeve back down.

"You think Sam made a deal?" Bobby questions.

"It's what I would've done," Dean sighs.

~~~~~~~

Dean calls Sam's cell phone provider, trying to locate him as I look up any cases nearby he could be on. "Yeah, hi, I have a cell phone account with you guys, and uh, I lost my phone. I was wondering if you could turn the GPS on for me. Yeah. Name's Wedge Antilles. Social is 2-4-7-4. Thank you."

Dean hangs up the phone and walks up behind me, looking at the laptop screen over my shoulder.

"How'd you know he'd use that name?" I ask, looking up at him.

"You kiddin' me? What don't I know about that kid?" Dean chuckles, "can you type in Arc Mobile?"

I nod and search the phone company as Dean looks around the room. Dean picks up one of Bobby's empty bottles that I hadn't tossed out yet. "Hey, Bobby? What's the deal with the liquor store? What, are your parents out of town or something?"

"Like I said. Last few months ain't been all that easy." Bobby sighs, "(Y/n)'s been trying to clean them up, but I replace them faster than she can tidy."

Dean holds his gaze on Bobby for a moment, "Right." The laptop beeps and shows a blue arrow, pointing at a star on a city map.

Phone Location:

263 Adams Road

Pontiac, Illinois.

"Sam's in Pontiac, Illinois." Dean leans back, standing to his full height.

"Right near where you were planted." I point out.

"Right where I popped up. Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?" Dean asks, his voice full of suspicion.

~~~~~~~

I follow Dean and Bobby down the hall of the Astoria Motel, supposedly where Sam is staying. We stop at a door that says 207 inside a red heart, knocking on the door. A pretty woman opens the door and looks at the three of us expectantly.

"So where is it?" She asks, confusedly glancing between us

Dean looks at Bobby and I with an eyebrow raised, "Where's what?"

"The pizza... that takes three people to deliver?" She questions, the tone in her voice says 'you should know that'.

"I think we got the wrong room." I give her a nervous smile and try to apologize when Sam steps into the light. He looks down at her then up at us. "Hey, is..." he trails off and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Dean. He swallows, shocked, his eyes flicking between Dean, Bobby and I.

Dean tears up a little, his voice full of emotion, "Heya, Sammy."

I could see Sam looking in disbelief as Dean walks into his brother's room, followed by Bobby and me. We ignore the woman as she steps aside to let us in. As Dean walks up to his brother, Sam pulls a knife and lunges at Dean, giving me deja vu from Bobby's house. The woman screams as Bobby holds Sam back, I stand between the brothers, my hands out in front of me towards Sam, my back to Dean.

Sam struggles against Bobby, screaming, "who are you!?"

"Like you didn't do this!?" Dean yells back, making me yell at him to shut up for a second.

The younger Winchester looks confused for a second, "do what?!"

"It's him. It's him. (Y/n) and I already went through this, its really him," Bobby reassures Sam, who slowly stops struggling. I move to the side, out of the way of the brothers. "What..." Sam starts.

Dean cautiously approaches his brother, "I know, I look fantastic, huh?"

Bobby let's go of Sam, who has tears in his hazel eyes as he walks up to Dean, hugging him desperately. I smile softly as I watch the exchange, happy for them both, my own tears spilling over. Bobby also watches tearfully, but his don't fall.

The woman raises an eyebrow at the Winchesters, "so are you two like...together?"

I fight off a gag and turn to look at her in slight disgust, "ew what the fuck!? They're brothers!"

Sam looks at the woman like he just remembered she was there as she gathers her things, "uh...got it. I-I guess. Look, I should probably go."

"Yeah. Yeah that's probably a good idea. Sorry." Sam gives her a slightly apologetic look.

Her and Sam change their clothes, Sam now in a white button up, and her in a blue plaid shirt. Sam opens the door for her to let her out. "So, call me." The woman says with a sly smile.

"Yeah, sure thing Kathy," Sam gives her a gentle smile.

A look of offense and hurt crosses her face, "Kristy." She corrects him.

Sam continues his polite smile, "Right." The woman leaves and Sam shuts the door.

Sam goes and sits down, Dean and Bobby crossing their arms and standing over him, suspicion all over their face. I lean back against the wall, glancing between the men, literally feeling the overwhelming testosterone.

Dean speaks first, "So tell me, what'd it cost?"

Sam smiles at his brother, "The girl? I don't pay, Dean."

