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noblebynura · 3 days ago

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Threads of Nyx Trilogy Part ii: I, carrion.

Part i: Somewhere, The Stars Remembered

Part iii: Son of Nyx (Aug, 2nd. 10pm GMT)

Pairing: The Void x Witch!Reader (Main for this one, now...calm down), Earth-828 Johnny Storm x Witch!Earth-616 Reader (Sub, sorry) Synopsis: Dealing with grief and lost lead you to a life you never knew could continue. Genre & warnings: Angst and angst, mentions of blood, Marvel level violence, follows the timeline of after DS:MoM and Thunderbolts. SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS + POST CREDIT(its been months, do I still need to put warning?). And like Marvel, we never get full explanation of what happened. <3 Word count: 8.5k | masterlist a/n: this is a rework of a previous Void x witch!reader, but I liked it a lot so I'm using it okay? Okay. Enjoy my lovelies & THANK YOU FOR 222 followers as I type this <3

Prologue

It’s been a year since—

Since what?

You stand in the Sanctum’s library, fingers paused against the spine of a book you don’t remember reading. The title is in a language you shouldn’t understand, but the words come too easily. Like you’ve said them before.

The silence is heavier here lately. Wong is rarely around. Sorcerer Supreme business, you assume, and Stephen… Stephen is long gone. Kamar-Taj reclaimed him after the mess he made of the multiverse.

He left quietly. No ceremony. No goodbyes.

Only a glance.

And a promise you made, though you can’t quite remember what it was.

You live alone now in a house full of echoes. Watered plants, swept floors, sigils checked and wards redrawn. You eat your meals in the same quiet kitchen where he once conjured coffee just the way you liked it. You sleep in a room that still smells faintly of smoke and cedar. You dream of things that feel real. Too real. But they slip away by morning, leaving nothing but your heart racing and a sense of wrongness in your skin.

There are gaps you’ve learned not to chase.

Strange never told you why.

Wong never asks.

And you’ve stopped asking yourself.

Until today.

A knock at the door. Sharp. Purposeful.

You pause halfway down the staircase, fingers curled slightly like a ward’s trigger. You don’t recognize the signature behind the door, but there’s no malice, only intent. Precise. Cold.

You open it.

She stands with a tilted head and a knowing smile. Black coat, gloves, the faintest glint of violet in her eyeshadow, and something darker behind her gaze.

“Long time,” she says, eyes scanning you like she’s trying to decide which version of you she’s looking at. “I hear you’re between supervisors.”

You don't answer. Not yet.

She steps inside without permission, like she already knows you’ll let her. Like she’s been here before.

“Wong’s busy,” Valentina says, running a hand over the edge of a relic without really seeing it. “Stephen’s… elsewhere. And you—” she glances back at you, half-amused, “—seem like someone who's been left behind.”

You don’t deny it.

“One job,” she says, her voice calm. “Maybe two. Off the books. Help clean up some of the chaos others won’t touch. I think you’ll find it satisfying.”

Her offer is simple. Dangerous.

Familiar in a way that leaves something cold at the base of your skull.

You tilt your head. “And what do I get?”

She smiles like she’s already won. “A purpose. Autonomy. A way out.”

You hold her gaze for a moment too long.

A way out.

You glance at the Sanctum behind you. The staircase still dim in early evening light, the scent of old paper and sigils lingering in the air. You think about the months you’ve spent here. Waiting. Obeying. Trying to forget what you didn’t even know you’d lost.

“What kind of mess?” you ask.

Valentina shrugs. “The kind that leaves bodies. The kind no Avenger wants their hands on. The kind you’re good at.”

You flinch at that — just a fraction. She notices. Doesn’t comment.

You tell yourself it’s just a job. A temporary thing. Something to remind your hands how to move, your body how to act. But there’s a part of you, quiet and deeper, that already knows this is a beginning, not a detour.

Because these walls were never meant to hold you.

And no matter how many times you rewrote your story inside them, eventually, you were always going to leave.

You nod.

Still, your feet hesitate on the first step up the stairs. The Sanctum is still behind you, still watching.

Still silent.

You go upstairs anyway.

Grab only what you need. Your coat, your rings, a blade you don’t remember forging but that fits perfectly in your hand. As if it waited for you.

You don’t leave a note.

You don’t seal the wards.

You don’t look back.

Just a soft click of the door closing behind you.

And with it, the Sanctum Sanctorum exhales — as if it knows, this isn’t the first time you’ve walked away.

But it might be the last.

Upstairs, on the edge of your dresser, you’d left a strange little toy.

You found it while packing — tucked into the bottom of a drawer you never remember using. A tiny figure in white and blue, plastic and cheap, probably from a cereal box. When you pressed the button, it lit up and shouted in a bright, tinny voice.

"Flame on!"

You stared at it for a long time. Something tugged at your chest. A feeling you didn’t have a name for.

Recognition without memory. Like a dream that slips away the moment you open your eyes.

You left it there.

You don’t know why.

It didn’t matter now.

All you knew was this: something inside you didn’t feel whole.

Like pages torn from a book you’d never finished reading.

And even now, even as you step back into the world — you don’t remember ever crossing the threshold.

But something in you still yearns for an empty space.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

The first time you felt it, it wasn’t a whisper — it was a lurch.

It happened in the middle of bullets flying, fists clashing, metal groaning under brute force. A shockwave cracked through the vault, rattling your bones. You felt it not in your skin, but in your mind — a tug, like fingers brushing the edge of your consciousness. So soft it could’ve been imagined. But you still turned your head, searching the space behind you.

Nothing.

Then a bullet skimmed past your shoulder, ripping into the wall behind you. Walker’s bullet. You shook it off. You had to.

The vault’s runes rendered your magic inert. The crude glyphs carved with intent to suppress, not protect. You had felt wards like that before. Stephen had made you memorize their structure once, in Kamar-Taj, warning you they were not for learning — only for understanding what to avoid.

You never stopped your studying and reading on understanding your magic even after a year of doing commissions for Val.

But now here you were, surrounded by them.

Your magic buzzed faintly beneath your skin, clawing for release. But the pain that bloomed every time you reached inward made you flinch. Like something inside you recoiled from the wards with a hiss. You could still fight — not with spells, but with instincts. You remembered the basic forms, the way Wong taught you to read body language, anticipate attacks and your previous past that you had cleaned yourself from.

John Walker had been the mission. Valentina's mission. You hadn’t trusted her fully — Strange had warned you about people who smiled too widely when offering freedom. But you said yes anyway.

And in the end, the plan fell apart. You weren't surprised.

And then he showed up.

Not with power. Not with purpose. Just a man in a hospital wear, barefoot and breathless. Wild-eyed and unsure.

The pull came again.

Stronger now. More specific.

You locked eyes. A flash of recognition — not of the man, but of the thing inside him. It pressed up against your thoughts, insistent but vague. Like a dream you forget just before waking.

His name was Bob. No surname mentioned. No memory beyond vague pieces of being a volunteer for a medical project in Malaysia, he said.

You'd seen enough of the world behind Sanctum walls to know that wasn’t the whole truth.

