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daxisyzz · 12 days ago

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One dance ౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆

Pairings: mafia!best man!Bucky Barnes x moh!Reader, bride!Natasha Romanoff x groom!Steve Rogers

Summary: Your best friend Natasha is marrying a man whose world you don’t understand. At her extravagant wedding, you’re just trying to blend in — until a pair of blue eyes finds you from across the aisle. James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s right hand, watches you like you don’t belong here… and maybe like you do.

Word count: 3.2k+

Warnings and tags: Mafia au, bestman x maid of honor, slow burn (but with instant attraction), tension and flirting, mentions of criminal activity, power dynamics, implied violence, mentions of alcohol.

A/n: Heyy! I'm back. But not really. I'm still kind of in that hiatus. This is for my 1k followers celebration!! Thank you all for being so kind and liking my stories and following me. I really had to write this for you guys, I couldn’t leave you guys hanging.

This is my first time writing mafia!bucky so please cut some slack😅. Anyways enjoy <3

Header made by me, divider: @enchanthings

And yet all your eyes could focus on was her. Natasha, radiant in ivory, her hand steady in Steve Rogers’ grasp as they faced the priest. You stood to the side, bouquet held loosely at your waist, chin lifted with quiet strength. You weren’t scared, even if everything about the setting warned you to be.

The petals scattered along the stone aisle shifted with the wind, delicate against the stark perfection of the Roman-style courtyard. Everything about this wedding screamed opulence: the marble columns, the low hum of strings echoing beneath the archways, the armed men in expensive suits pretending to be guests.

You were here for her.

So when you felt it — a tightening in your chest, like someone had just stepped into your space without moving an inch — you tried to ignore it.

But curiosity won.

Your gaze slid subtly across the stage.

And froze.

A man stood near the groom. Not in the usual sleek, designer sense of every other guest, but in a way that felt... still. Coiled. Sharp.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Short dark hair swept back. Black suit tailored to a body that could do more than just fill it out. His stance was patient, but there was an intensity in his posture that spoke of violence, barely caged. His eyes were on you.

Not glancing. Not skimming. Pinned.

You turned away, heart skipping. Your fingers curled tighter around the stems of your bouquet. Ignoring his gaze.

Across the stage, Bucky Barnes tilted his head slightly.

He hadn't meant to look at you. Not at first. But the moment he did — the moment your dress caught in the breeze and your eyes flicked up like you felt him — he couldn’t stop.

He’d never seen someone like you in this world. You didn’t move like the others. Didn’t scan the perimeter. Didn’t flirt or flaunt or pretend. You were strong without posturing. Present, not performative.

And stunning.

You looked at Natasha the way Bucky once looked at Steve. Like loyalty was oxygen. Like you'd die on a hill no one else would climb for her.

And he couldn’t stop watching you.

Not because of the dress, though God, that dress was doing something dangerous to his focus. It was the way you wore it—like it was for no one. Like you didn’t need it to be seen.

You laughed softly when Nat whispered something in your ear, and Bucky watched your nose wrinkle, the quick tilt of your head, the way you elbowed her back just enough to be affectionate and mildly threatening. And that’s when it hit him—You were real in a world where everything felt carefully arranged.

And it messed with him.

Bucky had been around women who knew what he was. Who leaned in because of it. They touched his wrist with manicured fingers, eyes flicking toward the men who nodded when he entered a room. They liked the suit, the danger, the command.

But you didn’t even look at him that way. Not once.

And that unfamiliar absence of attention had his mind spinning more than any brazen stare ever could.

You were magnetic, and you didn’t even know it.

The kind of woman a man like him shouldn’t touch. The kind of woman a man like him might ruin just by being close. But he couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know your name yet. But he already knew the way you moved through a crowd—like you were grounded when everyone else was performing their power. He saw it in the way you stepped aside so an older staff member could pass with a tray, offering a thank-you with a smile that didn’t feel obligatory.

You didn’t know the weight of the room you were standing in. Didn’t flinch when a groomsman slipped a pistol under his tailored jacket before walkingup the stage.

And maybe that’s what caught him hardest of all—You were the softest thing in a brutal place. And yet, somehow, you belonged.

Not because you were like them. Because you weren’t.

And Bucky… Bucky had spent a lifetime wading through the grey trying to remember what light looked like. And suddenly, there you were.

His fingers twitched at his side. He needed to know your name.

The officiant’s voice broke gently over the hush of the courtyard.

“You may now exchange your vows.”

It was a beautiful day. Warm sun, soft breeze, flowers draped in tasteful whites and greens. The kind of wedding only one can dream of.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something—beneath all the tulle and champagne flutes—was off.

Not wrong exactly. Just… off.

Too still. Too controlled. Like the calm before a storm that never quite hits.

You felt it in the way no one spoke above a murmur. In the way the servers moved too carefully. In the way certain men—broad, suited, eyes like glass—stood just outside the hedges, pretending to look at the sky.

It was subtle. Quiet. Like a layer of glass laid over everything.

And maybe no one else noticed. Maybe no one else cared.

But you weren’t used to weddings feeling like chessboards.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the bouquet, eyes drifting instinctively toward Natasha. She looked radiant. Focused. At peace, somehow.

You were proud of her. Happy for her. Still, your fingers tightened just a little around the stems.

And then you looked up. Across the aisle. Across the altar. To him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You’d heard the name whispered hours before—low and clipped, like it came with a warning.

You hadn’t meant to look again, but something in your chest had stirred the second the officiant spoke, and now your gaze found him before your brain could offer a reason.

He stood just behind Steve, dark suit crisp, jaw set, eyes steady. He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t already looking. He just… watched.

Not like a man trying to get your attention. Like a man who already had it, and was curious what you’d do with it. It wasn’t predatory. Wasn’t even overtly flirtatious. It was calm. Measured. Quietly certain.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because the longer he held your gaze, the more the world around you blurred. The vows, the guests, the champagne bubbles catching light. All of it dulled under the weight of his eyes. Your mouth went dry.

You glanced away quickly, heat creeping up your throat. Forced yourself to focus on Natasha, who was reading now—soft and honest, her voice dipping slightly when she looked at Steve.

You wanted to be there. Grounded. Focused. But that strange feeling hadn’t left your body.

Like you’d stepped into something delicate without realizing it. A web. A trap.

Or maybe something else entirely. Something watching you from across the stage, with eyes like frost and fire and far too much patience.

Inside the estate, everything was warm light and shadows. Chandeliers threw gold across crystal glasses and polished floors. Laughter clinked like cutlery, elegant and practiced, and you kept close to Natasha during photos and speeches.

But you knew he was still watching. And he was. From the far end of the ballroom, Bucky leaned against a pillar, eyes trained on the way you smiled politely at men you clearly didn’t want to talk to. He saw how you scanned the room before moving — not in fear, but instinct.

He noticed how you tilted your glass to avoid lipstick on the rim, how you crossed one arm protectively over your stomach during a toast.

You weren’t from this world. But you were built to survive in it.

He wanted to speak to you. But not with an entourage watching. Not with loaded glances and Steve’s subtle smirks behind his whiskey glass.

So he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

You slipped out onto the terrace sometime before sunset, heels clicking softly against the stone. The evening air was cooler now, brushing against your skin like a secret. You leaned forward on the carved railing, glass still half-full in your hand, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.

You were proud of Natasha. You were. She looked happy. Really happy.But something about all of this made your instincts hum.

Still, you weren’t scared.

Not until you felt it again. That pull. Like gravity shifting in your direction.

“You always this graceful, or is it just a ruse?”

You straightened slowly, your hand still resting on the stone. And there he was.

Up close.

You didn’t let your expression give anything away. Not the way his voice felt like it slipped down your spine or how good he looked when the setting sun caught the sharp edge of his jaw.

“You always this forward,” you asked, tilting your head, “or is this just for me?”

His mouth curved. “Just for you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that,” he said, stepping forward, slow and unbothered. “I’m Bucky.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” He smirked. “Smart girl.”

You sipped your drink, letting him watch your mouth. “You’re used to women falling at your feet, huh?”

“I’m used to women trying,” he replied, gaze lazy, voice low. “But I’ve never had one look at me like you do.”

Your brow arched. “And how do I look at you?”

“Like you’re not impressed.” His smile widened. “It’s messing with my head a little.”

You gave him a slow once-over. “Maybe I just have high standards.”

He laughed — warm, surprised. “Yeah. I figured that out the second I saw you walk down that aisle.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I almost missed the vows,” he added, a little more under his breath. “You in that dress? Christ.”

You weren’t the blushing type, but the heat at the back of your neck betrayed you. You turned slightly, so he couldn’t see the full effect. “Do lines like that actually work for you?”

“They’re not lines if I mean them,” he said simply. “And trust me, sweetheart — I mean it.”

Sweetheart. You hated how good it sounded coming from him.

You set your glass down on the ledge. “Is hovering on balconies your thing when you see someone who might bite?”

He grinned — sharp, teeth barely showing, but his eyes never left yours. “I like the ones who bite. Means they won’t break.”

“You testing me?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. The distance between you disappeared in a breath. “I already know you’d pass.”

You stared up at him, a little dizzy from the nearness, from the quiet confidence in his voice — like he could command a room with a whisper and not even break a sweat.

Your lips parted. “Maybe you’re the one getting tested.”

“Maybe I like that.”

A beat passed. The silence between you wasn’t awkward — it was charged. Like a string stretched taut between two hands.

He offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

You looked at it. Then at him. “I’m not one of your girls.”

“I know.”

“I don’t say yes just because I’m supposed to.”

His head dipped slightly, smile almost reverent. “Say yes because you want to.”

You let your gaze drift from his eyes to his mouth, slow and deliberate. “You planning to behave?”

“I’m planning to make it hard for you to walk away,” he said, eyes dark. “Is that misbehaving?”

Your laugh was quiet but real. “Guess I’ll find out.”

Your heart thumped, traitorous. But your feet moved anyway.

The ballroom was dimmer now, the chandeliers above casting golden puddles of light that flickered with every movement. The guests were beginning to drift back from the courtyard, taking their champagne glasses with them, filling the room again.

You stepped onto the floor with him, letting him draw you in, one hand slipping to your waist with practised ease, the other curling around yours with surprising gentleness. He smelled like cedar and cold air. His frame was broad, immovable, like someone built to shield or destroy, depending on the moment.

Your chest brushed his. Not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the tension in the space between you like a live wire.

It was quiet between you for a beat too long.

Then, as he turned you with precision, he murmured, “You don’t move like the others.”

Your brow lifted slightly. “Is that your opener?”

“No,” he said, tone thoughtful. “It’s just an observation.”

You tilted your head. “And how exactly do I move?”

“Like you’re not trying to be seen,” he said. “That’s what makes it hard not to look at you.”

Your breath stilled. Just slightly.

He was good. Not rehearsed. Not charming in that empty way most men were at weddings. This felt… specific. Like he actually meant it.

And God help you, your stomach tightened in response.

“You practice that?” you said, playing it cool.

He leaned in slightly, his voice a breath away from your cheek. “Do I seem like I need to?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because just then, you felt it. A shift. In the air. In the room.

You couldn’t explain it — the sudden hush beneath the music. The subtle way conversations lulled. How, one by one, eyes began to flick your way.

You didn’t know these people. But you weren’t stupid.

The tuxedoed men near the back wall? The ones who hadn’t touched a drink all night? The ones scanning the room like it was a chessboard and they were waiting for a piece to move? They were watching you.

No—him.

No. You both.

You swallowed, trying not to let it show on your face.

“What is this?” you said under your breath. “Why are they—”

“They’re not used to seeing me dance,” Bucky said simply.

You looked up at him sharply. “And why’s that?”

His mouth quirked, not a full smile. “Because I don’t.”

You wanted to step back. But his hand was still at your waist, steady, unrushed. Like you weren’t going anywhere unless you wanted to. And maybe… you didn’t.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are you?”

“I’m just the best man,” he said, gaze steady. “Same as you’re just the maid of honor.”

“That’s not what this feels like.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

He spun you smoothly, letting your hand glide along his shoulder as you turned, then caught you again just as the beat shifted. The world tilted slightly with it.

Your voice dropped. “They’re watching us.”

“They always watch me.” His voice was calm. Controlled.

Your heart thudded, unsteady now. He dipped his head closer. His lips almost brushed your ear. “I know what I look like. I know what I do. But I don’t lie. And I don’t pretend.”

You turned your face to meet his, close enough now that your breath mingled.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said.

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I haven’t looked at anyone else all night.”

You blinked. Heat spread across your cheeks.

The song wound down, notes growing softer, slower. But neither of you moved.

The rest of the room blurred at the edges — glittering laughter, clinking glasses, the soft swell of music — all of it dimmed like someone had lowered the volume just for you two.

He was still watching you, his gaze a little too steady to be casual. A little too fond.

You arched a brow. “You always stare at people like that? Must be my lucky night.”

“Just you,” he said easily. “The others flinch.”

You bit back a smile. “Charming.”

“Dangerous,” he corrected with a half-smile, voice low and smooth. “Apparently.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know. So far, you’ve been more polite than the cake guy.”

That startled a quiet laugh from him — real and unguarded. You felt the sound vibrate in the air between you, felt it in your chest a little too much.

“Didn’t peg you for funny,” he said, eyes still locked on yours.

You gave him a mock-hurt look. “Wow. I was so close to letting you buy me a drink.”

“I don’t want to buy you a drink.”

“No?” you asked, feigning offense. “Then what do you want?”

He dipped his head slightly. Close. Confident. “Another dance. At least.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Traitor.

But your voice stayed cool. “Careful. I might say yes just to make the room stare harder.”

“They already are,” he murmured. “Let ‘em.”

You glanced over his shoulder — caught the way the dark-suited men near the walls were still watching. Sharp eyes. Stiff postures. Definitely not here for the shrimp cocktail.

“Friends of yours?” you asked, like you weren’t studying their positions out of the corner of your eye.

“Colleagues,” he said, like that answered everything. “Mostly bored. One of them bet I wouldn’t get a dance.”

“And now?”

“Now he owes me dinner.”

You tried not to smile again but failed. “And what do I get?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering it.

“My attention. For as long as you want it.”

You blinked, surprised by the weight of that answer.

The music shifted, and the spell thinned just a little. But he was still close, still watching you like you were a puzzle he didn’t mind spending the rest of the night figuring out.

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not fully. But for the first time all day, you weren’t pretending.

And neither was he.

From the corner of the ballroom, Natasha watched you spin beneath the golden light — dress swaying like spilled silk, your laughter trailing just above the music.

And across from you, solid and still and terrifyingly transfixed, was Bucky Barnes.