The older Winchester scoffs, "That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"

"You think I made a deal?" Sam looks at Dean like he just grew a second head.

"That's exactly what we think." I interject, crossing my arms over my chest as well.

"Well, I didn't." Sam retorts with his signature sass.

"Don't lie to me." Dean grumbles.

"I'm not lying." Sam says truthfully.

Dean advances towards his brother, "So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this."

Sam stands up furiously, "Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?"

"There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!" Dean yells, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt.

"Dean!" I scold, walking up to the brothers before things escalate. God, I feel like their mother.

Sam's voice breaks, full of emotion as he tears up again, "I tried everything. That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean let's go of Sam's shirt, so I back up a step or two, "It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, we believe you." I say softly.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question." Bobby says matter-of-factly.

"If he didn't pull me out, then what did?" Dean sighs. Well it looks like we have some research to do.

~~~~~~~

Dean and Bobby sit on the couch while I sit on the edge of the bed. Sam hands us each a bottle of beer and sits next to me. I open my beer and take a sip as Dean speaks, "so what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?"

Sam sighs, "well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback."

Bobby's eyebrows crinkle together, his tone accusing, "all by yourself? Who do you think you are, your old man?"

"Seriously Sam? I could've helped you?" I give him an angry look, feeling dejected.

Dean frowns as he sees something, crossing the room to see what it is. "Uh yeah, I'm sorry Bobby. I should've called, I was pretty messed up. And (Y/n), I couldn't have you getting hurt either. After Dean, I couldn't do it. Plus your dad would have my head on a pike." Sam defends himself, chuckling a little at the end.

I roll my eyes but crack a small smile, he only spoke the truth, "well I'm gonna have your head on a pike if you pull that shit again." Dean picks up a pink, flower patterned bra and holds it up, making me raise my eyebrow.

"Oh yeah, I really feel your pain," Dean teases.

"Anyways, uh, I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here." Sam shrugs, tapping his finger on his beer bottle.

"When?" I ask.

"Yesterday morning." Sam takes a sip of his beer.

"When I busted out." Dean mumbles.

"You think these demons are here 'cause of you?" Bobby glances at Dean, his eyebrow raised.

"But why?" Sam asks.

"Well, I don't know - some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow." Dean shrugs.

"How you feelin', anyway?" I ask Dean, sipping my beer.

"I'm a little hungry." He chuckles.

"No, I mean, do you feel like yourself? Anything strange, or different?" I narrow my eyes slightly at the older Winchester.

Dean scoffs, "Or demonic? (Y/n), how many times do I have to prove I'm me?"

"Yeah. Well, listen. No demon's letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They've gotta have something nasty planned." Bobby says.

"Well, I feel fine." Dean states and sips his beer.

"Okay, look, we don't know what they're planning. We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help." Sam huffs.

"I know a psychic. A few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking." Bobby shrugs and takes a long swig of his beer.

"Hell yeah, it's worth a shot. You talkin' about Pamela?" I perk up, Pamela is always nice to me, she's a good lady.

Bobby nods and pulls out his cell phone, "I'll be right back."

Bobby leaves the room and Dean stands up, intending to leave as well. I also stand up, followed by Sam. "Hey, wait. You probably want this back." Sam reaches into his collar and pulls out a cord, Dean's amulet. He places it in Dean's hand. Dean smiles at his brother and puts it back on. "Thanks."

"Yeah, don't mention it. Hey Dean, what was it like?" Sam asks with a small head tilt.

"What, Hell? I don't know, I, I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing." Dean raises an eyebrow, I could tell he was lying through his teeth, but he was sparing his brother of the details.

Sam nods, mostly believing Dean, "Well, thank God for that."

Dean gives him a weak smile, "yeah."

~~~~~~~

Bobby leads us outside and down the stairs. We walk up to the Impala and Bobby's car. "She's about four hours down the interstate. Try to keep up." Bobby gets in his car.

"I'm assuming you'll want to drive," Sam says, digging the keys to the Impala out of his pocket and tossing them to Dean, who catches them.

Dean chuckles and runs his hand over the car lovingly, "hey sweetheart, did you miss me?"

I roll my eyes and giggle, "damn Dean, are you gonna drive it or get it pregnant?" Sam laughs next to me. Dean gives me a bitch face and gets in the car, Sam getting in the passenger seat and I get in the backseat. "Goodbye passenger seat, I'll miss you." I mumble, settling in behind the brothers.