You longed to reach into his mind, peel back the veil and see what writhed behind the amnesia. But the runes burned against your senses. Every time you so much as focused your will, your veins sang with warning. Like holding onto something too hot.

Still, you felt it.

Whatever Bob was, whatever he had inside him — it wasn’t dormant.

Because now, above a decaying Manhattan skyline, Bob wasn’t stumbling anymore like in the vault.

He was floating.

A man unmade. Or maybe remade into something else.

People vanished mid-step. No cries. No struggle. Just… gone. Shadows burned into sidewalks. Skyscrapers flickered at the edges. He was unmaking the city in slow motion — like light being swallowed by static.

And you remembered.

Back in the vault.

He had reached for your hand, pulled you through the narrowing wall. Skin met skin. The moment contact sparked, something slammed against your mind — a weight, an ancient force pressing down. You staggered. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

You didn’t process it then. You didn’t have the time.

Then came the explosion.

Your head hit stone. Darkness folded around you. His hand still wrapped around yours like a fuse refusing to burn out.

And the pressure grew worse.

When you came to, everything ached. Your temples throbbed, like your magic was screaming behind a locked door. And Bob… Bob stood nearby, strangely still, watching you.

You kept your distance after that.

But you still felt it. The way the air around him warped. The subtle shiver in shadowed corners. Like something watching you from inside him, and smiling.

And then there was the way he looked at you.

It wasn’t malicious. Wasn’t leering. Just… long.

Too long.

You wanted to meet his eyes. Challenge it. But part of you hesitated. Because something in him was pulling. And part of you didn’t want to pull back.

That part scared you.

You don’t think he even realized he was doing it. Because the pull wasn’t coming from Bob. It came from what had settled in him. The thing that hadn’t quite hatched.

Walker knew it too.

You found him standing at the edge of the vault hole, staring down like something was still in there.

His voice shook.

“When I was in the vault,” he said, “I… I saw something. I went somewhere. I can’t explain it, but…”

He didn’t finish.

Because you already knew.

Here you are now.

Black tendrils of smoke flowed from your fingertips as you moved between the crumbling street and fleeing civilians, shielding them with the last of your will. You cast illusions, redirected sightlines, placed cloaking wards on alleys — anything to keep the Void from seeing them.

But it saw everything.

The shadow crept toward you, blanketing every surface, swallowing every light. The Void was spreading — not in haste, but with intent. Like a predator circling something it had already caught.

And dread followed your steps.

You watched your new teammates, those you'd fought beside, trusted, learned to hope in — slip into the dark, one by one.

Was this even the plan?

Did any of you ever have a real plan?

Your breathing was ragged, each inhale scraping your tightening ribs like a blade. You had overdrawn your reservoirs of power — the kind you were trained to regulate, not expend. Your veins slowly turning dark against your skin. Strange taught restraint. But restraint wasn't going to save anyone now.

Your legs ached, your hands trembled, and your wards were faltering.

But you kept going. Because there were still people. And that meant you had to try.

“Give up.”

The voice crawled into your skull like a spider nearing its trapped prey on the web.

“Give yourself to me.”

It caressed your mind with smoke and honey. Tempting. Reassuring.

“Surrender.”

“No.” You pressed your hand against a panicked woman’s temple, breathing uneven. Your eyes flickered with silver-blue light, and her mind calmed just enough for clarity. “Run. Now.” Your voice held the weight of command.

She ran.

And then — she didn’t.

She was gone.

Not just lost. Erased.

You turned, and another was missing. Then another. You reached in, stabilized minds, sent them through escape sigils, protective thresholds — and still, they vanished. One by one. Pulled into a void you could not see, only feel.

You were losing them. Faster now.

“You can’t save them,” the voice whispered again, coiled in your thoughts.

You stood there, staring at a scorched silhouette of the woman burned into the pavement.

“How long do you think you can keep them from me?” it asked. “Give up.”

You stumbled a step, teeth gritted, your wards cracking with the strain. You didn’t want to believe him. But you’d seen the truth, in real time — every person you fought to protect disappeared the moment your attention moved on.

“No—” you rasped. But your voice cracked. You surged forward, reaching for a couple in the distance, but they were gone before your second step.

Gone.

You staggered backward, arms slack at your sides. Your barrier broke like glass. You could feel it. His presence tapping your mind like water over stone, every drop widening the fracture.

You were alone.

Dust swirled around you like ash. There was no sound. No life.

Only him.

“I felt you… down there. When I was first released.”

His voice arrived before his form. Then the darkness thickened, and he descended. Not with grandeur, but with gravity. Like the world reshaped itself around him.

You looked up. And there he was. Cloaked in shadow, his form too fluid for a body, too solid for smoke. Lights bent around him. Space bent.

And his voice—

It scraped against your mind like velvet knives.

You tensed.

“So much grief. So loud.” He stepped closer, until the two pale points of his eyes caught yours. White. Empty. Piercing.

“You burn like a flare in the dark,” he said, tone almost reverent. “And I am nothing but a moth to flame.”

He reached for you. Slowly. Fingers of dusk trailing from his outstretched hand. The air chilled.

But before he could touch you, your voice cut through.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Your hands balled at your sides. A pulse of heat flared in your palms.

He paused.

Then retracted his arm, expression unreadable. Shadows around him shifted like thoughts. He almost tilted his head.

“No,” he agreed softly. “But I want to.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Your mind… it doesn’t bend like the others. You keep it locked. Tight. Why?”

You said nothing.

He smiled — or something like it rippled across his form. “Do you even know what you are?”

The words slithered past your ears and burrowed inward, curling into your deepest thoughts.

“That power inside you… it calls for me,” he said. “Don’t you feel it too?.”

Your body screamed in protest. Or was it in desire? Your magic, raw and furious, writhed inside you. You could feel it spiraling like a vortex in your veins, stirred by his nearness.

You did feel it.

But it was out of sync. Off-beat. Like something dancing to the wrong rhythm.

He was the disturbance.

"You can’t fight forever," he whispered, his voice now beside your ear.

Every breath you took hurt.

"Let me in, and I’ll show you what you really are."

Cold seeped into your bones. You staggered. Heart thudding.

“I’m nothing like you.”

“No,” he answered without pause. “But you could be.”

He took Bob’s shape again. The human you thought you’d saved. The face, the frame — familiar. But now warped by the echo of something far older. Flickering like bad signal, unstable.

You weren’t sure whether to recoil or reach out.

Still, your feet stayed where they were.

“You’re tired,” he said. His presence pressed against your barriers — not slamming into them, but whispering through the cracks. “You want answers. Let me in… I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

His arms rose, hovering near you. Not touching. Not yet.

Your fists trembled, black and white magic swirling like smoke and light. The pressure nearly split your ribs apart.

Be in control.

You looked up, slow and deliberate.

“This is manipulation. I know who I am.”

His voice dropped to a near-silent breath.

“This is honesty. And I don’t think you really do.”

The world stilled.

You could still turn away.

But you didn’t.

Your powers surged toward him, responding — or obeying. You took one step forward.

And the Void opened its arms.

The void welcomed you with a cold nothingness. Weightless, endless. A slow, spiraling descent into black. Your body wasn’t falling, no not really, but your mind was. Clinging to the edges of itself, holding on tightly, terrified of shattering.