Steve’s best man. The one with blood on his hands and ice in his veins — except, somehow, not right now. Not with you.

His touch was careful, precise, like he didn’t trust his own strength. Like holding you too tightly might break something neither of you could name yet.

But his eyes — God, his eyes were anything but careful. They tracked every movement you made. Drank you in like a man who hadn’t seen softness in years. Like you were light in a world that had long stopped being kind.

And you — you didn’t even know.

You didn’t know what kind of room you’d wandered into. What kind of empire you were dancing in the center of. You didn’t recognize the glances, the nods, the silent tension that cracked like static between the suits lining the walls.

You didn’t see the way conversations stopped when Bucky looked at you. How no one dared step in.

But maybe that was the beautiful part. Because you moved through the chaos like it wasn’t chaos at all. Like you weren’t surrounded by criminals in tuxedos. Like the man holding you had never ordered a hit or buried a body at 3 a.m.

You laughed in his space. Teased him. Challenged him.

Natasha smiled to herself, slow and sure. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass.

You had no idea what you were walking into.

But Bucky? Bucky already knew.

And she could see it written in the way his hand lingered at your waist. In the way he leaned in when you whispered something that made him smile.

He wasn’t going to let you walk back out.

Thank you for reading!! Like and reblog np. See you soon. I'll be lingering around in my blog even if I don't post anything 😙

This belongs to @daxisyzz don't copy or steal my work.

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celestiamour · 6 months ago

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‧₊˚✧ ❛[ we're doing better ]❜

ft. moon ki-yong (the salesman) x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ your husband has finally been honest with you, but what now?┊3.0k words; prt one (here)

contains: his pov, lots of perspective and lore, love at first sight, happy ending where the reader forgives him, note that sociopathic/psychopathic behavior has no known cure & that this is unrealistic fiction, he can’t be fixed but he can be here <3

➤ author's note: the long-awaited & heavily-requested part two!! the ending is sucky because i didn’t plan to write a part two and because i personally wouldn’t have forgiven him, but lots of you guys seemed to want to. i wanted to write something exploring their relationship, so i hope this is received well & that you guys will enjoy!

“i love you too, i’ll be back in the morning” were the last words you said to him before rushing out the door and disappearing to your mother’s house. that was last night, but it was now early evening with the sun finishing its descent over the horizon and you were nowhere to be seen. he briefly wondered if you were also watching it from wherever you were like he was through the window, knowing that you adored the beautiful array of colors blending into each other and always pointed it out when you were with him. he never cared for it himself and took the sight for granted until you came along. now he’s aching for your presence asking him if he thought it was pretty when you were always the prettiest sight in his eyes with the orange light reflecting on you.

his hand was itching to call you or send a text, but he decided against it. you needed your space, especially after that fateful conversation which left him with regret weighing heavy on his chest. he wasn’t sure what the regret stemmed from, if it was regret from not trying harder to keep his secret, if it was from not being more careful to hide his tracks from seong gi-hun, if it was from attempting to build a normal life, or if it was leading the type of life had in the first place. it was a mix of everything, and he hated the feeling of it.

moon ki-yong never regretted anything in his life. he didn’t regret spending his days getting a sadistic kick out of playing judge and jury to people he viewed as worthless trash when they lost against him, whether it was slapping people he was recruiting into games they would inevitably die in or spending his free time messing around with homeless people. he didn’t regret getting tangled up with the mysterious oh il-nam and the activities occurring on that island, starting as a guard and working his way up to a salesman. he didn’t regret firing a gun on his own father in cold blood when he unknowingly begged his own flesh and blood to spare him.

he’s a man who was steadfast and stubborn when it came to his fucked-up morals and ideals, always believing from a young age that it made him better than others. there was never a reason for him to change as he got older when he found himself working for a hidden organization that introduced him to the addicting taste of death, paid well, and protected him from the law if the unlikely situation of getting caught by authorities for his crimes ever happened. he never cared to do the right thing was doing wrong was just so much more suited to him, never minding the strict set of rules he had to adhere to as long as he was allowed to freely exercise his psychopathic tendencies without trouble following him. it made him feel like a god at times who was so high above normal people if he ignored that he was still an employee with a boss.

and now he’s sitting in the living room, disheveled and staring at the floor waiting for your return like a dog awaiting its master.

he couldn’t even be mad at you for storming out like that. he’s surprised about how mellow your reaction was to learning the truth of his occupation and how dirty the cash he used to spoil you was, how you didn’t scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and how you didn’t call the police— or maybe you had already called them at some point today and his friends in higher places were working to keep him safe. more than anything, he misses you, filled with a feeling of longing he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.

at first, he was only trying to look normal. the people around him started to wonder why a man as tall and handsome as he with money that flowed in like water from an unknown source he kept secret was still single. when people wonder, they start to become nosy. he couldn’t have that if he wanted to keep up the lifestyle he had, so he started searching for someone suited to be his wife.

to others, he seemed incredibly picky, never reaching out for a second date even once or even bothering to send a polite text saying he didn’t feel a connection. to him, he didn’t think he was picky enough. despite carefully combing through his options and sometimes even hiring private investigators to stalk them if needed, there was always something he missed which was a dealbreaker for him in a relationship: ignorance and stupidity, improper table manners when he reserved at a fine restaurant, running more than fifteen minutes late without traffic in the way, and most importantly for him, asking too many prying personal questions which weren’t relevant on the first date. yes, he understands that first dates are all about getting to know each other, no, he doesn’t find it necessary to talk about stupid things. although he would rather not say anything at all, he’s very particular about how quickly he shares information about himself with others and gets ticked off by anyone who tries too hard to learn more about it (he won’t admit it, but he also gets a bit threatened by it).

by the time the day his first date with you rolled around, he was ready for it to be his last before he lived out his life alone as originally planned. he lost his faith that he would find someone who lived up to his lofty expectations and received news that oh il-nam was dead. the next games were canceled to mourn the loss of the founder, and part of ki-yong wondered if he should cancel the date as well to take the time to pay his respects. he didn’t think you would be the one and believed there wouldn’t be any difference whether or not he actually showed up.

yet there was something in him that refused to pick up the phone and make up an excuse. it was indescribable like a higher power making sure that he followed the path intended for him. he told himself it was nothing but not wanting to be rude when it was only half an hour before the arranged time and because he didn’t want to pay the cancellation fee, nothing more nothing less. he never cared before if he was thought of as rude to people he didn’t intend to keep in his life for long, and he had enough money to buy the entire place if he wanted to.

so what was his problem all of a sudden?

you showed up perfectly on time, a few seconds before the clock struck, looking beautiful. it’s not a word he uses often. pretty, maybe, but not beautiful, yet it was the first word that crossed his mind when you introduced yourself. he found himself enamored by your presence and everything about it from how you carried yourself to the subtle glitter eyeshadow that made your eyes sparkle to the dainty jewelry hanging around your neck, so enamored that he forgot to accept your outstretched hand and to get up to pull out your seat for you at first.

more than easy on the eyes, dressed appropriately, good table manners, well-educated, never pressing too hard on matters he clearly didn’t want to talk about, you were quickly checking off everything on his list as his partner— although what he was really looking for was to draw away suspicions and your likable personality made you perfect for the job, he could even see you as a companion. even if you were visibly nervous, he didn’t mind, your timidness was adorable actually, akin to a little bunny being fed by his hand.

when he finally got home, he realized he was still smiling when he’s usually constantly reminding himself to do so. he also realized that he lost track of time and came back a whopping two hours later than he expected.

it was history from there, moon ki-yong, a man who saw other humans as unequal trash, had succumbed to love at first sight, which baffled him.

it made him remember a scene from his childhood, one where he asked his mother why she remained married to his deadbeat father after another night of him not showing up in favor of gambling and drinking instead of spending it with his own family. she embraced him with tears, once again reminding him of her own tale of love at first sight, and also telling him that when you’re so deep in love like she was, you’re willing to forgive them for anything.

he thought she was stupid for that. now he knows he’s truly just like his mother just like everyone said.

you were shy in the first steps of the relationship, quickly realizing that you had become a glorified sugar baby of sorts. he didn’t know how to express his affection through words nor did he have the extra time to spend with you during that time of the year, so he spoiled you with lavish gifts and wealth beyond your wildest dreams. any debts you might have were paid off, one of the nicest condos in korea was bought for you to move in together, your parent's retirement was paid off in full to allow them to stop working, and any other money-related issues were quickly covered by him. you could even quit your job if you wanted to, but you didn’t want to become too dependent on him and wouldn’t know what to do with all the extra time in your day.

it soon became clear there was a boundary not to be crossed, which was not to dig too much into his personal life. if he gave you a curt, general answer to your question, you were not to say anything more about the matter. no one you spoke to about this thought this was too strange, even when you were preparing to get married, because what was there to worry your pretty head about? you love him and he loves you, he was treating you better than a queen, and his wealth spread into your circle of people you cared about with friends getting luxury perfumes and parents getting first-class tickets to wherever they wanted. in a way, they didn’t want to ask any more questions if it meant angering him and possibly not having these things anymore.

you never liked it, but he never cared about it. they were just trivial things and he was perfectly fine with sharing what he had, or at least, that’s what he told you. it was mainly to ensure he was well-liked among them and no one would ever try to come between you.

the only people who ever did were a few snakes parading as your friends trying to steal him away from you, trying to seduce him, and getting too close for his comfort. you were too sweet to notice and always forgave it if you did, but he noticed their lingering eyes and was disgusted. it was the one time he allowed his mask to slip, calling them out for being human garbage with a polite smile on his face as they gasped in shock. if they tried to cry to you about how awful he was to them, he simply told you the truth and encouraged you to cut them off which you always did.

the garden he carefully cultivated of a normal domestic life was flourishing. you were so captivated by the colorful flowers he planted and the butterflies pollinating them that you didn’t notice how dirty his gloved hands were when ripping out anything that didn’t belong like weeds trying to sprout through the soil. he was always sure to take them off and discard them afterward, never daring to touch you with the sins of his life outside of you.

then you fell pregnant after months of trying, and while he was overjoyed at first with renovations in mind to turn one of the extra rooms into a nursery, there was an unease in him wondering if the child would turn out like him: a remorseless psychopath who would one day kill his own father as he did his. he would later by a few books about parenting, hoping that he could prevent that type of future.

time flew by and he hadn’t killed anyone in a while although he was still complicit in hundreds of deaths a year. his violent urges slowly calmed and his hand was only raised during ddakji matches, but even then, they were more gentle than before (which meant that they still stung and made their face swell up, but it was an improvement when in the past, he would sometimes hit them so hard that they could taste blood on their tongue).

the effects of being a husband and soon-to-be father were changing who he was at his very core, but it didn’t change everything he’s already done.

he was stupid to think he could have such a picture-perfect life with the woman he loved after everything. for someone who meticulously plans out things down to each syllable of the words he spoke, he didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do once he was found out.

the law couldn’t touch him, but he didn’t care about the law, he cared about you and your unborn child.

he ran his hand through his messy dark locks, sighing in frustration trying to think of a solution as he dug around the kitchen until he fished out an entire bottle of wine. he could manipulate himself out of this situation as he had done countless times before, he’s a snake with a forked silver tongue who could easily get his way just by flickering it, but the thought of lying to you again broke his once unfeeling heart. it would never be the same way again with your relationship tainted with distrust. the truth would have to come out eventually.

oh god, but what would he do without you?

before he could begin to spiral for the fourth time that day about what would happen if you left him, the familiar sound of a keypad being pressed and the front door being unlocked. he froze in place, not expecting you to come back at that very moment— but he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. he wasn’t sure of anything, simply staring at you when you caught him hunched over the counter drinking straight from a bottle of wine and looking like a child whose mom just caught him sneaking a snack at two in the morning.

“oh god, i leave for a day and you’re already a wreck, what happened to the ki-yong who’s always put together even when it’s raining?” you approached him casually, reaching up to mess around with his hair until he looked more like his usual self. there was an air of awkwardness you tried to hide and was successful for the most part, but he could read you easier than a book. you were nervous around him now, acting with slight fear and carefulness like you were inching around a predator, and even flinched when he hugged you to feel your presence and breathe in your scent.

you hugged him back after a moment, looking up at him with your voice shaking, “if it’s really… that… then i understand it would be dangerous for you to tell me, so i won’t ask any more questions… i don’t… i don’t want to leave you and leave our child fatherless…”

if you were any other person in the world, he would have smirked at the fact that he didn’t need to bother trying to manipulate you into staying with him. he would have relished his control over you and how you came back in the end, free to continue killing and asking people to play a game with him to satisfy his sadistic desires.

but you weren’t any other person in the world, you were his wife.

“you really forgive me? after knowing all that?”

“i guess love really does let you look past everything no matter how bad… at least you didn’t cheat on me as my friends suggested, that would be the real unforgivable offense…”

the topic of his occupation never came up again, but he made the choice to resign on account of it no longer fitting with his current lifestyle. the current frontman, who was an old friend of his, looked upon him fondly for his loyalty, thanked him for his service, and was even kind enough to use his connections to find him a new place to work. it was boring by his standards, but it paid well and wasn’t illegal, so he persevered. he now has plenty of things to tell you about his workplace, from the annoying co-worker who keeps showing him the most random unfunny things on the internet to how the coffee shop downstairs wasn’t half bad. mundane things that made you grin when he told you about his day, which was all that mattered to him.

you soon gave birth to a healthy baby girl with his eyes and your smile. the world became a lot brighter, even with all the sleepless nights of her crying and learning how to change diapers. she was a little joy born out of his love for you.

finally, you’re both doing better, and he no longer has to hide himself away from you.

tag list!! @tric0rd / @solatiiium / @iloveragdollcats / @sugaremedy / @pear-1206 / @orangutanjazz / @boowiththegoo / @knoepfl / @miaasmf / @queenjang21 / @larissa-slays69 / @munch3025 / @qrstarz / @capital-koreasofia / @swiftieee4lifeee / @liliylikescats / @maryyyswift / @vaenys2 / @bane-y-zane / @dynaloy / @chunkzdeluluwife / @everyonelovestay / @tomhollandtoothbrush

there will not be a part three, thank you for reading!!

#📜. her works #the salesman #the salesman x reader #gong yoo #gong yoo x reader #squid game #squid game x reader #moon ki yong #moon ki yong x reader

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rhaenyratargcryen · 1 year ago

Text

you're my shotgun lover and i want it all | tyler owens (twisters)

masterlist ❈

summary: Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells. author's note: i...wrote this...in one.......single......afternoon. my fingers hurt anyway he's so hot i have had a crush on glen powell since 2018 (set it up supremacy) but this movie reawakened something in me. i should probably watch top gun now

pairing: tyler owens x f!reader word count: 9,123 (...oopsie) warnings/tags: pWp (with, y'all!), alternate universe: canon divergence, friends to lovers, friends with benefits

also cross-posted to ao3 okay love you bye xoxo your comments and reblogs are appreciated but not required i will love you all the same i hope u like !!!! <3

all characters are 18+ these are 18+ activities minors pls do not interact my eye is twitching as i write this

It has been one hell of a week.