Dean looks at the iPod Sam plugged into the stereo, glaring at Sam and the device. "What the hell is that?"

"That's an iPod jack." Sam says with a grin.

"You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up," Dean sneers.

"Dean, I thought it was my car," Sam rolls his eyes.

Dean huffs and starts the car, 'Vision' by Jason Manns playing over the speakers, making Dean glare at Sam harder. "Really?" Sam just gives him an innocent shrug. Dean rips the iPod out and tosses it next to me in the seat, making me chuckle.

~~~~~~~

"There's still one thing that's bothering me." Dean says, breaking the silence as we drive to Pamela's house.

"Yeah?" Sam asks as I hum in acknowledgement.

"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit."

Dean chuckles at his own joke. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you both."

"Well, she tried. She couldn't." Sam explains.

"What do you mean, she couldn't?" Dean presses for answers.

"She fired this, like, burning light at me, and... didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something." Sam says, genuinely unsure of why.

"Immune?" Dean asks.

"Same here. I mean, I'm not the psychic one, I have no idea why I was spared." I shrug, leaning my head on the door to my right.

"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or us. She left pretty fast after that." Sam continues.

"Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?" Dean questions warily.

"Dead. For now." I answer him, crossing my arms over my chest.

Dean hesitates before asking Sam, "So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"

"No." Sam answers quickly, a little too quickly.

Dean looks skeptical, "sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on."

"Nothing, Dean. Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish." Sam says, "and (Y/n) was immune, and she's not like me."

"Yeah, well, let's keep it that way." Dean grumbles.

~~~~~~~

We knock on the door to Pamela's house, the brunette opening the door with a smile, "Bobby! (Y/n)!" She hugs Bobby tightly before turning to me and hugging me with the same strength.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," I smile at her as she pulls away from me. Pamela backs up a little and eyes Sam and Dean, and I could see Dean is eyeing her as well.

"So these the boys?" She asks Bobby and he nods.

"Sam, Dean, this is Pamela Barnes. Best damn psychic in the state."

Dean greets her flirtatiously while Sam says hi awkwardly. I nudge Sam's arm, "she's not gonna bite, you'll be fine."

"Not unless he wants me to," Pamela winks and smirks at Sam, before turning to Dean, humming. "Dean Winchester, out of the fire and back into the frying pan huh? Makes you a rare individual."

"If you say so," Dean grins at her and Pamela lets us inside.

~~~~~~~

"So you hear anything?" Bobby asks Pamela as I glance around, the house not changing much since the last time I was here.

Pamela shakes her head, "well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why."

"So what's next?" I ask while tilting my head a little.

"A séance I think. See if we can see who did the deed," Pamela explains and I nod.

Bobby furrows his eyebrows, "you're not gonna summon the damn thing here?"

Pamela shakes her head with a small smile, "No. I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal."

We all agree and Pamela starts setting up her stuff to get this séance started. She spreads a black tablecloth out and crouches down to grab a couple things from a cabinet. I look at Dean as he reads her tattoo, seeing 'Jesse Forever'. "Who's Jesse?" Dean asks her, making me roll my eyes.

"Well it wasn't forever," Pamela laughs.

Dean shrugs and smirks, "his loss."

Pamela stands up, holding several candles in her hands as she stops in front of Dean with a grin, "might be your gain."

She walks over to the table as Dean turns towards Sam and I, "dude I am so in."

Sam scoffs, his hands in his jacket pockets, "yeah, she's gonna eat you alive."

Dean holds out his arms slightly, "well, I just got out of jail, bring it." I groan and rub my face as Pamela walks by again, addressing Sam with a wink, "you're invited too grumpy."

"You are NOT invited," Dean points at Sam and grins.

~~~~~~~

Later, we sit around the table, the candles lit. I sit between Bobby and Sam as Pamela instructs us to hold hands. Once our hands are joined, Pamela teases Dean again, "now I need something our mystery monster touched." She reaches down and squeezes Dean's thigh, making him jump.

Dean lets out a nervous chuckle, "whoa. Well he didnt touch me there."

I chuckle as Pamela says, "my mistake." We close our eyes as Pamela begins to chant, "I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.

I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.

I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

I hear the television turn on, making me jump slightly, Sam squeezing my hand reassuringly. I take a breath and I hear a name. "Castiel..." I hear almost like a whisper, my eyebrows crinkling.

Pamela continues her chanting, "I invoke, conjure, and command...Castiel? No, sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy." My confusion grows, wondering if Sam, Dean and Bobby can hear the whispering too.