It felt like one of those dreams — the kind where you fall off a building. Heart lurching. Breath stolen.

But this time, you didn’t wake up.

You kept falling.

Over and over, you braced for impact. Waited to hit the ground. Waited to open your eyes and find yourself in bed, safe and alone. Maybe none of it had happened. Maybe you never accepted that final mission from Val. Never boarded that plane. Never got trapped in the vault. Never met Bob. Never met the others. Never met the Void.

A quiet laugh caught in your throat. There was no waking up. There was no ground. Just this. The weightless, freezing dark.

Your eyes slipped closed, ready or pretending to be ready for the end.

Then you heard them. Whispered voices. Not outside you, but inside. Sliding beneath your skin. Curling around your ribs. Ancient and patient and inevitable.

“May I enter?”

It wasn’t a question. It only sounded like one. It wanted permission, but didn’t need it. The presence loomed, pressing at the gates of your mind, waiting for the word to step through.

You hesitated. Your thoughts pulled tight like fraying rope, on the edge of unraveling.

But you had no choice.

Your voice barely broke the silence.

“…Yes.”

The void shifted.

Not warmer. Not brighter. But aware. The darkness folded in on itself. No sound, no wind, just the unbearable gravity of something other arriving.

Suddenly, the void fractured.

You landed hard on polished hardwood. Cold seeped into your limbs from the floor, and you gasped as breath returned to your lungs in a rush.

It was the Red Room’s training hall.

You knew it before you saw it—before your eyes even caught up with your brain. The distant echo of metronomic ballet taps, the too-familiar scent of sweat and disinfectant. A memory too deep to forget. You pushed yourself upright, heart already pounding as your gaze snapped to the center of the room.

Young girls moved in choreographed silence across the floor, limbs trembling in precision. Shadows clung to them like parasites—living smoke slithering around their ankles, their wrists, the base of their necks.

And standing near the front, her posture straight and severe—

There you were.

Smaller. Thinner. Face a blank mask, eyes sharp like cut glass. Next to her. The Mistress. Cold and commanding. She didn’t need to shout. Her presence alone demanded perfection.

One girl faltered. She was new. You remembered that. Her arms shook as she stumbled out of rhythm. A small, strangled cry slipped from her lips, and that alone was enough to bring silence crashing over the room.

The Mistress turned her head.

Your younger self stepped forward. No hesitation. You watched, frozen by the doorway, as your hand reached out and with invisible force, the shadows tightened.

A flicker of telepathy. One you hadn’t yet mastered, but already powerful enough.

The girl’s fear vanished. Her eyes dulled. She moved back into formation, her limbs suddenly mechanical. Empty. Compliant.

It had been your task. The Mistress had trained you for this since the day your parents let you go to them. But back then they didn't understand the extent of your powers. Of what was contained inside of your bloodstream.

Your breath caught. A weight pressed behind you again, that suffocating presence like someone breathing down your neck, but you refused to turn.

And before you could, the room rippled.

The training hall distorted at the edges. Floorboards curling, dancers fading into smoke and your body lurched forward into darkness again, propelled through time and memory.

You hit the ground harder this time.

The sterile white of the next room blinded you. It reeked of antiseptic and blood.

Rows of beds lined the chamber, each occupied by young Widows. Needles pierced their arms, thin wires connected to machines that hissed and beeped. You knew this place. You’d spent months here.

Your eyes locked on your younger self again, standing stiff near the far end, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

Monitoring. Observing.

A girl screamed, ragged and raw. You turned toward the sound just as she thrashed beneath leather straps. A needle plunged into her arm. Her back arched. Blood burst from her lips as her eyes rolled back.

And still, your younger self didn’t move.

You reached out—impulse, instinct, guilt, all tangled into one—but your hand passed through air. You couldn’t change it.

You remembered now.

The collar around your neck. The blinking red light. One wrong move and your body could be dust.

You had been so young.

You clenched your jaw as the girl’s cries warped into static. She gurgled something unintelligible. Or maybe you just didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to admit she might have been calling your name.

Then—

Silence.

You turned your head, slow and reluctant.

There was blood everywhere. On the bed. On the ceiling. On the pristine white coats of the scientists.

And still, your younger self stood motionless. Eyes locked on the wall ahead.

Dissociating. Just to survive.

The fluorescent light above you flickered and with a soft click, a door appeared. Not a steel one this time, but something darker. Heavier. It creaked open on its own as the scene around you rewind again.

You didn’t want to go through it.

But something pulled at you again—not a command, not instinct. Something older. A guilt that never left.

You stepped inside.

And the air changed.

Gone was the cold brutality of the Red Room. No white coats or flickering lights. This corridor was different. This was yours.

The walls pulsed with red. Not metaphorically—literally. They were wet. They breathed. You walked forward, boots echoing against slick tile that grew darker with every step.

Then the faces appeared.

Beneath your feet, through the floor, blurry and flickering like poor reception on a screen. Eyes wide. Mouths frozen mid-plea. People you had killed. People whose names you didn’t remember. Couldn’t.

Then—

The alleyway.

It slammed into you like a wave.

Rain soaked the air, cold and heavy. You stood under a flickering streetlamp, blood trailing down your wrists. Your blade was still wet.

Three bodies. One gasping. One twitching. One already gone.

Your hands didn’t shake.

You breathed out like you’d just been released. Like it was a relief.

It had been your first time working for Val. Not under control. Not coerced.

You’d said yes.

You’d promised Stephen once—no killing. Not unless there was no other way. You’d told him you could hold the line. That you wouldn’t become what they made you.

But that night…

You didn’t just kill them.

You enjoyed it.

Efficient. Precise. Like a switch had flipped. And it terrified you of how easy it was.

Across the alley, your past self looked back at you. No remorse. No hesitation. Just the flat calm of someone built for violence.

“How long can you pretend you’re better now?”

His voice slithered around you, echoing off the blood-slick walls of the corridor. You froze.

“Even when no one was holding your leash… you kept going.”

Your throat closed.

“Your mind is strong,” he whispered, closer now. “But your hands? Always eager.”

You looked down.

Blood. Coating you. Soaking up to your elbows, warm, thick, and familiar. You hadn’t noticed it return.

“You liked the way they begged.”

“No,” you breathed, the denial weak in your throat, already too late.

“You liked the silence after.”

The final blow wasn’t physical—but it cracked something in you.

A fault line that had been holding for too long.

You broke.

And you screamed—but it wasn’t vocal. It couldn’t be. There was no breath left for it. What erupted from you was power. A surge of unfiltered, untamed chaos magic, a fraction of the ones of Wanda Maximoff, ripped through the ground beneath you. The floor shattered like glass underfoot, memories exploding into the air in jagged, flickering shards. The mist of blood spiraled around you, orbiting like a storm, suspended by grief, rage, and raw instinct.

You reached for him.

For the Void.

For his throat. For his voice. For anything that would make this end.

But he was already gone.

He never stayed long after the damage was done.

And in his absence, there was only the echo.

The memory.

The scene didn’t fade. It calcified.

Rain still fell.

Faces still watched.

You stood alone in the wreckage of your own mind, chest heaving, heart punching against your ribs. Somewhere behind you, thunder cracked.