The tornadic activity has been off the charts – more storms built up under ideal conditions for weather hell-bent on destruction in a multiple-day stretch than you can remember ever tracking before. Your team had obviously been up for the chase, but now that the storms have passed, and the sun shines on the cleanup efforts, you can’t help but wish you’d chosen a different life path. You love what you do, but God, were you tired. Blisters have formed on the palms of your hands despite the gloves you’d donned. You could practically feel the knots forming in your neck. You shovel one more load of leaf litter before heaving the blade into the ground and leaning against it. Across from you, a backhoe is demolishing and excavating the remains of a house.

You close your eyes and try to just let the sun warm your face, thinking about how fast it can all just be gone. Mother Nature’s a beautiful force, but she can be cruel.

“Hey, don’t be slowin’ down on me,” Tyler jokes, clapping a hand between your shoulder blades. You hadn’t heard him approach, and his voice has startled you, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’re ‘bout halfway done with our part, I think.”

“No,” you reply, swiping the back of your arm across your forehead, trying in vain to clear your bangs from your eyes, but they won’t budge. Tyler reaches up and, almost as if he isn’t even thinking about it, takes the unruly pieces of hair between his thumb and forefinger and tucks it behind your ear, underneath the temple of your sunglasses, to make sure it stays this time. The action is so intimate it sends a flush crawling up your neck. You chance a look around to make sure no one else has seen. “Not slowin’ down, I promise. Just thinking about how lucky we are to be alive. How sad it is that all these people just lost everything.”

You’ve known Tyler since the two of you were in college together, fast friends who’d stuck together through a lot that could've put a strain on any other relationship, although you hadn’t studied meteorology – you’d been in school to be a librarian.

One night, he’d asked you to stay up and help him with a lab he’d missed for one of his classes, and he loves to say he knew it then – that you were hooked – but you were too far along in your degree to do anything about it now. Switching from an arts degree to one in STEM? You’d have had to start over from scratch.

Tyler had formed his team while you were in grad school and he was working as a cowboy for the rodeo back home, and you’d dropped out without a second thought when he asked you to be a founding member, to travel the country with him every tornado season. Said he wouldn’t – couldn’t – think about doing it without you. You’ve been riding with him ever since.

The two of you share everything, always have, and sometimes you wonder if it might be too much for the professional relationship you’re supposed to have.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Tyler grins, the hand still glued to your back rubbing gently, sending goosebumps across your skin under your shirt. “To help ‘em feel like their luck is turnin’.”

Always the optimist, Tyler Owens. He clears his throat, the hand on your back pulling away, and steps slightly closer to you.

“One of the folks over there gave these to me,” he says, gesturing to a group of people gathering in front of a house that looks like something had tried to suck it into the ground from dead center. “I saved their cat from their screened-in porch, poor thing had been yowling all night apparently. Know these’re your favorite, so, here you go. I think you earned it.”

You take the tin from him and open it, your mouth instantly watering at the sight of the small, round butter cookies inside. “God,” you groan, picking one up and taking a bite, savoring it over your tongue. You can feel Tyler watching you carefully. “Thank you. You get me.”

“Do we get cookies, Tyler?”

Lily’s voice sounds from your left, and you glance over at her. The shit-eating look on her face tells you she did see Tyler fix your hair for you. Your stomach somersaults.

“If you’re good,” Tyler says, smirking, “after the sun sets, we can head back to the motel, find some shitty bar, and drinks’ll be on me, okay? How’s that sound?”

Lily whoops, turning to Dani, who’d since appeared beside her, and the two snicker and fist bump.

“You need any help over here?”

You look back at Tyler, cupping one hand above your eyes to shield them from the sunlight. Despite your glasses, it shines bright from directly behind him, and you can hardly stand to look at him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you murmur in reply, bending down to toss some siding that had been blown off one of the houses on this street into the wheelbarrow you’ve been using. “You should go see what Boone’s up to – I don’t think anyone has seen him in a minute.”

No doubt Boone was hiding somewhere with one of the breakfast burritos Lily and Dani have been rolling since early that morning, seeing how long he can get away with not doing his part. He’s a good guy, but the manual labor side of the job isn’t really his thing.

“Eh, he’s better off wherever he is,” Tyler laughs, and a small smile takes over your face, too. “Hey, you sure you’re okay? You don’t need a break? You can take a minute to yourself, no one’ll judge. I know how this can all get to you a little more than it gets to everyone else.”

You know him well enough to know he’s not calling you weak-stomached, that he’s genuinely concerned for how you feel, but he’s right. It does all get to you. Settling in to help survivors of these natural disasters is just something that comes with the chasing – there isn’t one without the other for you and the rest of the crew. You nod, glancing back up at him.

“I’m okay, Tyler. Go off and be the face of the operation – you don’t have to worry about me.”

Tyler’s eyes narrow, his gaze shifting between your eyes, trying to find evidence you’re withholding the truth from him, but he seems to find nothing. With a minute tip of his head, he turns to resume working through a long-term plan for rebuilding the town with the mayor and some other members of the local government.

This is something else you know he loves to do – shmooze with higher-ups, show off his people skills. Not only are they higher-ups, they’re small-town folk. His kind of people. He knows how to get through to them, how to get them to trust him. You love that about Tyler. He’s never condescending – he always has a genuine desire to help. He’s been through this hundreds of times, and these people may only have been through it this one time. You look around at them, at the people of all ages picking up the pieces that remain of their community, then cross your fingers and send a thought out to anyone listening:

Please let it be the only time.

After a few more hours of genuinely back-breaking work, you hear Tyler’s sharp whistle and know it’s time, meandering over to his truck where it’s been parked for almost eighteen hours. Using your teeth, you pull your gloves from your hands and hiss. They’ve been rubbed raw, the skin blistering where each finger meets the palm. You try to ignore the throbbing sensation, leaning against the passenger side door and closing your eyes. The rest of the crew sidle up to you, taking long drags from water bottles and cigarettes and trying to make peace with how you’re leaving this place tonight.

“Does anyone else want to break off to shower first?”

It seems Dani’s the only one, and they shrug, putting their hand out, palm up, to Dexter, who hands them the keys to the RV.

“Meet y’all there,” they say, stifling a yawn, and you know it’ll be a bit before you see them. The rest of you will have to pile into Tyler’s truck, and before you can object, the other three crawl into the back seat and leave you on the front bench with Tyler. You let yourself in and close the door behind you, buckling and watching as Tyler shakes someone’s hand and hustles to meet the rest of you. His Texans cap hits the bench before he does, between the two of you, and he turns his keys in the ignition, buckling his own seatbelt.

“Where we headin’?”

“There’s a place with a mechanical bull nearby. I vote there.”

“How nearby is ‘nearby,’ Boone?”

“Uh,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, does a quick Google to double-check. “Forty-five minutes?”

Dexter leans over and grips Boone’s phone, reading the screen. “In the opposite direction of the motel, Boone.”

Everyone groans, objecting, and you press your hand against your temple to alleviate the pressure there. The noise, God, the noise.

“Could we go somewhere closer to the motel, maybe?”

“It’s got a mechanical bull,” Boone stresses, and everyone rolls their eyes.

“Boone, you know damn well we’re not making it back to the motel if we go that far away.”

He groans, and you pull your own phone out, checking Maps to see what’s around the motel.

“This one’s three minutes from where we’re stayin’,” you say, showing Tyler your screen, and he nods, shifting into reverse, backing out, and starting down the one lane of the street that’s been cleared of debris.

“Hey Boone,” you toss over your shoulder as Tyler shifts into second gear. “By the way. Long time no see.”

Lily snorts, smacking you on the shoulder to let you know she thought that was a good one. Boone shakes his head.

“Hey, just because you didn’t see me all day doesn’t mean I wasn’t out there, too. How do I know you were workin’, weren’t sitting on your ass in the shade somewhere, hm?”

You hold your raw, red palms out for him to inspect and that shuts Boone up quick. Tyler whistles as he gets an eyeful of your skin.

“God damn, girl,” Lily murmurs. “That looks like it hurts. I think I might have Aquaphor in my bag back at the motel if you want some.”

“I’ll be alright,” you reply, knocking your elbow against her knee behind you in thanks. “Appreciate you.”

The rest of the drive is taken mostly in silence, everyone in the backseat trying to rest their eyes, but you stay up, your eyes on the road, so Tyler isn’t the only one making the thirty-ish minute drive back to where you’re staying, where you checked in only after it’d been decided which towns had been hit the worst, so you could reach all of them easily by truck.

“What’s goin’ on in your head? Hm?”

You turn to look at Tyler and he glances at you from out of the corner of his eye, then at your lap, at the fingernails you’ve picked down to the quick. “Real quiet over there.”

“Nothing,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t let Boone get to you,” Tyler says, tapping his right fist on your thigh once, twice, then letting it rest there. You brush your knuckles against his and he opens the fist immediately, taking your hand in his but not squeezing, careful not to put pressure on the blisters on your palms.

“It’s not that,” you start, then realize your mistake, your admission. “I really – I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”

You’re acutely aware of your hand in Tyler’s. It’s not like you’ve ever been shy around him – your cheeks flush at the thought – but this is…different. Sweet. More.

“Yeah, that it has,” he sighs, adjusting his left hand on the steering wheel so he can drive a little more comfortably, but his right hand stays in yours.

You settle back into silence, Tyler seemingly having dropped the subject, and your eyes return to the road, but you feel him looking over at you, checking on you, every once in a while. You try your hardest not to meet his gaze.

Soon enough, Tyler is putting the truck in park, then shutting the thing off. The noise – or lack thereof, you guess – wakes Dexter in the back, then Lily, who snorts when she sees your hand in Tyler’s. You pull away and unbuckle your seatbelt, watching as Tyler, with a hurt look on his face, wipes his hand on his jeans and swings himself down and out of the truck.

“C’mon, Boone,” he shouts, slapping a hand on the door that Boone has his head resting against, and the man sits up straight, wiping sleep from his eyes. “The sun hasn’t even gone down yet. Drinks on me, pal!”

The motel really is that close to the bar, so you all decide you’ll leave the truck parked there and walk home at the end of the night. The unspoken verdict is that you will all be getting shitfaced tonight.

The lingering smell of cigarettes in the air seems to rejuvenate everyone and Lily pumps a fist when she spots the old-fashioned jukebox across the room, then claps a hand over her mouth when she realizes there’s a TouchTunes sitting right next to it.

“Oh, I am so forcing you fuckers to listen to Chappell Roan all night,” she says gleefully, and you laugh along with her, looping your arm in hers and letting her pull you across the room while the boys settle in at the bar.

“So what was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” You play dumb, shrugging when Lily gives you a hard look and unhooks her arm from yours.

“Girl, seriously,” Lily scoffs, bumping your hip with hers and slipping a twenty dollar bill into the TouchTunes. Evidently she wasn’t joking when she meant you’d be listening to Chappell Roan all night. “I saw that thing earlier, the hair thing, don’t think I didn’t. And y’all holding hands in the truck. What’s going on there?”

You shake your head but she grabs your wrist. “I’m serious, Lil. Nothing’s going on. We’re friends – good friends. He noticed I was having a hard time today, and wanted to make sure I was alright. That’s all.”

You can tell she doesn’t fully believe you, and when she opens her mouth to object, you cut her off.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom, okay?”

Lily watches you, trying to read the small line between your eyebrows, but eventually she nods and lets go of you, letting you turn away from her. You push through the door to the women’s restroom, your nose wrinkling at the smell, but you ignore it. Standing in front of the sink, you watch yourself, hands shaking. This isn’t you. You’re better than this at shoving these feelings for Tyler down, way down – or, rather, you had been, up until this week broke you, apparently. Turning the knob for the cold water to the left, you let it run over your sore hands, hissing at the feeling. Carefully, you cup your palms and watch them fill, then splash the water onto your face, soothing the flush. There. That should help.

There’s a cold bottle of Coors in front of the seat next to Dexter when you arrive back to the group, “Red Wine Supernova” playing from the speakers. You almost snort at all the old men – regulars, no doubt – groaning out their distaste for whoever chose the music all across the room.

“Thanks,” you toss over your shoulder at Tyler, sitting on the other side of Dexter and Boone. He nods and nurses his own. You frown and settle onto the stool, leaning an elbow on the bartop so you can turn and face your friends. The cold beer against the palms of your hands feels so nice.

What’s wrong with him? He won’t make eye contact with you, and you notice his jaw clicking as he grits his teeth. What’s got his panties in a twist?

As the night unfolds, you find yourself laughing more and more, loosening up, letting the stress of the last week fade into memory. Someone has produced a deck of cards from God knows where and Dani – who did join the group eventually – is showing off card tricks you didn’t even know they knew. You feel a warmth spreading through your body, and you can’t stop thinking about how much you love all of these people. Your friends. Your family. Empty bottles are swiftly replaced with full, cold ones without notice, and everyone is languid, relaxed, unburdened by the work that you’re all doing.

You take a pull from your drink, using the cover of the bottle to risk a glance to Tyler three seats down from you to find that he’s already watching you, and the look in his eye tells you exactly what he’s thinking. That somersault-y feeling is lower than your stomach now. You’re only three beers deep, but the air in your head reminds you that you’ve barely eaten all day, so you’re a little more affected by the alcohol than you’d usually be. Impolitely, you reach across Dexter next to you to grab a handful of peanuts from the basket to his left.

Glancing back up at Tyler, you meet his heady gaze again, and he smirks around the lip of the bottle against his mouth. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you. You swallow nervously around another sip of beer.

Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells.

“Alright, y’all,” Lily says, slapping a hand on the bar, startling you out of your thoughts. You watch her, popping a nut into your mouth. “Think I’m gonna head out. I suggest you all do, too, fuckers, it’s late.”

Everyone starts to protest, but one glance at the clock tells you you’ve all stayed much longer than you thought – it’s a quarter past midnight, and you’ve got to be up with the daylight. You balk, but if you want to talk to Tyler tonight, you know you’ve got to shoulder your exhaustion and stick it out a little longer.

“I think I might stay for a bit,” you murmur, watching everyone stand and gather their things. You glance over at Tyler, who you can see clearly now that everyone’s out of their seats, and he’s watching you, too. The look on his face reads plain, now – he wants you.