"Castiel?" I hear Dean question.

"Its name. It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back." Pamela explains as the white noise and static continues, the table shaking. "I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face."

I hear more whispers, the same voice warning her to stop, that its dangerous, my anxiety building up more and more. The white noise picks up more, getting louder. "Maybe we should stop." Bobby says, his voice nervous.

"I almost got it.I command you, show me your face! Show me your face now!" Suddenly the candles flare up several feet in the air and Pamela begins to scream. Her eyes fly open and are filled with a white-hot flame. She collapses; the rattling, white noise, and flames die out.

Bobby and I catch Pamela, lowering her to the floor as she screams. Bobby yells out, "Call 9-1-1."

Sam rushes into the next room to a phone as Dean kneels next to Pamela with Bobby and I. She's conscious, but bleeding and burned. Her eyelids open, revealing empty, burned eyesockets. She sobs, "I can't see! I can't see! Oh God!" I can hear Sam on the phone with the 9-1-1 operator in the next room.

[writingchalamet]

Angels Like You II

Angels Like You Chapter I

A.N: Hope you enjoyed part 1, things will be heating up from here and we will be getting a lot more Y/n and Bucky interaction!

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, violence, blood, mentions of S/A, mentions of graphic physical abuse, fluff, y/n has a child, Bucky being protective

Chapter II

Your day had begun like any other, waking to the sound of Forrest stirring on your baby monitor. You walk into his bedroom finding him sitting in his cot a beautiful smile instantly gracing his face as you enter the room, rambling the word 'mama' or an iteration of the sort over and over, you were both all smiles all morning as you most days, getting Forrest ready for day care was perhaps your least favourite part of the day, he still cried when you dropped him off and it broke your heart in two everyday. After Forrest was dropped off at day care, you start your day at work, keeping the door to the Bakery locked until your other baker joins you in an hour, you make a start on your breads taking your premade doughs out the fridge, giving them a quick kneed before placing them in their baking trays. Then onto pastries and cakes you can whip up from scratch, deciding on lemon and blueberry cupcakes with cream-cheese frosting as your 'chefs choice' for the week.

You hear a tap on the glass door and go through kitchen into the main shop to kind your employee Kay standing at the door smiling, clutching a bunch of flowers in her arms. You unlocked the door opening enough to let her in before securing the lock again, "Hey Kay, how are you?" you embrace her in a side hug "I'm good thanks, I got these flowers for the counter, I saw them yesterday and they reminded me of you, so you know" the thought brought a smile to your face in an instant. "Oh thank you, that's so cute" You find a jug to put them in, arranging the carnations on the counter next to the till. Yourself and Kay continue baking and prepping for the day ahead, finishing off some icing and glazing before placing the first batches into the display counter and finishing setting up.

The morning flew by, your regulars came in for their morning coffee and pastries, the couple of old ladies who come by once a week to pick up a loaf of bread and some cakes stopped by and had a chat, and a few college students stopped in, you were happy with how business was going, until you saw a certain head of curls across the street, dark eyes looking your way, his figure loomed over you like a dark omen, you just knew something terrible was about to happen, you could tell by the way he sat there chain smoking and swigging from his coffee cup, that was most likely not coffee, he wore a smug smile across his face while he continued to stare at you.

"Okay Boss, I'm gonna run down the road and grab some lunch, you want anything?" You tore your gaze away from the menacing stare of your ex to meet Kay's. "Uh, no I'm good thanks" she nodded and headed out the door, down the street and out of sight. You were alone. Shit. You look up again and see that Matt had moved from his spot on the wall across your shop, and was moving hastily towards you. You clamber over the counter and try to make it to the door before him, but you're too late. The sweet ding off the bell above the door ringing leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. "Get out Matt, you can't be here" you try to be firm but your voice only comes out broken.

"Or what, you gonna call the cops? You know they won't do anything" He stalks towards you until your backed up against your counter, the hard wood digging into your back. "Matt seriously, leave me alone, please" you were willing yourself not to cry but couldn't help the few stray tears that slipped down your cheeks. Matt picked up the jug of flowers smashing them down against the counter with force causing the glass to shatter, a few shards cutting your arm in the process. "Don't you fucking cry or I'll give you something to cry about" His hands wrapped around your neck cutting off your supply of oxygen while he threw you against the window, keeping you pinned there by your neck. You sputtered out a choke as tears slipped down your face, only making him grip you impossibly tighter, "You wanna fucking cry, you ran away while you were pregnant with my child, I have a right to see them, huh, where is the little brat" He shook your neck bashing your head against the glass. You only hoped he would tire himself out, he usually didn't last long when he'd had a drink anyway.