But the real sound was softer.

A slither.

A whisper beneath the static hum in your mindscape.

Because when you broke—when your defenses fractured and your shields collapsed under the weight of old wounds—the Void didn’t hesitate.

He slid into the breach like smoke under a door, insidious and patient. Into the quietest corners. Into the cracks you didn’t know were there. Into the dying flickers of memory that spells had been trying to erase. The things you weren’t meant to hold onto.

Your last tether to who you had been before the separation. Before the erasure. Before the silence.

The Void found it.

That flickering piece of you—fading, dissolving under the spell’s slow banishing. Like an unraveling tapestry, each moment came loose, thread by thread.

And he stole it.

Wrapped his hands around it like a prize. Claimed it like leverage. Something to hold until later.

You didn’t feel it go. Not then.

The storm you had unleashed blinded you to the theft.

But in the wreckage, something felt hollower.

And when you reached for your rage again just to keep standing, you noticed:

It took a little longer to remember who you were angry for.

He was still there.

Watching. Feeding. Enjoying every crack in your armor.

Enough.

Your fists clenched.

You weren’t a puppet anymore.

Not here.

Not ever again.

You close your eyes.

You shut the noise off. Shut him off. That voice that slithered under your skin and peeled open your wounds with surgical precision. Letting the Void see what he wanted. The blood-drenched history, the warped compliance, the echoes of screams. But not everything.

Not the part you swore would never see daylight.

You bury it. Deeper than deep. You layer it behind blank walls, fractured mirrors, a silence so heavy not even the Void dares follow.

And then, you focus.

Draw a breath that doesn’t belong to you. Inhale past the pain. Reach beyond the wreckage. Past your own splintered psyche.

Until you feel it.

A thread. Quiet. Off-beat. Gentle in a way this place hasn’t allowed since the beginning.

Not yours.

Bob’s.

Fractured but present. A heartbeat trying not to be heard. Faint, flickering. But not gone.

You anchor to it.

And follow.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

The world around you shifts without ceremony.

You blink, and the corridor is gone. The slick marble. The shadows. The blood on your boots.

Now, it’s frost.

Your breath fogs in front of you, air sharp with cold. A street stretches out ahead, quiet and unreal. Wrong in the way that dreams are wrong. No traffic. No noise. Only a single streetlight buzzing overhead, flickering like a dying thought.

In the shop window beside you, a tall mirror looms.

Its surface is smeared with condensation, but even through the blur you see them. Dim outlines reflected in the glass. The team.

You don’t think.

You raise your hand, and without summoning rage or command, just intention and the mirror shudders.

Then fractures like water.

You step through.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

You land on wood.

The creak beneath your boots is immediate. Personal.

Dust spirals in the low attic air, thick and slow-moving like smoke from a long-dead fire. Cobwebs twitch in the corners. Light filters through the slats, silver and sickly, as though moonlight’s been stretched too thin.

Toys are scattered across the floor. Plastic soldiers missing limbs, puzzle pieces warped with age. An old record player churns in the corner, skipping endlessly on a broken loop. A single rocking horse sways gently though nothing touches it.

Everything smells like forgotten time. Mold and childhood.

You take one step forward—

And chaos unfolds around you.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

The center of the attic thrashes with activity.

Chairs lift themselves and hurl toward walls with howling velocity. Books launch open, pages flipping and screaming as if the words are alive. Curtains snap like whips. Shadows crawl along the walls, wrong-shaped and hungry.

You see them.

Your team.

Yelena rolls as a drawer explodes beside her, wood splinters grazing her cheek.

Ava phased just in time to avoid a chair that smashes where she stood.

Walker has both arms up, shield-less, deflecting a shattered dresser raining down from above. Behind him, Alexei is swinging a jagged table leg like a club, smashing at an armchair with teeth.

You lift your hand.

Not out of panic.

But purpose.

The moment stills.

Mid-violence.

A clock mid-fall floats in the air. The rocking horse pauses. Pages freeze, mid-scream. Even the shadows recoil, as if tasting something unfamiliar.

Your power threads through the room like smoke, soft and invisible but undeniable.

You bring peace.

If only for a moment.

They turn to you.

Not with surprise, but something quieter.

Relief.

“Lena,” Alexei exhales his daughter’s name like a lifeline. He’s covered in dust, pillow stuffing stuck to his hair. He looks like hell. Still smiles.

“You came for us,” Yelena murmurs. Her voice is hoarse. The curtain that had wrapped itself around her throat now drapes down her shoulders like a shroud. She’s still breathless, but her eyes are on you, steady and searching.

“Glad you finally decided to join the party,” John says, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek, trying to sound flippant. The corner of his mouth twitches into something like a grin. It doesn’t hold.

The tension softens. Slightly.

Ava lowers her stance. Her camouflage flickers off, revealing her pale, scratched-up face. Even she looks like she’s been through a blender.

“I thought we lost you,” she says, her voice oddly small.

You blink. The words strike somewhere deep, though you don’t let them show.

Yelena steps toward you. Hesitates. Then steps closer again.

“What did you see?” she addressed everyone, but her eyes were trained on you. “Are you okay?”

You smirk.

That same old mask.

“Oh, I’m fine. Had a great past, so I’m totally fine,” Bucky cuts in before you can answer, tone dry as ash.

You follow his lead.

“Yeah,” you add, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve. “Just a lovely walk down memory lane.”

It lands like a joke—but tastes like bile.

Yelena gives you a small smile. It's sad. Too knowing. She doesn't push. Just watches you chew your lip again, caught in that nervous habit you thought you'd buried.

A beat passes.

Then two.

“Yeah,” John mutters, surveying the room again. The hovering chaos. The shadows frozen mid-reach. The cold.

“This place is messed up.”

And for once, you agree with him.

"We're here together. That's what matters," Alexei said, nodding at you, his voice low and tired.

"Thank you, guys. Really."

Bob fidgeted with the sleeves of his blue sweater, eyes flicking around the group. When they landed on you, he couldn’t hold your gaze. Your stare was heavy, brimming with sorrow and it made him feel the weight of everything he’d dragged you through. Dragged all of them through.

"Of course," Ava replied curtly, still wary of another chair flying in her direction.

"Here we are: Shane’s Elite Electronic Thunderbolts."

Alexei waved his arm in disapproval. “It’s not Shane.”

"Okay, okay." Walker stepped in, sensing a banter brewing. "Just—how do we get out of here?"

Everyone turned to Bob. He was the one who brought them here. Technically.

"I mean… as far as I know, it’s just endless rooms," he said, sounding unsure—like a kid caught doing something wrong. Was this his fault?

"Wait," Yelena cut in, "you said this was the nicest room you found. The others were worse, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Okay, well—show us the worst."

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

Outside, New York City was rapidly being swallowed by the Void.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

The team moved down the hallway of Bob’s house when a voice barked out.

"Where do you think you’re going, Roberts?"

His father.

A tall figure stepped into view, angry and looming.

Walker didn’t hesitate. He rushed him and slammed his taco-shaped shield into the man's face. The older man crumpled to the floor.

"Well, he seems nice," Ava muttered, stepping over the unconscious body in search of an exit.