“I’ll stay with her,” he says, eyes on yours. The green in them has disappeared almost completely, you notice, his pupils blown wide. “Walk her back. Y’all head back if you want.”

“I might stay, too –” Boone’s voice cuts off, coughing as Lily elbows him in the stomach, maybe a little too hard. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re going to bed, too, Boone,” Dani interrupts, a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the door. They poke him once when he starts to protest. “C’mon, now.”

Everyone shuffles out the front, Dexter calling good night, and all of the sudden, it’s just you and Tyler. You don’t know why, but your palms begin to sweat at the thought of being alone with him again. He stands, palming his drink, and slides onto the seat next to you, his body angled towards yours.

He’s never made you nervous like this. You don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you.

“So,” Tyler starts, grinning at you. “You come here often?”

You snort, emboldened by the booze, and he chuckles in response. “Idiot.”

“God, but I do love making you laugh.”

You blush under his scrutinous gaze, and take a quick swig of the dregs of your drink, unsure what to say to that. He mirrors you, taking a sip of his own while his eyes bore into yours. Accusatory.

“You don’t do it much anymore, you know that?”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

You press your fingertips to your mouth and Tyler’s eyes follow your hand. “I guess I just haven’t had much to laugh about lately,” you start, sighing deeply. “Tornado season’s been hard this year, and you know how much that – it gets to me. As much as I love what we do. You know. Remember that family a couple weeks back whose daughter was stuck under her bunk bed when it pressed on her too long, lost her leg below the knee? That got to me, Tyler. It did.”

“It gets to me, too,” he murmurs, knocking his knee against yours. “I guess I’m just better at hiding how bad it affects me. You can talk to me about it, though. You can talk to any of us.”

“I know I can,” you breathe, trying to keep your hands from shaking. “I know. Sometimes I don’t know what to say, though, you know, what is there to say? It’s not fair to complain about how sad it makes me to watch these people lose everything.”

“You’re allowed to feel sad. And to feel frustrated. It’s not fair, you’re right, but we’re doing good work, yeah? Fighting the good fight. Figuring out what makes these things tick, how to warn people when they’re in the path, get them outta the way and safe. Maybe they lose their house, their car, but they won’t lose themselves, or each other. That’s what matters most. Just remember that.”

You look up at him, set your elbow on the bartop, and prop your chin on your open palm. Your hands don’t hurt so bad anymore, you notice. “Thanks, Tyler.”

“Anytime,” he smiles, but you shake your head.

“Seriously. You always know what to say.”

A look crosses his face then, too quick for you to read, and he sets his drink down, flagging the bartender over to close out the team’s tab. You frown, wondering if you’d, ironically, said the wrong thing.

“What’s up?”

Tyler looks back to you, and this time, the look in his eyes is unmistakable. It burns. “Taking you home, sweetheart.”

The walk back to your motel is done in silence. Tyler’s hand swings next to yours, and you feel it searching for yours more than once, but you don’t take it. You climb the stairs together, slowly, and he walks you to your door. His room is one more floor up.

You can tell he thinks you won’t invite him in, that you’ve changed your mind – or maybe that you never made it up. He hadn’t, after all, told you plainly that that was why he’d stayed with you at the bar. You unlock the room with your key card and step inside, opening the door only far enough for you to fit through it. You turn back to look at him, his face awash in the street lights shining into the hallway. You flip the lightswitch on next to you, illuminating the room behind you, too.

“Well,” he murmurs, making to head back down the stairs. “Good night.”

“Tyler?”

His head turns back to look at you, watching as you hold out one hand and he takes it, letting you pull him closer to you. You press yourself into him, push your whole face against his chest, your hip keeping the door from closing on the two of you. You inhale deeply, the smell of him overtaking your senses. His cologne, yes, but underneath that, the smell of dirt, earth. Home.

You feel his arms wrap around your back and you turn your head to the side, press your ear to his heartbeat. Your hands come up to scratch down his back and you feel it when he shudders.

“Stay?”

You hear his breath hitch in his chest, then the deep rumble of his voice as he says, “Alright, baby.”

With a short inhale, your eyes flutter, nearly closing at the term of endearment. You step back, pulling him with you, and as you close the door behind you, he pushes one hand up into your hair and pulls your head toward his.

“I, uh,” you whisper against his lips when they get close enough to yours, “I think I might shower first, if that’s okay with you?”

“Alright,” he murmurs, unlacing his hand from the strands of your hair before toeing his boots off and carefully setting them under the chair next to the front door. “You want company?”

You swallow. You’ve never done anything like that before. It’s always been quick. When you do this with him, you hardly ever have time for a chat before he’s got your shirt over your head and his mouth on your skin.

“Sure,” you reply. You feel him watch as you turn around and pull your shirt off, reaching back to unclasp your bra. The modesty feels redundant, but you can’t help it.

“Not gettin’ shy on me now, are you? S’not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he chuckles, and you throw a look at him over your shoulder just as he’s pulling his own shirt over his head. He left his hat at the bar, you think. You’ll have to go back in for it when you pick up the truck.

“Tyler,” you scold, and he laughs at you, steps across the room to wrap an arm around your torso and press a kiss to where your neck meets your shoulder. The place he knows makes you melt. You sigh and push back against him, the feeling of his hard chest against your bare back a welcome one. This feels more like what you know, what you’re used to.

“Shower,” you remind him, and he nods, his forehead pressed into that spot now, and he pushes his fingers underneath the waistband of your jeans, running them along the bit of skin there around to the front, where the fabric splits at the button. He pops it undone, then uses his thumb and forefinger to grip the zipper and slowly – so slowly – pulls that down. He can’t help himself, you know that, and so you hold your breath and wait for him to push his hand into your panties. Ever a predictable man, he does just that, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm hand against you.

“Are you sure?” Tyler’s breath against your neck makes you shiver, and you press your ear to the side of his chin. He runs his fingers along the seam of you, finding first your clit, your legs twitching at the sudden rush of pleasure when he brushes his hand against it, then pushing down to find you wet and wanting. You cry out softly. “You don’t sound sure. You don’t feel sure.”

You hum, your neck stretching back until your head is pressed to his chest, and he pulls his hand back up to start working small circles on your clit, your wetness on his fingers allowing for smooth movement, with just enough friction to have you panting for more.

“Sounds more to me like you kinda want me to fuck you with my fingers.”

“Tyler,” you whimper, telling him with just his name that you are getting close. He smiles against the side of your neck, pulling his hand away and shoving your jeans and underwear down just enough that his hand has room to smack your clit lightly. You squeal, right leg kicking out at the feeling, and he continues moving his hand in circles to soothe the hurt.

Your breath is coming out of you in short huffs, and before you can come, Tyler takes his hand off of you and wraps it around your stomach to join the other. You pant and whine, rubbing your thighs together to chase the feeling he’d had you practically pressed up against, now ebbing with the loss of his fingers.

“You said you wanted to shower,” he whispers in your ear, pulling your panties back up, and you scowl, pushing away from him. He laughs and holds his hands up in defense as you pick your t-shirt up off your bed and crack it at him like a whip. “Let’s shower, baby.”

“I might kick you out right now, Owens,” you snark, but the small smile on your face gives you away, and Tyler unbuttons his own jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor at the end of the bed. Your jeans join his, and you’re both left in your underwear.

“You wouldn’t,” he replies, pulling his briefs off slowly, biting his bottom lip as you watch him. “You like this cock too much.”

You can’t help laughing at him, but the sight of him bare in front of you does have you biting your lip. You step forward to cup his growing length in your hand. Before you can move it, Tyler puts a hand on your wrist.

“How’s your hand?” He makes to pull it away, presumably to turn it over and appraise your blisters, but you shake your head.

“S’fine,” you whisper, tightening your grip. You tug once, twice, and press a kiss to his bare chest, then tip your head back to search out his lips. He leans down to oblige you, his lips parting against your mouth as you twist your fist. You love these moments you share with him, when you’re both bare, physically, emotionally, away from the real world, and you can pretend this is an everyday thing. When you’re not trying to tell yourself you feel nothing for him. Like this is just how it is between you.

Tyler groans when you pull your hand away from him and you click your tongue, press that same hand against his bicep.

“Doesn’t feel so good, now does it?”

Before you even know what’s happening, Tyler is picking you up, one arm underneath your back and the other around the backs of your knees. You look up at his face and laugh. “Put me down, Owens!”

He grins and carries you the few paces into the bathroom, placing you on your feet in front of the tub. Tyler leans down and pushes his thumbs underneath the waistband of your panties, waiting for you to put your hands on his shoulders and step out of them.

He lets you pull away from him to turn the hot water on, adjusting the cold side until the temperature is perfect, before pulling you against his chest once again. This time, you can feel his hard cock pressed against your backside, and you hum appraisingly. You reach behind you to fist him again, but he shakes his head – you feel his chin brush against the top of your head – and he groans out, “Mm-mm.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna shower, baby, c’mon.”

You glance back towards him and watch as he flicks the overhead light on. “So we don’t slip and die,” he says, and you laugh, pushing the shower curtain to the side. Holding Tyler’s hand, you step over the lip of the tub and under the steady stream of warm water, inhaling deeply when it hits the sore muscles in your shoulders and back. Tyler groans at the feeling, too, when he steps in behind you.

“Here, switch with me,” he murmurs, guiding you by your waist until you’re the one underneath the water. You let it fall onto the top of your head, over your face and down the back of your hair, for a moment, eyes closed, relishing the feeling. Tyler reaches both hands up and brushes the water out of your eyes, runs his hand over the top of your head.

“Shampoo?”

You open one eye, the other shut against the water, and nod. You gaze up at him, heart squeezing at the way he’s watching you. His smile widens and he takes the tiny bottle in his hand – it looks even more comically small now – and dumps the product into his other palm, setting the bottle down onto the edge of the tub and rubbing his hands together.

“Turn around.”

You do as he asks, inhaling sharply through your nose when you feel his hands run through the hair at the crown of your head. Your stomach aches with longing as you register how unnaturally intimate this is. His fingers feel so good against your scalp, which is slightly sunburnt, you’re now realizing. He massages the shampoo further into your hair, running his fingers down the back of your neck and across the tops of your shoulders. When he’s satisfied with his shampoo job, he steers you by your arms to face him again, then carefully helps you tilt your head back and rinses it all from your hair.

You watch him pick up the other small bottle from the shelf, warm water still running down the back of your head.

“I’ll do my conditioner,” you murmur, taking the bottle gently from his hands. “It’s a – it’s a science.”

“I am very good at science, if you can recall.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s something I’ve gotten perfectly right. It’ll take just a sec.”

So you work the conditioner through the ends of your hair, avoiding his gaze as he watches your hands first coat your hair in the product, then rinse it out. He reaches forward to run his own fingers across it, as gently as he can.

“Hm,” he makes the noise in the back of his throat, pulling his hand away. “Soft.”

You can hardly look at him, the twisting feeling in your stomach shifting to something warmer, something further from apprehension, something that feels a lot like want. “You?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’m good. Here,” he says, rubbing his hands across the plane of your upper back. “You’re tense. You worked hard today. Let me help.”

You weren’t going to protest, but before you can, Tyler guides you forward and out of the direct spray of the shower, then presses his thumbs into your muscle. You groan, your head falling forward onto his chest at the feeling, and he chuckles at you, continuing with his hands. “Feel good?”

“So good,” you whimper, and you feel his cock twitch against your stomach.

“You fucking dog,” you joke, and Tyler laughs against you, pushing your hair off the back of your neck and pressing his thumbs in there, too.

“Hey, what can I say? I like making my girl feel good.”

You freeze. His girl? His girl. He hasn’t noticed your reaction, and he keeps pressing his fingers into your sore muscles, pulling one hand away briefly to push the showerhead down and away from the two of you. You glance up, already missing its warmth, but you find that the steam rising around you is doing a good enough job at that.

“Here, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead and guiding you to press your hands against the tiled wall to your left, running his hands down your back.

“What are you –”

Before you can finish the thought, you feel Tyler’s fingers parting the seam of your cunt from – from behind, and you groan at the feeling of his middle finger slipping inside of you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans, his knees hitting the floor behind you. You toss a glance at him over your shoulder and your own knees nearly buckle at the way he’s looking up at you – with hunger, and with reverence, and with something else entirely unrecognizable. He looks wild. He looks in love.

One of Tyler’s hands clamps down around your hips and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh as his finger starts to shift in and out of you. You shiver and push your face into the cool tile, groaning softly when he finds that rough bit of flesh inside of you, the one that makes you come undone if he works it long enough.

“Yeah?” Tyler sounds fucked out already, his voice breathy against your skin, and you can picture the look on his face, the concentrated expression he gets when he’s trying to make you come. You try to focus on the feeling of the shower’s spray where it hits the edge of your foot rather than how good his finger feels inside you because if you think too closely about how good it feels, you’ll get lightheaded. And nobody wants that.

“Yeah,” you reply weakly, and for a few minutes it’s just like that, the only sound in the bathroom the shower, your panting moans, and the noise your pussy makes as he pulls his finger in and out.

“Sound so good for me, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh again, and you whine, trying to protest when he slips his finger from you. He laughs deep in his chest and lightly smacks the swell of your ass.

“Don’t complain when I’m doin’ somethin’ nice for you,” he jok, and you can feel then that he’s shifting himself around. You want to look over your shoulder, want to see for yourself what he’s doing, but freeze when you feel his palms cupping your ass, his nose pressing against the inside of your thighs.

Your mouth forms the word oh, but no sound comes out until you feel his mouth press against your cunt, tongue pushing inside of you, and then you cry out, chest heaving, when he presses a sloppy, wet kiss to your clit. You pull your face from where it’s still resting against the tile and look down at Tyler to find he’s already looking right up at you. His grip on your ass tightens when you make eye contact with him, and he spreads you open wider for him, eyes narrowing as his tongue flicks again, and again, and again.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he moans against you, the vibrations causing your legs to twitch. You already thought you were going to burst, the steam from the shower, the way he’d washed your hair, the fact that he was in your room at all – it all made you feel slightly insane. To add insult to injury, he’s just pushed two fingers inside of you and immediately found the spot that takes you out, and you start to shake a little.

“Tyler,” you whine, pushing one hand down to grip his hair. He groans when you tighten your hold on it, fucking into you a little faster. “Tyler, fuck, gonna come.”

“So come, baby,” comes his reply, and you do, you come so hard that the toes on your right foot curl until you’re on tiptoe and Tyler has to reach up and grip your waist to steady you. You feel it crest, and peak, then subside, but he keeps working you through it, his mouth moving against you still, and a second, smaller – though still good – orgasm wracks your body right after the first.