Over all the commotion you didn't hear the bell of the door opening, and you didn't see Bucky coming to stand behind Matt but thank the lord he did. "You're gonna wanna let the lady go" As soon as you heard his voice your senses ignited, your eyes opened and the tears stopped flowing immediately. Matt loosened his grip but refused to let go. "yeah or what" he scoffed before throwing his head over his shoulder catching a glimpse of your rescuer. You could have sworn you saw him recoil into himself, something you had never once seen. However his fear was short lived and soon replaced by anger once more. "Who's this guy huh? what you just opened your legs for the first guy you said hi to here, you whor-" the second his grip tightened around your neck once more it was enough to send Bucky into overdrive.

He reached forwards wrapping his hand around Matts wrist bending it backwards until you were sure you heard a snap, while Matt screamed Bucky secured an arm around you, giving you the once over, not stopping until you gave him a nod. "Oh I'm gonna fucking kill you, you stupid bitch" in a poor attempt to throw a punch Matt practically threw himself at Bucky, who didn't seem the slightest bit phased, caught Matt by his throat with his vibranium arm, squeezing until he was red in the face. Matt coughed attempting to pull back, Bucky only pulled him closer, clenching his fist all that bit harder. He pulled him close enough that his mouth reached Matts ear. "If you come near her again, I'll fucking finish the job" with those words he pushed Matt away from the two of them, Matt scrambling away and out the door nearly falling to the floor in the process. You let out a sigh you didn't know you were holding, feeling the weight of the world fall off your shoulders for just a moment.

Hot tears spill down your cheeks again in slow steady streams, burning the skin in their wake. "Thank you" you breathed out, your shaking hands reaching up to wipe your face, it's then your realise the blood dripping from a glass made gash on your arm, dripping down your fingers and onto the floor. "Hey, let me take a look at that, make sure you don't need stitches" you pull your arm away from him recoiling into yourself, "no it's fine, you've done enough, you can go, thank you Bucky" You stare at the floor the entire time watching as small droplets of blood begin to litter the tiles. "I'm not leaving in case he comes back, in fact I'm gonna patch you up and we're gonna get Forrest and go home, okay, sound good?" His hand raised to your cheek gaining your attention from your disoriented state, he wipes away the tears as they form under your eyes, brushing them away from your skin, you close your eyes for a moment allowing the feeling to sooth you.

"Alright lets get you cleaned up"

After the incident at the bakery Sam, Bucky and Sarah had been on high alert, Sam brought up the fact that they could have Torres flown in to be your own personal bodyguard, the thought daunting, that you might actually need one. Then Sarah brough up the fact that there are two more than capable 'bodyguards' here if they want to help. And that's how you ended up here, with Bucky living in your spare room for the past two nights, seemingly watching your every move afraid you'll shatter like glass.

What shocked you the most was how quickly Forrest had taken to Bucky, usually he was shy around people for weeks, hell he’s been going to nursery for a year and still won’t let some of the day care assistants hold or play with him. In a way you were glad he was so reserved, made you think that he would never just run off with a stranger, or your psycho ex. But with Bucky he was different, he seemed to open up pretty much straight away, showing him his favourite toys, wanting to sit next to him on the sofa, wherever you looked you would see Forrest’s little hand reaching up for Buck’s trying to show him something, the sight bringing a dull ache to your chest. Maybe it was the lack of a male presence in his life that made him take to Bucky so well, but you were grateful either way.

You were settling down for the evening after feeding Forrest his dinner, the three of you snuggled up on the couch watching a Disney movie before you put Forrest down for bed. You couldn’t help the warm fuzzy feeling filling your body as you watched Forrest nuzzle into Bucky’s side, his head leaning on his chest. You found your head lulling to the side more often than watching the film, admiring the pair of them, Forrest occasionally pointing to the screen and muttering some gibberish to Bucky excitedly. Towards the end of the film, Forrest had fallen asleep, cuddled into Buck’s side. “I better get him up to bed” you sighed in content beginning to sit up from your comfy seated position. “I can take him up if you want” Bucky spoke in a hushed tone, already slipping his arms around the boy and standing from the sofa. “Why don’t we go up together?" You smiled, getting up from the sofa and following Bucky up the stairs into your sons’ room, you admired the way Bucky gently placed him down on the changing table as if he had done it a thousand times, and stood aside letting you get the baby changed ready for bed. Once he had a fresh nappy and pyjamas on, Bucky picked him up once more, leaning over the side of the cot and smoothly placed Forrest down into his bed, without him stirring once. You both stood there and smiled over the sleeping baby for a moment before retreating back downstairs.