"The strangest mission I’ve ever been part of," Alexei muttered as objects began to move on their own. A picture frame shattered on the floor beside him.

"This way!"

"Go, go, go!" Walker called, ushering the team through a closet door.

You stumbled through, falling hard onto a pile of clothes. As you pushed up on your elbows—

Thwack.

A wooden sign smacked you in the face. You yelped, collapsing back in pain as a sharp laugh echoed above you.

"Oh no," Bob said, horrified, staring at the thing that hit you.

A chicken. Holding a sign.

“You okay?”

Bucky was at your side in seconds, hands hovering over your shoulders to steady you.

"Not really," you muttered, rubbing your face. "Is that… a chicken?"

The chicken attacked again. Feathers flew. Grunts and thuds filled the room as the team tried to subdue the mutant poultry.

"Bob, if you hit me with that sign one more time—"

Alexei grabbed Bob by the collar, but before he could finish, the chicken struck him squarely in the head again.

"I was on meth!" Bob shouted, fists clenched at his chest, watching the Red Guardian get bested by a drugged-up version of himself.

The chicken charged again—but before it could strike, Bucky decked it with his vibranium arm.

It dropped with a final cluck.

While the others regrouped, you and Alexei scanned the room, searching for another exit. A doorway—the basement—stood ajar.

"This way!" you called.

"Come on, come on—go!" Alexei brought up the rear, ushering everyone through.

You landed hard again. This time, on cold linoleum. Pill bottles rattled across the floor.

The room was silent, save for the collective breath of the team.

And there he was.

Slouched in a medical chair under harsh white light. The Void. Two faint silhouettes burned like shadows on the wall behind him.

You held back behind the others, hoping to stay out of his view. But you felt it—you knew he saw you.

“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered.

"This is where it started."

His voice came out thin as you looked at Bob. Even without seeing his face, you felt the weight collapse onto him. He recognized the room too.

"I was roaming Southeast Asia," Bob said quietly. "Thought I’d figure something out—or at least find more drugs."

The door hissed shut behind you, making you flinch. The group stepped forward, following Bob’s voice.

"Then this guy shows up. Talking about some medical study. A trial drug that could make me stronger."

You stayed frozen, your body locked in place. Your veins glowed faintly beneath your skin. The familiar mental tug-of-war returned. The Void pulling at you.

"Felt like a miracle," Bob continued.

He stopped walking.

You considered turning back. Your heart pounded. The air was thick. John caught your eye. He didn’t speak, but his face asked the question.

Are you okay?

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t risk interrupting. You just clenched your fists.

"I finally thought I’d be something. More than just...me," Bob said, voice shaking. "That I was...something."

The Void’s voice cut through the silence.

Low. Deep. Almost calm.

"And look what you unleashed."

He stood. Slowly. Stepping around the chair, his black form fully visible now.

The team shifted uneasily.

"The most shameful thing of all," the Void said, now facing you, head tilted, "was thinking you could ever be more than—"

He paused. A long beat.

Then,

"Nothing."

You flinched.

Yelena stepped forward, voice steady. "We’re leaving."

The silence that followed stretched thin, like a wire waiting to snap.

Finally, the Void replied. One word. Final.

"No."

The moment the Void looked up, he instantly caught your eyes.

It was as if every atom of your being was being swallowed by something ancient—vast, unknowable, and older than time itself.

You were taken. Pulled backward.

One moment, the lab was erupting in chaos. Void roaring through cracked reality, John shouting your name, and the next, the world splintered like glass. A rush of wind. A scream from somewhere far away. Then silence.

And now, you're alone.

Stone walls stretch around you, but there are no doors. No windows. Just a hollow, echoing space lit by candlelight that doesn’t flicker. The floor beneath your boots hums faintly, like the Sanctum itself remembers this place. Deep in its bones. Deep in yours.

Your breath fogs in the cold.

You know this room. You swore never to return.

But ahead—there you are.

A version of yourself, suspended in memory. Back hunched, fingers trembling just inches above an ancient spellbook held open by invisible magic. The air thrums with power. Familiar. Dangerous. A golden light pulses from the pages like a heartbeat, illuminating the room in waves.

She doesn’t see you—

But she’s speaking.

“I said I wouldn’t cross another line,” she says, her voice raw with grief and lost. “I said I would move on.”

Her hands curl into trembling fists. Her shoulders quake. But still, she doesn’t cry.

“It’s been a year,” she breathes. But you still feel like a corpse walking. A carrion.

You take a step closer. The light swells.

The spell has already begun.

It rises, slow and solemn, drawing golden strands from somewhere deep within her—within you. Smoke-like tendrils of memory unfurl into the air, suspended above the book like constellations stitched across a void. You watch, helpless, as your own pain comes alive in front of you. Not as a ghost, but as a confession you’d long buried.

The first shows a narrow alley bathed in twilight. The air smells of rain on warm stone. A tall figure leans in—blond hair tousled, blue eyes catching the last of the light, a smirk playing on his lips. He speaks low, his voice a secret pressed between the bricks.

“Meet me here tomorrow,” he says. “Midnight. No one will find us.”

You remember the slip of paper in your hand. The way your pulse stuttered. The way his eyes never left yours.

Johnny. The name screamed in your mind. You nearly doubled over at the weight of it.

The vanishes in flame, curling inward like burned parchment, the edges turning to ash before you can even blink.

You were erasing your own memory.

Then comes another.

A rooftop. City lights far below. Ice cream melting between laughter. He wiped a drip from your thumb, his fingers lingering too long. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, but you remember the way your skin remembered him.

Gone. Swallowed by the fire before you can hold it.

You watched in horror as your past self, bloodshot eyes blurred by tears as she let her grief be taken by the spell. Her chest felt lighter, relieved of the burden of memories while yours grows heavy with the weight of remembrance.

“No…” It came out helpless.

The third is quieter. Music spilling from a distant window. Bare feet on warm stone. String lights above. You dancing slowly, your hand in his, his voice humming something half-remembered.

Your body remembered peace that night. Your heart remembered danger.

The memory burns slower. Like even the spell doesn’t want to let go.

But it does.

And then the final one appears, flickering brighter than the rest.

A kiss. Simple. Soft. Not a declaration, but a moment. One you both leaned into without hesitation. His breath on yours, the heat of his hand at your jaw. That single moment where everything stopped—grief, duty, time—and you were consumed in each other.

You almost say his name aloud.

But it, too, is taken.

You watch her—yourself—collapse to her knees. Head bowed. Eyes closed. Her hands fall to her sides, empty.

“If I forget him, I won’t go back,” she says, voice hoarse. “If I forget… I won’t break my promise.”

You close your eyes, your chest aching like something has been torn loose. Because now, finally, you understand what you did.

And why.

The ancient walls of the Sanctorium groaned as the book closed and the tendrils of magic seeped into you and into the wall. Settling and weaving itself into your mind, sewing close to what you had chosen to close.

And then the room rewinds.

A sound ripples through the chamber. Low. Slick. Too smooth to be human.

You turn as the shadows shift. The walls bleed into something darker, the air thickening. And then, from the far edge of the room, he emerges.