You breathe through it, push your foot down so you’re standing flat on the surface of the tub again, and wait for Tyler to pull his fingers out of you.

“Baby,” Tyler groans, squeezing your hips, his fingernails biting slightly into your skin. “You gotta let go’a me, if you want me to get up.”

His voice, fuck, his voice, you think, releasing your grip on his hair and turning to watch him rise from his knees, the tile cold against your back. You surge forward to kiss him square on the mouth and he catches you, smiles against you when you part your lips to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Was that good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, pressing one, two, three more quick kisses to his mouth, before he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “So fucking good.”

Neither of you bother with a towel, instead opting to stumble toward the queen bed in the middle of the room and climb right underneath the covers.

“Hi,” you whisper when you’re settled in, the duvet pulled up under your chin. Your eyes rove over his face, then glance over to the alarm clock behind him. 1:56 in the morning. “You still wanna fuck?”

Tyler snorts, reaching over to poke you in the side, gripping the skin there until you start to laugh. “You still wanna fuck?”

“Yeah,” you reply, grinning, when you catch your breath. “Wanna?”

He’s quiet for a second, watching the duvet rise and fall with each breath you take, before he peels it off of you, using his elbow to push himself up until he’s leaning over you. There’s a rosy flush on your chest, your breasts heaving and it’s all he can do not to lean down and take one of your nipples in his mouth, the one closest to him. Instead, he runs the back of his other hand across your chest, catching against the hard peak, and watches your breath stick to the inside of your throat. You feel yourself subconsciously leaning toward him as his face comes toward you. You want him to kiss you, but instead, he angles his mouth to kiss the skin below your chin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your neck, pressing his open mouth to you there, and you gasp at the feeling – of his mouth against you, and of his praise. It all feels so nice. He just made you come in the shower, and now he’s going to make you come in this bed, hopefully more than once.

You wrap your hands around his back and pull him toward you, watch as he settles in between your thighs. You can feel his thick cock, heavy, insistent, where it presses against you, and you want to take him into your hands, but he has other plans.

With one hand pressed into the pillow on either side of your head, Tyler uses his knees to knock your legs out further, sitting back against his heels when he’s satisfied. He wraps his big hands around your thighs and pulls you closer, smiling down at you. “You’re so beautiful.”

You blush when he repeats himself, suddenly feeling very bare. He’s just as naked as you are, but you can’t help but feel like he’s seen your whole hand, meanwhile you hardly have any idea what cards he might hold. In the dim light from the lamp beside your head, you notice that you can see the green of his irises again. It seems like the shower sobered the two of you up very quickly.

His gaze locked on yours, Tyler takes himself into his hand, groaning at the pressure of his grip after neglecting his own want for so long, but he suddenly curses, pausing just as he’s about to press inside of you.

“What?”

“I don’t have a condom,” he breathes, sitting back again. He runs one hand through his hair, visibly weighing the options.

“It’s okay, Tyler,” you murmur, leaning up onto your elbows. “It’s okay. I have an IUD, and I got screened after the last time I was with someone. I’m good. I’m good if you’re good.”

Tyler heaves a heavy sigh, running his hands up your thighs. “You’re sure? I’m clean, too, cross my heart. But only if you’re sure.”

You nod. “My head is clear. I think I shook off my drunk an orgasm or two ago.”

A grin crosses his face, and you roll your eyes at him before he even opens his mouth. Two? he mouths, then whistles lowly. You smack his stomach, and he grabs your wrist in his hand, lightning quick, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there. Your jaw falls slack, and you go all soft and pliant, letting him pin your hands above your head. His body comes down over yours, and his mouth presses to your cheek, then your forehead, and when your eyes flutter shut, the ghost of a kiss crosses them, too.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, and normally if a man were to say that to you, you would immediately regret letting him into your bed. But for some reason, when Tyler says it, it sends that familiar warmth spiraling down into your gut. You know he means it.

Slowly – too slowly – he guides himself back to your entrance, shifting his hips so they’re resting comfortably against yours, and he presses himself inside of you. You hiss; the girth of him, although a welcome stretch, is also a bit of an uncomfortable one. He leans down to kiss you, working you through it with a thumb pressing circles into your clit, sliding himself in bit by bit until he’s fully seated.

A groan pushes out of him when you clench around him, testing the waters.

“Careful,” he murmurs, easing his hips back. “I’d like it if this lasted longer than ten seconds, please.”

You laugh against the side of his head, pull your hands down from where he’d left them above you and wrap yourself around his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Tyler grips your thighs and starts to work himself in and out of you, carefully, gently, but you squeeze his waist with your knees. Encouraging him. Asking him to pick it up. You can handle it.

His hips start to pull back and snap against yours quicker and quicker, Tyler panting in your ear, lifting up onto his palms and pushing himself off of you. He sits up onto his knees and tilts your hips up for a different angle, one that sets sparks dancing in front of your eyes. You groan, head tossed back, and dig your nails into his thighs as his pace picks up.

“Fuck, yeah, that it, baby? I can feel you – fuck, feel you squeezin’ me.”

You hardly have a voice with the rate he’s slipping in and out of you, barely enough to squeak out, “Fuck,” before your cunt has him in a vice grip, working through another orgasm.

“Ohhh, that’s it, huh, that’s it.” His mouth is going a mile a minute, neither of you really paying much attention to anything he’s actually saying. You’re both focused on his own mounting orgasm – you don’t feel like your body is capable of much more than that – and you weakly clamp down around him once more. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips stutter, and he grits out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck,” before he slots against you and you feel him filling you. You run a hand down his back, soothing him as he comes, biting your lip at the feeling, foreign but enjoyable.

Tyler groans and glances down to where his cock is softening inside of you. He eases his hips back, cupping your face and pressing a kiss to your forehead as he does. “Shit, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

You nod meagerly, pressing the back of your hand against your warm cheek. He watches you and, assured that you’re not going to pass out on him or anything, stands and hobbles into the bathroom. The sink turns on out of sight, and you close your eyes, listening to the water run. Tyler returns with a warm, wet towel and wipes the inside of your thighs, swiping gently across your cunt, before folding the towel and letting it fall to the floor at your bedside.

You feel loose, calm. Safe. You hardly notice him turn the light off, but you do feel the bed dip beside you as he rejoins you under the covers and pulls you into his arms. You melt against his sturdy chest, his heartbeat under your face a comfort, the rhythmic tick tick tick of it lulling you to sleep. But there’s still one thing you have to know before you can relax completely.

His breathing has started to even out, but he hasn’t snored yet, so you know he’ll still hear you when you ask, “Are you gonna leave?”

He grunts an acknowledgement of your question, nuzzling down into the top of your head.

“Do you want me to stay?”

You know your answer, but you still bite your lip, considering the question. You hadn’t thought before that maybe he left after every night you spent together because he thought you didn’t want to wake up with him. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then I’ll stay.”

If he’s at all worried about what will happen when you wake up tomorrow, he doesn’t show it, but anxiety courses through you at the thought of anyone finding out. Does he want the others to know? Because that’s what it feels like.

“Stop thinking about it,” he whispers, like he can hear your thoughts racing. “It’ll be fine. Just go to sleep.”

Easy for him to say. He’s out like a light. And you’re left alone with your thoughts until you fall into fitful, dissatisfying sleep sometime around when the world outside starts to turn blue.

A pounding on your door wakes you from deep sleep – the deepest you’d gotten all night, at least – and you try to sit up but find there’s a heavy weight on your chest blocking you. You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing down at the sleeping body next to you. It takes a second for it to register: Tyler’s here.

Tyler’s here. Sidled up against you, arm thrown over your stomach like this is where he belongs. He didn’t leave. He stayed, like he said he would. His face looks so peaceful – so beautiful – you almost hate to wake him.

“Come on, sleepyhead! Time to get a move on!”

Almost. You scramble to push Tyler off of you, ignoring his noises of protest, jumping out from under the covers and grabbing various articles of clothing off the floor to pull over your naked form. You plop back down on the bed, this time on his side, right next to where he’s starting to wake.

“Dude, get up, they’re gonna know you’re not in your room. They’re gonna know you’re in here.”

“So what,” he grumbles, rolling over as you push him and settling deeper into the bed. “Let ‘em.”

You sit up straight, one hand on his arm. “You mean that?”

He hums and turns his neck to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course I do. You’re my girl.”

Your face flushes a deep pink and Tyler grins, reaching over to wrap an arm around you and drag you back down into the bed, pinning you under him and peppering an assault of open-mouthed kisses all over your face. You grin, thinking that you could get used to this – just not right now.

“Seriously, Tyler,” you laugh, pushing a hand against the side of his face. He squeezes your hip. “We have to get up. We gotta get back out there.”

Tyler sighs, loosening his grip on your body and kneeling over you. “Yeah, you’re right. Alright, alright.”

He stands and takes the top sheet with him, wrapped around his waist, and heads to the bathroom. To brush his teeth, you hope. God.

“You know,” he says, head popping back out into the room, mouth full of toothpaste. “Yesterday. I wanted them to see us holding hands.”

You watch as he smiles at you and disappears back into the bathroom, then fall back onto the bed, hands pressed over your eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are dressed, teeth brushed, hair taken care of, day packs slung over your shoulder, and you’re pulling the door closed behind you when you hear a whistle that pulls your attention to the parking lot.

“Damn, Owens!”

The voice makes you jump, and you groan. You thought you were going to get away with the sneaking around, but the rest of your team is watching from next to the RV as the two of you descend the stairs together.

Lily and Dani turn to Boone with smug looks on both their faces, and he rolls his eyes and pulls his wallet from his back pocket. They hold their hands out for him to slap two twenty dollar bills down into.

“What’s that?” You ask when you get close enough to them.

“We had a bet that you and Owens would come out of that room together. Well, that one or his. Didn’t matter which.”

“A bet I just lost,” Boone groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I thought for sure…”

The rest of the crew snickers, including Tyler, who won’t look at you. You poke a finger into his chest.

“Did you know about this?”

“No, I swear,” he says, hands up, and you don’t know why, but you believe him. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t drunkenly confess to Lily weeks ago that sometimes we, you know…”

You scoff, almost mad, but then Boone shouts and the scoff turns into a snicker because, hey, you love him, but you can’t help but relish in his defeat.

“So they knew?! That’s cheating!”

He storms off while the rest of you laugh, Dani clutching their side and following him around the side of the building to try to make amends, trailing off, “If it makes you feel any better…”

Lily looks over at you, then at Tyler, a grin swallowing her face. “So, are you guys, like, together now? Or something?”

You look up at Tyler, who’s smiling softly at you, clearly deferring to you to answer that question. You feel a surge of affection for him swell in your chest. Clearing your throat, you turn to Lily.

“Or something.”

#twisters #twisters 2024 #twisters movie #glen powell #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens smut #glen powell x reader #glen powell smut #as a former tyler dater this was soooo triggering for me to write #JFNLKQJBNF

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identifying-deer-in-posts · 1 month ago

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Right, so:

Intersex Deer

and just some variations. Obviously not a comprehensive list, only a few examples of how it can present in deer across species. Some of these sources contain images of dead animals (labeled DA) or outdated language for intersex conditions (OL)! Please keep that in mind before clicking the links.

First up, antlered does:

White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus)

So put incredibly simply, all cervids (except for water deer) are capable of antler growth, as the stem cells that generate them are present even in females. However, in those cervids (except reindeer/caribou), those cells only activate with heightened testosterone. Usually only males can produce enough, but rarely, so can a female. Their antlers tend to be spindly and narrow, if they grow larger than spikes, and remain covered in velvet year-round. They rarely, if ever drop them, unlike their male counterparts, which regrow their antlers annually.

White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus)

This is most commonly documented in members of the Odocoileus genus, such as these whitetails, and in the Capreolus genus, namely western roe deer. Like the doe above, these deer are typically capable of reproducing, and often behave like other females of their species, i.e. staying in female-only herds. Their heightened testosterone can be linked to hormonal imbalances, malformed or underdeveloped reproductive organs, or tumors/cysts on their ovaries. The latter occurs most often in older individuals, and has also been documented in elk, red deer, and moose (like this cow, which was spotted with a calf near Nome, Alaska).

Alaskan moose (Alces alces gigas)

High testosterone has even been documented in the aforementioned water deer, causing does to grow elongated fangs (DA, OL). These does, like females of other species with permanent velvet antlers, were still capable of producing offspring. While they were expected to exceed the standard weight for does, they were actually smaller.

However, not all antlered does can reproduce, and not all have permanent velvet. In extremely rare cases, their antlers can harden and shed. This leads to the next set of conditions, which unfortunately I don't have pictures for: visibly intersex animals, externally, internally, or both.

A vast majority of visibly intersex deer are discovered via hunting; therefore, intersex whitetails and roe deer (DA) are (still) the best studied. These deer can have any combination of sex organs, such as an individual with a vulva, cervix, testes, and more (DA, OL). Their antlers can be velvet or hardened, though they're often malformed. They may exhibit behaviors of both sexes, including breeding behaviors; while I couldn't find much regarding their reproductive ability, most are likely infertile. There's still a lot to study regarding these guys, especially in poorly-researched species like muntjacs, brockets, and hog deer.

Finally, the most common form of intersex in deer: cryptorchidism. This is a condition where one or both testicles don't descend properly, or are otherwise malformed. It causes male deer to grow wonky antlers, referred to as "cactus antlers," "Devil's antlers," and, for moose, velericorn antlers (also used for antlered cow moose). They shed them at odd times, and, like for this individual, they might even crumble away rather than pop off cleanly.

White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) (OL)

These deer may have little interest in mating, scraping, self-urinating or other breeding behaviors due to a lack of testosterone, or even prefer the company of females year-round. They may look more feminine, like this elk found in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, which I believe to be a bull with cryptorchidism or another hormonal imbalance.

But this is just the tip of the iceberg. Like many animals, including humans, deer have so much variation in appearance, behavior, and yes, sexual characteristics. Even with strong dimorphism, biology is never binary.

#intersex #white-tailed deer #alaskan moose #moose #water deer #roe deer #rocky mountain elk #elk #image #deer

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riversenchanted · 6 months ago

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My advice for your Chiron placement:

- find your house placement and the sign it’s in for most accurate message (example: Chiron in the 1st house in sign of Scorpio)

Chiron 1st house/ Aries: Your wound is connected to your personal expression and authenticity. Leading to insecurity, physical ailments, suppressed anger,and shame. This can create a disconnect between how you present yourself and how you truly feel.