You opened a bottle of wine grabbing two glasses, heading back into the living room finding Bucky back in his original spot on the sofa once more. “I never really got the chance to thank you for the other day, or explain…” You avoided eye contact as you sat down, fiddling with the stem of your wine glass in an attempt to distract yourself. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, I’m just glad I was able to help is all” Bucky responds coyly, wrapping a hand around yours in an attempt to stop your nervous fidgeting around the glass. “Sarah spoke to me… She said that she told you guys about Matt… That you seemed pretty upset” you plucked up the courage to look in his eyes, as you did, he looked away, shaking his head. Almost embarrassed. “I uh… I don’t know what to tell you…” There was a pause after he spoke, neither of you knowing what to say. “Why do you care so much, you don’t know me?”

Bucky scoffed, seeming taken aback by your comment, as if someone caring about your well being was a problem. “Why wouldn’t I care, especially after hearing the shit he put you through, that would be enough to make any sane person mad, no?” His response seemed valid, even if you didn’t want to admit it, if it had been you that had found Sarah pregnant and sleeping in her car, hearing her situation you would have been just as furious. You understood where he was coming from. “I guess…” Your sentence trailed off and you stared into your empty wine glass. Bucky took the hint and opened the bottle of wine, filling your glass more than you normally would have, you giggled side eyeing him, tilting the glass up to your eyeline. “You trying to get me drunk Barnes, you know there’s a sleeping toddler upstairs right” you joked, clinking your glass with his, just as full. He laughed along shaking his head.

After sinking one or two bottles of wine, you felt yourself growing more confident. The wine raising a sweet pink blush to your cheeks which Bucky found undeniably cute, he found himself drawing closer to you and you let him, there was no room between you, his arm encased the back of the sofa around your shoulders, your head occasionally falling back to rest on the limb, your thigh hunched up resting on his own, as you chatted the night away truly getting to know each other. If Sam were to look in through the window Bucky knows he would have a shit eating grin plastered on his face at the sight of his best friend this close to a girl after so many years. And you couldn’t help but admit, it felt nice to be this close to someone, especially after the only relationship you had ever been in was an abusive one, you thought you would find it hard to trust, but Bucky made you feel at ease the second you were near him.

“So, what’s it like being a superhero?” you enquired eyes wide with wonder. He scoffed again shaking his head, and attribute you would soon grow attached to. “I’m no superhero doll” you shook your head, taking his glass out of his hand and placing it on the coffee table, you place yourself directly in his eyeline, practically sitting in his lap. “Oh common! You fought Thanos’ army, helped bring down that Zemo guy and you just stopped the flag smashers! And to top it off you were sergeant of the Howling Commandos. I’d say that’s pretty superhero-esque to me” you wink at him and couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the look on his face. “Okay stalker, someone’s done their homework” he laughs out, he raised his hands in defence, lowering them to rest on your lower back and his Vibranium hand on your thigh, your hands settled on his shoulders, and you gave them a light squeeze, feeling intrigued by the feeling of the metal under his shirt.

 “Of course, I had to, I’m not gonna let some strange man I don’t know stay in the same house as my son, am I?” you tilted your head to the side, eyeing him quizzically. “Of course, not” The flesh hand holding your back began to stroke up your back and you forgot to breathe for a moment. His hand stilled in the centre of your back, laying there flat and steady. You stared into the blues of his eyes, realizing now just how deep they really are. How much history they hold behind them, how many horrors he too has seen. You felt his gaze searching your own, tracing every spec on your face, you saw his eyes linger by your eyebrow where your scar was and regrettably you tore your own pair away from his face. Removing yourself from his lap, standing before him. He sat there; brows furrowed slightly in question as to why you were leaving. “I should get to bed, I have to get back to work tomorrow, but thank you Bucky for a lovely evening, thank you for everything…” You spoke to the floor before turning hurriedly towards the stairs. “Yeah, yeah, no problem… No problem at all…” Bucky spoke shallowly to himself wondering what he had done wrong.

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