The Void doesn’t walk. He drips into existence. Formless one moment, humanoid the next.

“All that pain,” he purrs, voice curling around your spine. “And for what?”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

He circles you, slow and confident.

“A broken promise of obligation to duty to a man who never truly understood what you lost.”

The shadows pulse with him, bending the light.

“Stephen let you tear your soul apart,” he says. “Let you erase love in service of an idea. Of a timeline.”

You say nothing.

“But I,” he continues, stepping closer, “I can give it back. Johnny. The rooftop. The dance. The kiss.”

His voice is silk now. Sweet. Dangerous.

“You could wake up tomorrow, and he’ll be there. Waiting for you. Arms open. No rules. No Strange. No guilt. No consequences of Timeline unraveling.”

He tilts his head.

“Just say yes.”

You can feel it. The pull. The hunger. That deep, aching desire to go back. To undo.

But then… you remember a voice. Not his.

Stephen. Just before you found the book. His hand had hovered over the shelf but never touched it.

“The cost of remembrance,” he said softly, “is a fracture too deep to mend.”

You remember how he looked at you that night. Like he already knew what you were going to do.

You lift your gaze now.

“I am fractured,” you whisper.

The Void stills.

You take a breath.

“And I chose it.”

Light builds behind your sternum. A flicker. Then a flame.

“I chose to protect the timeline. I chose my promise. I chose to let him go.”

The Void begins to hiss, form twisting, unraveling.

“Your judgement is clouded and swayed.”

“No.” Your voice grows stronger. “I’m grieving. And I still chose right.”

He lunges, jagged and sharp, but your hands are already rising, the air around you roaring to life.

The chamber shakes as light explodes from your body, tearing through the illusion, ripping into the dark. You scream—not from fear, but from resolve. From release. The Void cracks apart in a blast of energy, splintering into fragments of smoke and shadow, howling as he disappears.

You fall.

And the world falls with you.

The floor vanishes beneath your feet—no sound, no wind, just a sudden collapse into nothing. The chamber dissolves into fragments of smoke and gold. The spell. The memory. The Void. All breaking apart in a storm of light.

Then—impact.

You hit solid ground. Hard. The breath leaves your body in a gasp that never makes it to sound. Your limbs are limp. Vision, black.

You don't feel the others landing nearby.

But they are.

A dozen meters away, they’re spat out of the void one by one like ragdolls—scraped, bloodied, their bodies colliding with the ruined remains of a Manhattan intersection. The asphalt is split down the middle like a scar. Rubble clings to twisted metal and shattered windows. Overhead, the sky churns a pale gray, empty now of shadow.

The darkness has lifted. But New York is still broken.

Ava is the first to move. She pushes herself up from the debris, coughing hard. Then Bucky, one hand pressed to his temple, dragging John to his feet.

“Is everyone here?” Yelena's voice, hoarse. “Where is—?”

They all turn at once, as if drawn by instinct.

You didn’t fall with them.

You were cast out—farther.

Lying motionless in the cracked street. Dust settling across your coat. A faint stream of energy still flickering at your fingertips, dying embers from a fight no one else could see.

Bucky sees you first.

“There!” he shouts, already running.

The rest follow. Yelena sprinting hard, Alexei stumbling close behind, John, Bob and Ava a beat behind them, covered in ash and exhaustion.

“Hey—” Bucky drops to his knees beside you. “Hey, look at me.”

Your body doesn’t respond at first. Your eyes are shut, lashes powdered with dust. A trickle of blood darkens your temple.

They call your name. Once. Twice. Again.

And then—

Your fingers twitch.

A broken breath escapes your lungs.

You stir, blinking against the sharp white haze overhead. The city is blurred behind their faces, voices muffled and overlapping as your hearing returns in fragments.

“Come on, come on, stay with us—”

“You’re okay. You’re back—”

“Talk to us—please—”

You gasp. A sudden inhale like drowning in reverse. And you sit up too quickly.

The world spins.

Pain lashes through your skull, fast and electric, and then… memory follows.

All of it.

Johnny’s voice. Earth-828. The rooftop. The kiss. The spell. The choice. The Void’s temptation. Your promise to your duty. Your own trembling voice saying: I chose this.

Your hands grip the pavement, your nails scraping the cracked lines in the asphalt.

You’re still on your knees.

Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Because you remember everything.

And you’re still here.

It’s not peace that greets you. It’s pain. Sharp and sudden and immense. But beneath it, something deeper and anchored. Solid.

You chose to forget. You chose to honor the timeline.

You tore away the one thing that ever made you feel whole after half of the universe vanished.

And now, it’s all come back. Every moment. Every word. Every touch.

And you’re still breathing.

You raise your head slowly, meeting Bucky’s eyes.

Yelena is at your side. Ava touches your arm.

Alexei’s hand rests carefully on your shoulder, grounding you back into your body.

You feel the weight of what you did.

And what you endured.

And still, you’re here.

Not whole. But not lost.

You sit back slowly, letting the silence hold you for just a second longer.

The city is still broken. But the sky is clearing.

You exhale, not because the pain is gone, but because you know now. You can bear it.

You flew too close to the sun, burned for longing, fell for duty.

And still, what remains of you endures.

You. Still breathing.

Still becoming.

I, carrion.And I carry on.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

Epilogue

14 months later

The metal doors hissed open and in walked what the world now called the Thunderbolts. Or, as Valentina liked to say, Earth’s “new heroes.” You weren’t sure when that title stopped sounding absurd. You just knew it was yours now. Like it or not.

You never thought it would go this far.

“But we are the Avengers,” Yelena declared, arms swinging confidently as they spilled into the common room. A tangle of boots and sarcasm and mismatched weapons. “The government said so.”

You were already there. Sitting at the far edge of the lounge, legs tucked beneath you in a too-big armchair. Bob sat nearby but not close but always within your sightline, always quiet. Watching. Or pretending not to. Ever since they put you on rotation with him, babysitting duty really, it had been like this. Watching the man. Watching the thing inside the man. Making sure it stayed where it belonged.

You didn’t mind. It gave you space.

Space to think.

To grieve, quietly, over memories that had come back too fast, too full. The ache was there, but dulled now. Like a scar healing in the dark. You could sit with it.

“How does Sam Wilson not understand that?” Yelena asked, annoyed in the way only Yelena could be.

“He has the shield,” Bucky replied dryly, sinking into the couch beside her.

John raised his half-dented one as if on cue. “I have a shield too.”

“It’s not a shield,” Bucky muttered.

“Yeah, it is,” John pushed back.

“It’s a shitty shield.”

“It’s a great shield, Bucky.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and dropped into his seat like gravity had finally won. You felt a strange kind of sympathy for him, having to exist in the same building as John Walker.

“If Sam puts together a team and his team is called the Avengers,” Yelena asked, waving her arms, “then who are the real Avengers?”

“That’s what the Internet’s asking,” Bucky said with a sigh. “Judging by the memes, it’s not us.”

“Didn’t you say you’d talk to him?” Yelena said.

“I did talk to him,” Bucky replied.

“And?”

“It went… poorly.”

The silence that followed said more than words. You looked up briefly, even you couldn’t believe that. That wasn’t the Sam Wilson you remembered.