To heal this wound, embrace radical self-acceptance and trust your instincts. Take a leap of faith by setting boundaries, both with others and yourself. Hold yourself accountable for your desires and advocate for your needs. Challenge negative self-talk and self-doubt by asking, “What would my life look like if I let go of others expectations and pursued what I truly want?” With Chiron in the 1st house, it's essential to prioritize your own needs. Regularly check in with yourself to ensure your actions align with your true desires rather than people-pleasing. Remember to show yourself compassion and love, by doing so you encourage others around you to do the same and can help heal those who may struggle in the same ways you do!

Chiron 2nd house/ Taurus:

Your deepest wound relates to material security, self-worth, and stability. You may have felt unsupported at times, leading to a sense of constant lack and difficulty relaxing in the present moment.

To heal, recognize that your worth is not tied to money or possessions. Address feelings of unworthiness stemming from past trauma and explore areas where you may be settling for less due to fear of scarcity. Open yourself to new opportunities for abundance and let go of unnecessary attachments driven by the fear of loss or loneliness.

Address challenges with balancing spending and saving or even hoarding. By confronting these fears, you can begin to heal and find balance in your life. By healing these areas of life you can help others that struggle in these areas as well!

Chiron 3rd house/ Gemini:

Your wound lies in communication, social interactions, and understanding. You may struggle with learning disabilities or speech issues, or just feeling unheard or misunderstood. This can lead to social anxiety and difficulty connecting with others, especially in your early years.

To heal, focus on detaching from others opinions of you. Journaling, writing, and public speaking can help you find your voice. Surround yourself with accepting people and practice mindful communication and active listening. By nurturing this pain, you can transform it into a strength, becoming an effective communicator and even helping others who face similar challenges!

Chiron in 4th House/Cancer:

Your deepest wound relates to family, home life, and emotional stability. Growing up, you may have faced significant hardships that impacted your sense of safety. Healing can be challenging since family is central to your identity. Create a sanctuary at home and build a chosen family to foster support. If safe, work on healing toxic family dynamics. As a generational curse breaker, you may feel alienated, but nurturing yourself will help you appreciate your connections and establish a safe, loving home environment. By creating a safe stable home life you end generational issues and can help heal others who struggle with the same issues.

Chiron in 5th House/Leo:

Your wound lies in creativity, self-expression, and joy. You might struggle with taking up space, feeling unworthy or annoying, even when well-received. Early experiences of bullying or rejection may contribute to these feelings. To heal, identify the root of your insecurities and explore creative outlets to express yourself positively. Cultivate self-trust and avoid second-guessing. Affirmations of self-love and acceptance are essential for building confidence and embracing your true self. By being your most authentic self you encourage others around you to do the same.

Chiron in 6th House/Virgo:

Your wound revolves around health, wellness, and routine. You may overextend yourself, prioritizing others needs at the expense of your own, which can lead to physical or mental health struggles. You may have grown up caring for a loved one in some way or were placed in a situation where your needs often came second, so you might lack boundaries in balancing self-care vs caregiving. To heal, simplify your daily life and establish a structured routine that prioritizes your health. By focusing on self-care and setting practical boundaries for yourself you can also become a healer for others facing similar challenges.

Chiron in 7th House/Libra:

Your wound is centered on personal relationships, partnerships, and justice. You may struggle with trauma in relationships or find it difficult to connect deeply with others, leading to feelings of confusion and isolation. Healing comes from focusing on your individual goals and cultivating independence. It’s essential to balance your needs with those of others, avoid settling for attention, and take the time to truly know people before committing. Additionally, work on opening your heart and learning to trust again after past traumas.

Chiron in 8th House/Scorpio:

Your deepest wound involves intimacy, trust, and shared resources. Past trauma may create fears around vulnerability, making emotional connections difficult. This placement indicates a profound healing journey that requires deep emotional transformation. You will face challenges that confront your fears, often leaving you feeling powerless. However, like a phoenix, you can rise stronger. To heal, explore your innermost self, allow yourself to feel your emotions, and confront your traumas. Embrace surrender and discover your personal strength amidst the darkness. This placement is an indication of being a powerful healer, as you learn to alchemize your pain you increase your personal power and help empower others by doing so.

Chiron in 9th House/Sagittarius:

Your wound centers on spirituality, religion, and faith. Past experiences may have led you to question your beliefs, creating a rift in your spiritual understanding. You might feel betrayed by life and struggle to see the bigger picture, often facing religious trauma or issues with higher education. To heal, engage with topics like psychology, culture, spirituality, and religion. Open yourself to diverse belief systems and experiences. Finding purpose is key to your healing, and accepting your past as part of your journey will help you on your path of soul-searching. By healing these areas of your life you may also help others who feel lost in life as well!

Chiron 10th house/ Capricorn:

Your wounds are around career, public image, father/fatherhood, and authority. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feelings of inadequacy or unworthiness in the professional realm, often facing challenges with authority figures or societal expectations. You may have issues stepping into a leadership role or question your ability to lead confidently. Healing comes through redefining success on one's own terms, embracing leadership roles that feel authentic, and working to build self-worth independent of external validation. By helping others through mentorship or guidance, particularly in career-related matters, Chiron in the 10th house can find a sense of purpose and healing, turning past wounds into a source of wisdom and empowerment.

Chiron 11th house/ Aquarius: Your wounds are related to social groups, friendships, and one’s sense of belonging within a larger community or collective. Individuals with this placement may feel like outsiders or struggle with feeling accepted by their peers, leading to a deep sense of alienation or unworthiness in social circles. Healing occurs through embracing one's uniqueness and finding communities that truly resonate with their authentic self. By fostering deep, meaningful connections and learning to contribute to groups in a way that honors personal values. You can heal your sense of isolation, transforming past wounds into a source of strength and empathy for others.

Chiron 12th house/ Pisces:

Your wound is related to spirituality, empathy, and the sense of oneness with the universe. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feelings of confusion, disillusionment, or a lack of boundaries, often feeling overwhelmed by the suffering of others or disconnected from their own sense of purpose. Healing comes through developing a strong spiritual practice that helps them reconnect with their inner self and a sense of divine support. Embracing their intuitive gifts and learning to establish healthy emotional boundaries are key to healing, allowing them to offer compassion without losing themselves in the process. By transforming past wounds into a deep well of empathy and creativity, Chiron in Pisces can find healing through self-acceptance and a renewed connection to the spiritual or collective whole.

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theambitiouswoman · 9 months ago

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How to Stop Overthinking:

• Identify your triggers – Notice what situations or topics tend to lead you into overthinking. Being aware of these triggers helps you catch yourself before you spiral into anxious thoughts.

• Challenge negative thoughts – When you start overthinking, ask yourself if these thoughts are based on fact or assumption. Try to reframe negative thoughts with more balanced or positive perspectives.

• Focus on what you can control – Worrying about things outside your control can lead to a cycle of stress. Shift your attention to actions you can take and things within your power to change.

• Practice mindfulness techniques – Mindfulness exercises, like deep breathing, meditation, or grounding exercises, help bring you back to the present moment and reduce mental clutter.

• Set time limits for decision-making – If you’re overthinking a decision, give yourself a set time to make it. Overthinking often drags out decision-making, so having a time limit can prevent you from getting stuck in analysis.

• Replace “what ifs” with “what is” – Instead of dwelling on hypothetical scenarios, gently remind yourself to focus on reality. This shift in perspective can help you feel calmer and more grounded.

• Limit information intake – Overthinking often stems from too much information. Limit the amount of information you take in, especially from sources that create stress or lead to mental overload.

• Practice self-compassion – Acknowledge that overthinking happens, but don’t beat yourself up over it. Being kind to yourself can help ease the mental tension that fuels overthinking.

• Set aside “worry time” – Designate a specific time each day to think through your worries. This practice keeps overthinking contained, helping you avoid constantly carrying mental stress.

• Engage in physical activity – Physical movement can shift your mind away from overthinking. Exercise, stretching, or even a walk outdoors can help reduce mental tension and improve focus.

• Remind yourself of your strengths – Overthinking often brings self-doubt, so remind yourself of your capabilities and achievements. This boosts confidence, helping you break free from overanalyzing everything.

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darklydeliciousdesires · 18 days ago

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Sunstroke - A Vessel/Reader Short Series.

So yeah, I'm kinda back at it, besties, with a brand new muse who prompted this. No idea how many parts it'll be yet, I'm anticipating three, but I might surprise myself!

Summary: As tour manager for Sleep Token, you're naturally close with the lads whom you're employed to look after. Then, there's your closeness with Vessel, the lines between manager and artist seeming to blur into something more meaningful... if you'll let it.

Words: 2,090

Warnings: None for now, but it will get smutty! Pairing Vessel/Fem!reader.

Witnessing him upon a stage, it is a sight unmatched to you. It always has been, from small venues to arenas, the spaces still sacred, but now perhaps more befitting of a man whose talent and aura radiates at such a magnitude.

He’s part enigmatic shadow cast from neon lights, part lovable man-child who dances like there aren’t a few thousand people watching him. All long, nimble arms and legs flailing. It’s why, other than Ves, maybe very occasionally his real name, your forever nickname for him is Bambi. Or Bambers, Bambo, Bambs, etc. There are a couple of variations.

It earned you a side eye and a little tut, a mutter of playful discontent over you allegedly taking the piss out of his moves, but he knows you. He realises it’s in good humour. It’s also partly borne out of the fact that he’s just so damned cute, with his huge, brown doe-eyes, too, that he reminds you of a little baby deer, the dancing akin to an excitable fawn on shaky, brand-new legs aside.

He doesn’t know that part, though. You keep that hidden, because it would make your working life difficult, for your beloved Bambi to realise you think he’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Yep, he might be a full-grown man in his early thirties, but by lord, he’s still so fucking cute.

The life of a tour manager does not lend to having heart eyes for the talent you’re looking after, though, it has to be said. You wear many hats in your role, from organiser of hotel rooms to liaising with the venues, to part personal assistant to the band themselves. They hired you firstly back when they were still very small fishes in an agonisingly large pond. Now, they’re the sharks circling within the waves of an endlessly stormy sea, their success setting them apart from all others they rose head and shoulders above.

You’ve watched their rise with nothing but pride. They were always destined for this.

The night where you take a breather from your endless hurricane of activity to watch them is no different, standing in the wings, ignoring the vibrating of your phone from a non-important contact within your back pocket as you witness the beauty of what they have so keenly cultivated. Sleep Token went from fledglings craning for their place in the sun to a garden in full bloom right before your very eyes.

To you, though, Ves is the sun who nourishes all below him, his all-encompassing talent touching every petal, every winding stem with its radiance. How you love it, though, when his light solely shines upon you.

“Alright.”

Turning, you see him appear behind you in the backstage area a while after their set has finished, free of any paint and costume that signifies his alter-ego. Your heart skips a beat, because of course it does, and you smile. “You look tired, Bambs.”

“Mm,” he hums, “I could do with a good kip. Want to watch these lads, though.”

The festival headliners are a band you both appreciate hugely, and it’s one of the many instances where you feel truly fortunate to have such a vantage point to watch them perform from. There in the wings, though, isn’t his place of choice.

“C’mon,” he speaks, jerking his head to the left, “the little grassy hill to the side of the stage is much better than here. Quieter. Fewer people.”

He enjoys that, a space significantly lacking in crowds. Beneath the black painted, hooded enigma who prowls and dances over the stage lies a man with a soft soul, one who appreciates a little peace. Peace and tea, from the box of teabags you always ensure is provided for him in the band’s rider at every venue. Throat coat in lemon echinacea, to soothe his frayed vocal cords and keep his incredible voice in pristine condition.

He places the Thermos beaker down before him as he sits, his long legs stretched out fully. At 6ft 2”, he’s a towering, long-limbed creature. He’d be intimidating if he wasn’t so bloody pretty. Or so lovely and personable. He’s your exact type, intelligent, talented, friendly without being too much, fun loving without being a complete extrovert.

If only the whole work thing didn’t get firmly in the way of you and your would-be beautiful creature.

Securing the beaker between his thighs, he leans back on his elbows, coughing, a little bark there in his throat. Immediately, your hand goes to your jacket pocket.

“Here.” Offering forth the blister pack of strawberry Strepsils, you watch his eyes move from the stage, noticing with appreciation the way the fading sun catches the tips of his enviably long eyelashes.

His mouth arches into a smile, long, tapered fingers grasping the packet, pausing to rub his thumb affectionately over your knuckle. “Always looking after me, aren’t you, love?”

It makes your tummy tingle whenever he calls you that, even though you know there’s little in the way of anything truly meaningful behind it. Darlin’ or love are his standard pet names for the women he happens to be around.

“It’s my job,” you shrug, bobbing your head slightly.

“Yeah, but you go above and beyond. You always have.” He punctures the foil of the blister, taking out the pink lozenge and popping it into his mouth. “And you always get the nice flavours, not the ones that taste like Pledge.”

A snort laugh rasps from your nose. “So, you’ve been imbibing enough furniture polish to make that distinction, have you, Bambers?”

“Yeah, man,” he chuckles, “it’s a filthy habit.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, about filthy habits and cleaning products,” you point out, “but I think I’m too tired to piece it together wittily enough to do it justice.”

“Me too,” he laughs softly, the sound of the lozenge tapping against his perfect, brilliant white teeth doing something pleasant to your insides. “I’m completely knackered. I love being on tour, but blimey, I’ll be glad to get home and spend about a day in bed.”

He’ll get that in just over three weeks, when the tour finishes this leg, the guys taking a month off before they’ll be back out again to fulfil the USA dates.

“Any plans for your month of freedom?” you inquire, watching as the spectacle of stage lights signifies the arrival of the headliners, both of you reaching your hands aloft to applaud. A few more various crew members make their way to the hill, seeking the better vantage point, but remain at a distance from you and Ves.

“Not much,” he replies, crunching down on the lozenge and swallowing the little ground fragments, making a motion with his hand. “Another, please.”

“You’re not supposed to have them one after the other,” you chide softly, laughing at the look of incredulity he fixes you with.

“They’re bloody Strepsils, not crack,” he snorts. “C’mon. I like them.”

“Recreational lozenges,” you mutter, and he tries not to look as amused as he feels, but his little chuckle soon makes an appearance.

“They always remind me of you.” A curious statement, one which earns a raised eyebrow in his direction. “Because you love anything strawberry flavoured.”

You like that about him; how observant he is over the tiniest of details. “You don’t really need the reminder when I’m right next to you, though, do you?”

“Nah, but you’re not in my mouth, are you?” His eyes widen then, his cheeks immediately flushing pink. “That wasn’t meant to sound as filthy as it did! I meant, erm, I, ahh, shit!”

You join him in the laughter he descends into, Ves hiding his face behind his hand momentarily, peeking out between his fingers and snorting as he falls apart again.