And then, you drifted again.

Voices blurred into background static. Your focus slipped like water through fingers. There was a pull, gentle but insistent, somewhere behind your ribs. A tug in your veins. Your powers were tied to the multiverse, after all. You were made of it. And lately, something had been… off. Warped. Slanted, like gravity shifting sideways. You told yourself it wasn’t your concern anymore. Not your weight to carry. That was for Strange and Clea now.

Still, the pull didn’t stop.

They kept talking. Somewhere between Yelena launching into a rant about space crises and Walker arguing that the building was too big to be out of space, you tuned most of it out. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate when Alexei strutted in with a ridiculous neon suit and a new plan to rename the team Avengerz with a Z, apparently for copyright reasons.

It was chaos in small doses. Familiar. Loud. Alive. But all of it floated around you like white noise, your mind caught in that faint pull again, like your blood was threaded to something unraveling just outside your perception.

But then the computer voice pulled you back.

Flat. Mechanical.

A.I. from the command station.

“Satellite image populating.”

“Extradimensional ship entering atmosphere.”

The air sucked out of your lungs.

Yelena turned sharply to look at you. Bucky too.

You hadn’t meant to react. But you did. A sharp gasp, like ice down your spine.

“…It’s a…” John stammered. “It’s a cool ship.”

A blue circular logo with a ‘4’ in it came into view as it turned.

Behind you, the air shimmered. A low hum crackled through the room. The scent of ozone, faint but sharp.

All of you turned just as the ring of sparks began to carve a circle into the air behind you.

A portal bloomed open.

a/n: So... how are we feeling, divas? Also, Hozier reference? Aye? Lets discuss pt 3

tags for this series: @theswingingsixtiess @imaginecrushes @saphhireplums @you-makeme-crazier @iguessiwritenow @thefandomplace @sadslasher13 @lafrone @sunnshinie @skyfallslayer @hcneyiced @starsanarchy @jenaatje @lazybot @sasukexnaruto333 @tootstoots @luckyplums1 @itevilhag @starry-night-lover1 @giona45-5 @mcdugglelol @aesthetic-reader413 @ridinnjeanssdichhhh

tags for all fics: @lady-violet

#johnny storm x reader #johnny storm imagines #johnny storm angst #johnny storm #fantastic four #fantastic 4 #joseph quinn #bob reynolds x reader #the void x reader #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #void #the void #the void imagines #bob reynolds imagines #lewis pullman #thunderbolts #marvel #mcu

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munecabrava · 2 days ago

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On IWTV, unreliable narration, and that train scene

Okay, I never want to be the person who's like 'I have a degree in literature so I am better at watching television than you' but I literally wrote my thesis on unreliable narration, so I want to talk about it for once.

A lot of people seem to have too narrow an idea of what unreliable narration is, to the extent that even the people involved in making the show are hesitant to call the characters, specifically Louis, an unreliable narrator. Because people see that term and read it as 'this character is blatantly lying all the time'. But that is not what unreliable narration is! And it's precisely because this show is so good at playing with actual unreliable narration in a way that is rare, especially on television, that I fell in love with it.

The thing about unreliable narration is that it happens on a spectrum, both in terms of the intentionality of the narrator and in terms of the way in which the narration is presenting information.

Which is why I always thought they might revisit the train scene, and why I think some people who are upset at the idea are not engaging properly with the way the narration in this show functions.

A great paper on unreliable narration is 'Lessons of Weymouth' (by James Phelan and Mary Patricia Martin) - it does a great job at going into all the aspects of unreliability (it defines six different kinds), and it's interesting to think of it in relation to this show. 'Weymouth' refers to a chapter in the novel The Remains of the Day in which the narrator reveals that throughout the story he has been telling, he obfuscated the fact that he was in love with one of the people in the story. Everything he told us was true, in a literal sense, but the meaning of the story changes entirely when we find out that there was a whole aspect of his experience that he left out. It's actually quite similar to how Louis/Lestat is presented in the novel of IWTV, where Louis (our narrator) only talks about Lestat in a negative, hateful way, until near the end of the book when suddenly we get a paragraph where he says

I allowed myself to forget how totally I had fallen in love with Lestat's iridescent eyes, that I'd sold my soul for a many-colored and luminescent thing, thinking that a highly reflective surface conveyed the power to walk on water.

Which is when we realize that he has left some of his true feelings out of the narration so far.

The show doesn't quite use unreliable narration in the same way, which is smart, because television functions differently from a novel. They actually lampshade this change by making the '73 interview the one from the novel, where Louis is much more dishonest about Lestat from what we hear (he played without one iota of feeling). In 2022, Louis' narration still focuses on Lestat's wrongdoings and glosses over his love for him. But while he refuses to focus on it, now it bleeds into his narration - 'Lestat was my coal fire', 'the earth always felt liquid', etc etc. And because it's television and they are working with a voice-over, they can play around with the contrast between what we hear and what we see. We hear Louis say 'I was being hunted' on top of images of him and Lestat going on dates to the opera and falling in love.

His unreliability is more subtle because of these changes. Like I said, there is a spectrum of unreliable narration, both in terms of how aware the narrator is that he is unreliable (or lying) and in terms of what type of unreliability is used. Example: A narrator describes a room where a murder happened. We later find out that the murderer entered the room through a window that was left open. If the narrator describes the scene without saying the windows are open, he is unreliable. But there are a variety of reasons for why he might not have mentioned it! The narrator can be aware of the omission because he wants to hide this vital information (because he is or wants to help the murderer), but he can also skip it because he is not aware that the detail is important. That's intent. Secondly, in describing the scene, he can say the window was closed (misreporting) or he can not mention the window at all (underreporting). (and so on - there are a lot of different nuances here).

So a narrator who both knowingly lies and does it by describing things that did not happen can exist, but is only a very small fraction of all unreliable narrators.

In IWTV, Louis mostly either unintentionally misreports (it was Armand who saved him, it wasn't raining) or intentionally underreports (not burning Lestat, not talking about their happy times together). Even in the parts where he is the most wrong in what he tells us, he still isn't all the way to 'blatant liar' on the spectrum. Claudia's turning is the biggest 'lie', but by the time of the trial, he clearly has made himself believe the version he told her and doesn't realize it's wrong until he tells Daniel about Lestat's version. That's the arc of these two seasons! Louis is using this second interview to confront the lies he told to himself.

He also, to an extent, underevaluates or even misevaluates in his narration. Which means he doesn't always consider other people's perspective or isn't aware of certain circumstances that might change the meaning of an event. That is what I think The Vampire Lestat will play with. This already happens for people who have read TVL and beyond: we know that Lestat has been abandoned over and over before meeting Louis, so we understand why he reacts so extremely to the thought of Louis leaving him. But Louis doesn't realize that context, so Lestat is villanous in his narration to an extent that Lestat himself would feel is unfair or even false.