“You filthy tart.” Leaning over, you softly nudge his shoulder with yours, an action he immediately reciprocates.

“Didn’t have an especially negative reaction to it though, did you?” His embarrassment quickly fades at the realisation he can turn it around on you a bit. It would be incorrect to claim he wasn’t quite playful like that, but how you have to work hard to hide how much you love it whenever he is.

“Depends, really,” you speak, taking a deep breath. You know what he’s up to. “What part of me do you want in your mouth first?”

He drops his head, outfoxed a little, on the back foot. Looking back up at you, his gaze feels like starshine beaming through the dark, his mouth tugging up into a tilted smile. He holds you there in that stare, and for a moment, the banter slips away, and you could be fooled into believing he’s truly looking at you as if you hang the very starshine twinkling in his irises. “Feed me that lozenge and perhaps you’ll find out.”

Oh, god. Oh, bloody hell. Is this simply the banter you’re used to with him, the little dalliances that at times do skitter into the realms of playful flirting, or is this actual flirting? You can never really tell with people you’ve sworn off from enjoying that with, and no matter how much you desire the tall beauty of a man to your side, you have sworn him off.

You have.

You have!

You... you have?

“I’m waiting.”

Met with a look that demands, but is soft, you meet his eyes while popping a lozenge from the pack, all the while with your mind screaming at you over what the hell is happening. The noise becomes muted, though, thoughts quietening, the hypnosis of a deep, chocolate brown gaze muting everything else as you reach towards his mouth.

Parting his lips, he takes it from you gently, one of his front teeth pressing below your middle fingernail. The warm hug of his lips pulls the digit between them just a little, a soft suck coupled by perhaps the most rapid tongue movement you’ve ever experienced against the tip. Immediately, your hand flies back in retreat.

“And that’s enough of that, Bambers,” you assert, your heart thundering in jackrabbit in your chest, “else I puddle the bloody grass.”

His laugh booms, scrunching his eyes closed tightly as he sits up, pulling the Thermos beaker from between his thighs. “And she accuses me of being a filthy tart.”

All flirty talk falls by the wayside once more, Ves finishing his tea and settling again to watch the headliners. You can’t help but notice him continually reaching back to grasp at his neck as he does, grumbling softly.

“What’s up?” you ask, turning to him.

“Bloody neck is tense,” he reveals, “I need to lie flat or against something.”

The offer is out of your mouth before you’ve even given a chance to negotiate the appropriateness of it with yourself. “Come rest on me if you want? I’m told I’m comfy.”

“You sure?” Nodding, you widen your legs and gesture to the space between, your lovely Bambi man moving to lie back with his head rested upon your stomach. “Thanks, love. That’s way better.”

For him it might be, but for you, you have to wonder what you’ve let yourself in for, lying with him like that and all the emotions the seemingly innocent-but-maybe-not-quite pose is kicking up for you. Raising one of your legs until your knee bends, you find a little further comfort.

Ves remains where he is for that moment, but shifts his head a little a time on, resting it against your thigh. He then curls his arm up, pressing a splayed hand over the top of your leg, fingertips gently flexing against the muscle connecting to your hip. It all feels very familiar suddenly, a little too easy for comfort, yet you cannot deny that comfortable is always how you feel with him. This just goes a little further.

Intimate. That’s exactly what it is. Undefined intimacy, and you’re not too sure how to handle it.

“Bambo,” you speak, watching him tilt his head back to meet your eye.

“Mm?”

“While you’re down there,” you wink, watching him immediately begin to laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, darlin’.”

But maybe tempting him is exactly what you want, now you’re sure that there’s perhaps more intention behind this flirting you’ve fallen into with him. Maybe it’s the worst idea in the world, becoming involved with someone you know professionally.

As you lie there and feel his hand idly begin to stroke where it rests upon your thigh, you’re suddenly not altogether certain of that, though.

Did you enjoy what you just read? If so, please help your author out by commenting/reblogging. If you want to be added to the taglist, please do let me know, too!

Part Two

#sleep token #vessel x reader #vessel x you #vessel fanfiction #sleep token fanfiction #vessel smut #sleep token smut

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gatsby-20 · 15 days ago

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I Know I Was Wrong

When all was said and done, Lando Norris was left with just one question. Where did it all go wrong?

Part 1: I Will Survive But I'll Never Recover

(a/n: Not sure if anyone will read this...or if anyone will like it, but who knows. It's a seven part series that I just finished writing, so posts once per week. Wrote this all because I heard Sparks (Dakota Version) and folded so incredibly fast. Major hurt/comfort vibes folks - and only happy endings so not to worry. Chapter title is from Franklin House. Spotify Playlist can be found here. 🌼)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Series Masterlist

I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.

Lando had never known a world without you in it.

Your Mum’s had been best friends, so when Cisca had moved to the UK, your mum had gone with her. They got married together. And when they realised that they were going to have kids together, the joy only multiplied.

They hadn’t planned to get pregnant together, but as luck would have it, you and Lando were just a month apart in age. The two women took full advantage of it, always putting the two of you into the same activities, play groups, schools. And thus, the two of you were inexplicably linked.

Summers were spent playing together in the garden, all of the Norris siblings alongside you and your brother as you all ran around, tumbling over one another. Winters were spent with aggressive snowball fights and whining about doing your schoolwork in between Christmas’ spent together.

When Lando thought of his childhood, you were the first thing he thought of.

He remembered when his Mum forced him to try horseback riding, and you announced that you were going with him. Everyone had raised their eyebrows in surprise, because you had never once shown any indication that you wanted to go. But where Lando went, you followed. Didn’t matter if you were even smaller than he was as a kid. If he was small as a child, then you were positively tiny.

But lord, you never let that stop you. Lando had hated horseback riding, but he’d never laughed harder in his life than watching you sit in the saddle, your feet barely hitting the end of the saddle flaps. The look on your face was pure determination, as though you could will the horse into walking just by thinking about it hard enough.

When Lando traded horses for horsepower, you dragged yourself along with him. Not to race in the karts, but just to be there.

You weren’t a fan of the karting scene. You hated the smell and how noisy it was, the chaos of it all. But you showed up with a smile on your face for Lando, just as he did at your horseback riding competitions. You supported one another. It was all you two had ever known.

You would sit on the outskirts of the track while Lando would race and pick daisies. When you had collected a sufficient amount, you would plop down near Lando’s set up and get to work. You’d split the base of the stem with your finger nail, and carefully thread another flower through the hole you had created.

Your forehead would crease with concentration, your tongue poking out with that quiet determination that Lando had grown to easily associate with you. It didn’t matter if it was a school assignment, a flower bracelet, or riding a horse - you approached everything the same. You gave it your all, one hundred percent concentration.

He had always loved that about you.

When he was finished with his races, he would tug his helmet off and run over to you, where you would proudly produce daisy chain bracelets to him.

It didn’t matter if he came in first place or last place, you were always there with a smile so wide it seemed to split half of your face open. You never cared about the karting, but you cared about him.

You were two peas in a pod, as your Mums loved to say.

Lando couldn’t entirely remember when it went from something strictly platonic to something…more.

He recalled the way that his friends would seem so confused by his friendship with you.

To their credit, on paper it didn’t make much sense. You loved school, prided yourself on being well put together. Not in a pretentious way, but just clean and coordinated. You never tried too hard to be something you weren’t. You didn’t care much about sports outside of horses, you didn’t like video games or anything that might create some sort of common thread in a friendship.

But all Lando knew was that when you became animated you talked with your hands, you listened more patiently than anyone he knew, and that you placed your hand on his knee when you knew he was nervous but too embarrassed to say anything about it. You could take one look at him and just…know. You’d grown up together, could read one another like the back of your hands.

He knew that when he wanted to play a dumb prank, you were the first one he would go to. You’d roll your eyes at least seven times, but by the end you would be giggling so hard you’d have to lean into him to stay upright. Even when you both went through the gangly, awkward teenage years, there wasn’t anyone he thought was more beautiful than you when you laughed like that.

It hadn’t hit him all at once, the realisation that he loved you. He didn’t understand why people called it ‘falling’ in love. The idea that he fell - something unintentional - was a connotation he never understood. There was nothing accidental about his love for you. It was conscious and overwhelming and warm - never inadvertent.

All he knew was that he felt warm when you looked at him with that smile that seemed to be reserved just for him, and his stomach did flips when you leaned into him to help him correct his maths homework.

There was no surprise in your expression when he first kissed you for the first time. Your cheeks instantly flushed, giving away your nerves and excitement. Lando loved that about you, how you would blush furiously around him, whenever he held you, whenever he said something romantic. It felt like physical proof that he had the same effect on you that you had on him.

He was sixteen, unsure of everything about himself except for the fact that it was always going to be you.

And as he grew into himself, as he grew in his karting career, people began to take notice. There was pressure and expectations, sponsors and money being thrown around.

But in the middle of all of it, there you were. Grounding in a way that other people didn’t really understand but worked for Lando. You weren’t calm, not exactly, but you were bright. Positive in a way that didn’t feel patronizing.

Then he made it into Formula 1. And there you were, just as you always had been. When he finished his first race, there were a million things he needed to do. He had meetings and debriefs and so much to do it nearly threatened to overwhelm him. But in between a debrief on tyre temperatures and a meeting with Will about corner four, you found him in the hallways of Mclaren. You caught him by the wrist, and when he turned to face you, he found that you had a sly smile on your face.

He could see the pride in your eyes, and when he looked down he found that you were holding onto a daisy chain. All of the tension within his body snapped in an instant as a laugh bubbled out of him, and your smile grew tenfold.

He tugged you into his arms, crushing you in a hug that you tried to wriggle out of half-heartedly.

“You’re sweaty,” you scolded, scrunching your nose.

“And I love you,” he replied just as easily. Not a question. Just a quiet fact, as though it were as simple as asking him the color of the sky or what day of the week it was. You melted into his arms in response.

He pulled back, taking the daisy chain from you and slipping it carefully over his wrist. If anyone noticed the delicate flower bracelet in the rest of his meetings for the day, they didn’t mention it.

“Thank you Daisy,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as you let out a soft sigh.

Daisy.

He’d called you that ever since you first appeared with a flower bracelet in your hand.

And in the years that followed, he called you that so often that people sometimes forgot your real name.

When Lando first landed in Formula 1, you were in university. You had always said you were uninterested in completely giving up your life to follow Lando around, though sometimes in the dark you would admit to him how much you wanted to.

But he would always press a gentle kiss to your lips and remind you that you were too brilliant to simply follow him around.

So the two of you created a carefully balanced life. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t without its disagreements and arguments. Neither of you would change it for the world, though.

You spent most of your time in your apartment in London going to school. Lando had bought a house in the suburbs of the city, just a touch too far from Woking to be practical, but he didn’t care if it meant he got to be closer to you when he was home.

Whenever you could, you would fly out to race weekends to spend them with him. You became a commonplace in the paddock in just a few short months.

Lando loved how you managed to endear yourself to everyone. Not just the staff at Mclaren, but everyone around. You were the person who stopped to appreciate the small things, the person who asked someone their name and how their day was going and really meant it.

You charmed the other WAGs, not by an overly impressive fashion sense or modeling career, but by your quick wit and kindness. You were real, nonjudgmental in the best way. You treated Lewis Hamilton and the cafe staff with the same level of respect, and it showed in the way others treated you.

Lando always thought you were a piece of real life in an area of the world where people lost themselves in the glamour and money.

You kept him grounded, refusing to let him get a big ego just because he had a job that was seen as prestigious. You cared about the cars because he cared, and you committed yourself to understanding tyre degradation despite how boring you found it. But in reality, you cared about him.

It didn’t matter if he came in second or sixteenth, as long as he got out of the car safely you were proud of him. You were the one to remind him that when he made a mistake, it was just that. A mistake.

A failure on his part didn’t mean that he was a failure, you reminded him. It meant that he was learning. And when the media threatened to drown him, you dragged him to the surface with you.

There was so much pressure on him at all times, but you never asked him to be someone who he was not. You wanted him long before he was important to the rest of the world, and he found respite in the life the two of you had created together.

You never cared about the glitz or the glam. He had just been Lando to you all along, the same little boy who ran around in the garden with you jumping over the flower beds in the English sun.

He had been right there when you lost your mother in your third year at university, not unexpected but still just as painful. He watched as Cisca tucked you and your brother under her, promising that she was still there for you.

He was lucky to be surrounded by a family that loved you as deeply as he loved you, so even though you knew deep seated grief, you also knew what it was like to be loved wholly and completely.

And god, he didn’t realise it was possible to love a person in the way he loved you. Every single day he woke up was a good one because you were in it. He loved getting to walk into the paddock with you, watching as you smiled and greeted what felt like every person who the two of you passed.

He loved watching as everyone erupted in excitement when they saw you. How you settled peoples nerves, speaking to the new drivers in a gentle tone and an understanding expression. How the older drivers went to you when they needed a laugh and their ego knocked down a peg. How the other girls came to sit with you, laughing at your running commentary during qualifying. How people seemed relieved to see you, knowing that you would have the bandaid or tide pen they desperately needed.

Lando had been sitting with you and Max Fewtrell once in the empty Mclaren hospitality when a girl slipped into the room. She clutched a clipboard in her hand as though it were an anchor, her eyes darting around the room with anxiety. She was clearly an intern, and shuffled toward the group of you as though you were going to swallow her whole.

“Uh…Daisy?” She called out nervously, and that got all of your attention.

Lando, out of pure surprise at hearing someone else call you that with full seriousness. You, because you responded to the name out of pure habit. And Max, because he couldn’t believe someone actually called you that.

The latter let out a loud snort, and under the table Lando watched as you slammed your kitten heel down on his foot, causing him to nearly bite his tongue off.

“Be nice you knobhead, she’s an intern,” you hissed under your breath as you turned in the same breath, sliding to get out of the booth and toward the girl.

“Yes, what can I help with love?” You asked as you moved toward her, and Lando was left to chuckle under his breath as Max moaned about you having broken his foot.

You were energetic and full of life, and Lando thought you were the most beautiful thing on this earth. He could care less about being surrounded by models or whatever, not when he had everything he could have ever wanted right in front of him.

Sure, he loved to party, loved to dance and feel the taste of liquor on his tongue, but only when it meant he got to come home to you. You trusted him completely because he’d never given you any reason to doubt him, not when he was surrounded by the most gorgeous of women and still chose you over and over again.

Never once did you try to change him or to pass judgement on his lifestyle. You made your opinions known, but never faulted him for when he chose differently. You might have been a bit quick to say ‘I told you so,’ but the driver honestly couldn’t fault you for that.

He was the kind of person who loved with everything in him. He sat front row at your uni graduation, bought a cake when you got your first job, and flew for 26 hours just to see you for 8 hours on your birthday. He was hopelessly devoted to you in every way he knew how to be.

It was a constant game of musical chairs with your schedules, but Lando couldn’t imagine it any other way. He loved you infinitely more at twenty four than he did at sixteen. He couldn’t imagine a life without you in it.

Until he did have to imagine it.

I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.

It’s complicated, but this isn’t working.

I think it’s for the best if we break up.

I’m sorry.

And when all was said and done, Lando Norris was left with just one question.

Where did it all go wrong?

It was ridiculous.

You and Lando had always worked hard to remain healthy in leading separate lives, never to get co-dependent. Sure, there was a lot of overlap in your lives, but you both had your own friends, your own homes, your own time. It wasn’t as though you spent every single second together. Neither of you were strangers to spending time alone.

So how did he manage to find remnants of you everywhere?

It had been four months since you had broken things off with him just before the 2024 season had started, and still it stole his breath away to remember that you were gone.

He was a racing driver.

He had some of the fastest reflexes in the world.

But they never seemed to outrace the realisation that you no longer occupied the same space that you once did in his life.

Waking up felt impossible, because for a moment everything would feel alright.

And then he would remember.

Without fail, it felt like a train had hit him straight in the chest.

He wanted to be angry, to scream and yell and throw things and let himself be so incredibly mad at you.

But the reality of it was that he was just sad. He seemed to measure time by you - that there was a time during you and the time after you.

You’d never officially lived in his flat in London, always adamant that he be allowed to decorate his space. That didn’t mean that there weren’t reminders of you everywhere. A jumper thrown over a chair, a bottle of perfume in the bathroom, a pair of your shoes tucked in a closet he hadn’t opened in awhile.

You disappeared from the paddock, and at first nobody noticed. You worked full time, and couldn’t always travel to races. But when March bled into April, and then May, the whispers started.

Wondering where you were. Wondering why Lando seemed off. Wondering what had happened.

Only one person had dared to ask him about it directly - an engineer for Williams. You had promised to get her a coffee this season, she had told Lando with a hopeful look in her eyes. It was something of an honor to spend time with you, considering your reputation was founded in compassion and humor.

But he could only offer back a smile that didn’t even begin to reach his eyes, saying that he wasn’t sure when you’d be able to follow through on that promise. The question stung more than he cared to admit, but to be forced to answer it felt like he was being split in half.

Everyone had abstained from asking about you since. Reporters skirted around the issue, never exactly pressing directly onto the wound but prodding around it as if they hoped to make it bleed for their own personal gain.

“How has life off the track been for you this season?”

“Any changes in your personal life that have affected your racing?”

“What are your plans for the break after the weekend?”

All he could do was answer with polite smiles and half truths.

He couldn’t very well explain to Sky Sports that half of his heart had been ripped out of his chest and walked away.

Honestly, he wished it was as simple as that.

You lived in the pauses of his thoughts, as though nestled in the quiet corners of his soul. The breakup wasn’t clean cut. It felt as though someone was slowly pulling the roots of his heart away. Every single day there seemed to be something that caused his chest to collapse all over again.

Even the stupid media questions that got into his head. He knew that if it were about something else, you’d be there to give him a hug and remind him that it wasn’t his responsibility to feed their headlines. That he was allowed to protect himself. He couldn’t very well stop the questions, you’d said, but he could control how he handled them.

But now you weren’t there, and he was left with nothing but space for reporters to rub salt into a never ending wound.

There was a space you occupied in the depths of his heart that no one else had. That perhaps nobody else ever could.

You showed up in all his unfinished thoughts, like a sentence he was never quite able to properly end.

He tried, oh god did he try.

His siblings had no idea where you were, or what you were doing. None of them dared to ask your brother Oliver what was going on. After your mothers passing, your father had remained distant and was no longer really a part of your life. Your social media was dead. He even went onto your LinkedIn, and aside from seeing that you hadn’t left your job, there was nothing.

It was, by all accounts, a clean break.

It didn’t feel like that for Lando.

Whenever Lily accompanied Oscar to the paddock, Lando turned away. Max started showing up at more races, rearranging his schedule as though he knew that his best friend needed someone there. It wasn’t you, but it was something.

He still raced. He raced well, in fact. The car was good this year, and he was on the top of his game. No more partying. No more drinking. He thought at first that it would help him forget, but all it made him do was remember.

Lando wondered why you had even left in the first place.

He thought maybe it was because of the racing. He knew that his life and schedule was a lot to work around. You had seemed a little more reserved in the weeks and months before the breakup, but nothing that indicated to him that it was something drastic or related to him. Maybe a bit more depressed. A little more sedentary. But you had always said it was work or that you were just tired.

Did it mean you were tired of him? Tired of the lifestyle? Tired of the schedule?

Tired of what?

Christ, if he was going to lose you over his career, he was going to make it worthwhile. He drove like his life depended on it, always hungry for more. In his mind, he really had nothing left to lose.

He won in Miami, and the high was incredible. But the crash was completely desolating.

The season was a blur of victories that turned sour so quickly he almost started wishing that the success would vanish. At least the losses were aligned with his masochistic thoughts.

By the time Belgium had arrived on the calendar, he was ready for the summer break. He was ready for the chance to go on vacation with his friends, to a place that was untouched by reminders of you everywhere he looked.

He felt ragged, trying to recover from Hungary and the disaster with Oscar on top of everything. On top of the fact that no matter where he went in the paddock, disappointment at the loss of you seemed to follow him everywhere. He wasn’t the only one who felt your absence acutely.

He missed the stupid edits people would make of the two of you together. People had always said you were soulmates, the class clowns of the paddock, the pair that people respected.

Neither of you had a poker face, always pulling a face when something silly or ridiculous happened. He missed how you laughed at his stupid shit so hard that you told him your stomach ached. How he made dumb jokes just so that you would roll your eyes at him. How you would lay out on his massage table, stretching your limbs like a sleepy cat as he told you a story about whatever was happening that weekend.

So yeah, as he walked around the paddock in Belgium, he wasn’t paying very good attention to his surroundings.

Sometimes, it felt like the only way to get through the day.

That was, until someone grabbed his wrist as he walked down the hallway on Saturday after qualifying. Delicate fingers wrapping just around the base of his hand, trying insistently to get his attention.

For just a second, he was transported back to a time when that meant you were there for him. That he would turn, and find a flower crown in your hands, ready to be put atop his curls.

He shook his head at the thought and turned around, though he had to admit he was unprepared for who he would find when he looked up.

“Kayla?” The shock was clear if not on his face then in his tone. It was one of your best friends from university. Lando had always liked her, gentle and responsible in a very sweet way. The two of you were still close, Lando was sure of that, and he was wildly thrown to see her here. Standing in the Mclaren hallway in Belgium. She was wearing a VIP badge with his name on it, though he hadn’t a clue how she had acquired it.

Or why she was here.

“Lando…I–” she paused, swallowing thickly. It seemed like she was almost short circuiting, struggling to find the words. The racing driver fully stopped for a second, turning toward her as his eyebrows threaded together in confusion at her presence.

“What are you doing here?” He questioned, and that finally seemed to be the thing that helped her along.

“I need to talk to you tomorrow. After the race. It’s…important,” she said the words gently, as though they would be the thing to break him. Lando cocked his head to the side, trying to understand why Kayla was here.

What were the implications of this? What did it mean for you? What did it mean for him?

When he said nothing, Kayla let out a short sigh. There was desperation clearly twinged in it, and for a second Lando felt like the knife in his heart was being shoved in, just a little bit harder.

“Lando…I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” she implored, and that certainly caught his attention. He held eye contact with her for several more seconds before he slowly began to nod.

“Okay…okay. I’ll find you after the race, stay in the area when we’re done,” he finally acquiesced, watching as her shoulders slumped in relief.

“Thank you,” she breathed out, sparing him one last glance before she turned around and left him standing there in the hallway, confused out of his mind.

When he thought back on it, he knew that finding Kayla in the hallway, in that moment, is the start of when he realised that something was really, really wrong.

Lando finished the race in fifth. Nothing to write home about, but he wasn’t about to complain.

He’s fighting for a championship, supposedly.

He’s not entirely sure he cares.

Not when he walked out of his driver room and found Kayla standing outside inside the Mclaren hospitality, wringing her hands together.

Lando couldn’t say he had the privilege of knowing Kayla exceptionally well. The brunette woman was lovely and had always been very kind to him. She had come with you to a few races, and he had spent time with her in London whenever he was there to see you. But she had always been your friend, and it had been months since he had seen her at all.

When she noticed him walking toward her, she seemed equal parts relieved and somehow even more nervous.

He’s fresh from the shower, clean clothes with his curls damp and messy, as though he hurried rather carelessly to dry them. Kayla looked around, and though the Mclaren hallways are rapidly emptying, there are still several people milling about.

“Is there somewhere more…private that we could talk?” Kayla breathed out, and Lando studied her for a second before he nodded. The brunette trailed after the racing driver through the Mclaren garage, hospitality, outside and toward some benches out the back that appeared deserted.

Lando sat across from Kayla, and he watched as she fidgeted for a moment. It seemed as though she was working up the courage to say something.

“Kayl–” he began to speak only for her to cut him off abruptly.

“Do you still love her?” She blurted out suddenly. The brunette paused for a moment, almost as though she couldn’t believe she had just asked the question. She didn’t take it back, though.

It hung in the air, and Lando felt like all the oxygen had been stolen from his lungs.

His eyes narrowed, and he stared at Kayla.

Hard.

“What?” His voice was low, and hated the way it wobbled despite his best attempts to stop it.

But your friend had lost the timidness she had started the conversation with.

“Answer the question,” she demanded. He was distinctly reminded of you as she spoke. You rarely held back from asking the hard questions. Didn’t matter who the person was. Very few people felt as though they could demand something of Lando Norris, the F1 driver.

But in the same vein as you, Kayla didn’t care who he was or what his job was.

“Yes, I still love her. I never stopped,” Lando’s voice was audibly softer when he answered. He was unprepared for the way Kayla closed her eyes tightly at his words. When she opened them, he noticed that there were tears springing to her eyes.

“She made me promise not to come, but I can’t watch her waste away like this,” Kayla whispered as though it pained her to speak any louder, and Lando pitched forward with renewed urgency.

“What?” He asked, no longer following what she was saying but all the more concerned at her words.

Wasting away?

If there was even a chance that you felt as heart broken as he did, maybe you could fix this.

“She thought it was just shin splints,” Kayla admitted, her jaw tightly set. The statement held in the air, confusing and stagnant.

“I don’t understand,” Lando quickly commented, rapidly losing sight of where this conversation was heading.

“Just…let me explain for a second. Back in January, she thought she had shin splints. Said that her right leg really hurt when she ran. And then when she walked. And then just…all the time,” Kayla explained, and Lando remembered suddenly hearing you complain of the annoyance of it once, but you waved him off when he expressed concern.

“She went to the doctor and they thought it was shin splints. Then when it didn’t go away, a vitamin D deficiency. It wasn’t until March that they finally did a scan, but she already knew,” Kayla admitted, clearly struggling to speak.

Lando felt his heart plummet into his stomach. He had a fair idea of what was coming, and still he felt like he was reeling, completely and totally unprepared for it.

“She broke up with you before the biopsy. Said that she was terrified you would be forced to do the season with her being sick, that she didn’t want you to have to deal with it. She didn’t want you to have to deal with her,” Kayla forced on, but there were genuine tears flowing down her cheeks now, and Lando felt tears burning in the back of his own eyes.

The implication that you would ever be something for him to “deal” with made him want to throw up.

“They did the biopsy in late March. It came back the week after the Japanese Grand Prix. Osteosarcoma. Stage Two.”

It felt like Lando had been punched in the gut. LIke his soul slipped out of his body for a second, realisation dawning over his entire body. He had somewhat known where this was going, but it didn’t make hearing it any easier.

“I…she didn’t want you to find out. Didn’t want you to be held back. But there has been delay after delay with her case. They put her on chemo to prepare her for limb salvage surgery, but even after a few rounds, it's not working. There are more experimental private treatments she could try, but they are expensive and have huge waiting lists. She just stuck at Royal Marsden, sitting in a room with seven other patients being administered their chemotherapy and watching as nothing changes because of how much of a mess the NHS is,” Kayla described, letting out a sigh as though explaining the whole thing had aged her beyond years.

“She was determined not to burden you with it. But I can’t watch her like this knowing that maybe…I don’t know. That maybe you could do something. And even if you can’t do that…I see how much it kills her not to be with you. She misses you so much, I can just tell. She never says anything, but she hasn’t been the same since she did it,” Kayla revealed, finally looking at Lando to see his reaction.

There wasn’t an ounce of emotion on his face. Nothing.

He looked back at her with a gaze so intense she couldn’t find herself to look away, but she also didn’t have a clue where his head was at.

“Lando? Please, say something,” she finally begged after a second, her voice edging on desperate. He tore his eyes away from hers, reaching down into his pocket.

“Royal Marsden,” he muttered as Kayla’s eyes widened, her hands gripped together. It looked like he was done with the conversation, and she wasn’t going down without fighting for her friend. He was tapping away at his phone, not even sparing her a glance.

“Lando, please, she really needs he–”

“You said it was Royal Marsden Hospital, correct?” He asked as he placed the phone to his ear. Surprised, Kayla nodded wordlessly. She watched in complete silence as Lando began talking.

“Hi Tom, it’s Lando. I have a favor I need to ask for. I have a member of the family in hospital and was hoping to get her moved to a more private room, if possible?” He explained, and Kayla felt relief rush over her.

She leaned forward on the table, no longer listening to the conversation as she placed her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

Help.

You were getting help.

She had gone back and forth on whether or not this was the right decision, but she knew at that moment that she had made the right one. Lando came around to wrap his arm around her shoulder when he finished his phone call.

He leaned into her, offering his support silently but with presence.

“You did the right thing,” he whispered softly to her and she looked up to make eye contact with him before she sniffed loudly, nodding her head.

“Right, yes, okay,” she said, swiping the tears from her eyes. She allowed herself the next second to collect herself as Lando went back to his phone, typing furiously. She chanced a glance over at his screen, noting that he had a text thread with Max Verstappen pulled up.

When she finally took a deep breath, Lando squeezed her bicep softly and tried to smile as encouragingly as he could manage on top of his own panic.

“I’ve got us a ride back to London,” he stated without any other explanation.

“Right now?” She exclaimed, surprise erupting in her expression. He nodded with security, standing and offering his hand to help her up.

“Come on, we’ll pick up your luggage on the way. We have somewhere we need to be.”

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