What is so important in this show (to me) is that there is not a single scene in it that is revealed to not have happened at all. That would be a cheap way of using unreliable narration, and they're not cheap. It's why I think it's ridiculous that some people say the reunion in 2x08 might not have happened - in the books that's possible, in the show I don't think it is. There are only scenes that have been underreported. Everything with Jonah in the woods happened, but it was raining. Louis slit Lestat's throat, burned a body, and left with Claudia, but in-between, actually, he screamed over his corpse and attacked his daughter. Armand and Lestat were both sitting in the room when 'banishment' happened, but Louis didn't see who was whispering. Claudia was dragged to the house, and Louis begged Lestat to turn her until he gave in. It just...lasted longer, and was more horrifying.

And so the train scene. I have thought for a long time that it would be a scene we revisit from Lestat's pov, and it surprises me that some people are so against the idea. But they seem to think revisiting it means it will be revealed that it did not happen, something that, again, has no precedent in the show. Instead, I have always thought it was underevaluated, if anything, and possibly unintentionally misrepresented. Lestat is at his most cartoonishly evil in it, which is much more in line with his character in the first book than with how the show generally portrays him. The only other time we see him that evil, at least to Louis or Claudia, is in 1x05 in the lead up to the fight - and we already got the more nuanced version of that! It's another scene that was underreported (they literally go to another room which we don't see) and underevaluated (Lestat's trauma influencing his behavior as well as Akasha's blood possibly making him more volatile).

So my guess would be that when we see the train again (or hear about it), he will be much more desperate and scared, which he overcompensates with the theatricality that scared Claudia. And that we will see what came before: him finding Louis close to selfharm, panicking in part because it triggers a memory of Nicki, and going to get Claudia back so Louis doesn't die. And that takes nothing away from Claudia or Louis' narrative! It just enriches the story and shows that there is no objective truth, and narration is almost always somewhere on the sliding scale of unreliability.

(and just so it's clear - having more context and backstory and a fuller sense of the narrative from all sides does not excuse his actions and doesn't mean his abuse is okay etc etc but the morality-in-the-gothic-vampire-show discussion is another post)

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #the vampire lestat #iwtv meta

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farfromharry · 3 days ago

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Summary: Oscar embarrasses himself in front of the royal family of Monaco, but it’s okay because the Grand Duchess finds it all very charming

Oscar x Duchess!reader

w/c 1145

a/n i was watching the aristocats and this came to me, i also completely made up a royal family and a royal hierarchy cause i couldn’t be bothered to figure out the real one :)

Oscar Piastri was not the kind of person that was supposed to meet royalty. He was clumsy, slouched, messy and he swore… a lot. He was any sort of nobility’s worst nightmare. But with his job in Formula 1 came some odd perks.

The Monaco podium sitters would have the pleasure of meeting the royal family this year. It felt like a lot of pressure, but it was just another crazy experience in a world of crazy experiences for an F1 driver. It was part of the job.

As usual, he was running late. He’d had to change out of his race suit into a team kit that looked at least slightly presentable. One that had been ironed. It had taken longer than anticipated to find one in the mess of his stuff.

Zak was going to kill him.

He was the last one to enter the room where they were all waiting. Lando shot him a look, a wide eyed one that said he was pushing his luck. Charles just shook his head. It was a miracle he had made it. Barely a second to spare.

In the race he’d come 3rd, so he had some time before the attention turned to him. For now he could assess the situation.

The King and Queen looked incredibly proper. Straight backs, polite smiles, not a hair out of place. And the Duchess. He didn’t know if he had words for her. She was breathtaking. Her hair was perfectly tied back, putting her face on display. Her eyes sparkled, her smile gleamed. She was like a princess from a Disney movie. Dare he say she was perfect. Which made this whole thing a million times more scary.

Oscar was nervous. He wasn’t usually this worked up about things. But everything seemed rushed and proper and he hadn’t realised how pretty the Duchess was beforehand. Just as it was his turn to introduce himself, his phone slipped out of his pocket. A product of him haphazardly shoving it in there when he was already late. “Ah, shit.” It wasn’t until the word had already slipped out that he realised what he’d said. The colour drained from his face and he froze. Then his cheeks began to burn a bright red. He had just cursed in front of the Grand Duchess of Monaco. “I am so sorry, your highness. I didn’t mean to—“

He was cut off by her laughter. She was actually giggling. And my god was it a beautiful sound. It certainly eased the tension in the air. Though the glare from her mother beside her was still so prominent. The Queen didn’t approve.

She was quick to scold her daughter. Who struggled to stifle her laugh, but did manage to finally hold out her hand for Oscar to shake. He took it in hopes she couldn’t see how it trembled. Going off her smile, she saw.

“No worries.” Her voice was like butter. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Piastri.” She bowed slightly, a gesture Oscar had never had aimed at him before. He felt like it should have been the other way around. Was he supposed to bow back?

Why was he so nervous?

“The pleasure’s all mine, Duchess.”

Neither of them had realised their hands were still holding one another's until the Queen cleared her throat. The Duchess blinked, dropping her head as she shyly pulled her hand away. It felt like everyone was watching them have their little moment.

She cleared her throat. Snapping back into her royal persona was as easy as breathing at this point. “Congratulations on the podium. You drove well,” she complimented.

“Thank you.” Words like that from a person like her meant a lot. How often did someone get complimented by literal royalty?

If Oscar could, he would have spent hours gazing into her eyes like this. He continued to forget they weren’t the only people in the room though.

A cough from somewhere snapped them both out of their weird daze. Their time was up. Without another word, nothing but a longing glance shared, she was moved on to talk to someone who worked at Ferrari. He still couldn’t take his eyes off her though, not even when someone grabbed his arm and tugged him into a quieter corner.

“Mate, what was all that?” Lando hissed.

Admittedly he was still a little dazed from the interaction. His crush was rapidly developing. Oscar wasn’t usually one to feel like this so quickly, but she had some kind of magical effect on him. “I think I’m in love,” he whispered.

The Brit laughed, then shook his head. “That’s a dangerous game, Piastri. I wouldn’t if I were you.”

But when did he ever listen to Lando?

Through all their media commitments and debriefs with the team, she was all he could think about. With a face like that, how was he ever expected to get it out of his head? Maybe that was why he insisted he needed to see her again. And there was no way he could wait a whole nother year until Monaco again. 2026 was too far.

He had a plan. As soon as he could rush out of their last meeting of the day, he was putting it into place. Or at least attempting to.

“Your highness!”

Her head turned, finding the man who had been stuck in her head smiling away at her. He’d been unsure whether he’d catch her before she left the track, but he was glad he had. She waved her bodyguard away. It would just be the two of them.

She smiled. “Oscar, hi.”

The way she grinned made his heart flutter. He forced himself to ignore the feeling. “I have something for you. If that’s okay.” He wasn’t exactly sure what the rules were when it came to giving gifts to royalty.

Her interest was clearly piqued anyway.

He dug into his pocket. She didn’t expect to see a paddock pass dangling from his fingertips. Her eyes widened. “I know you’re probably busy, like all the time, but if you’re not too busy I’d like you to come to the next race.”

She felt her face flush. He was actually inviting her. He wanted her there. She had met him only a few hours ago and already was developing quite the crush. “That��s really nice of you.” She took it with a beaming smile. “I don’t know what my schedules like but I’ll try and be there.”

Excitement churned in his stomach at the idea of her being in the crowd, or in his garage, watching him. “Great. Well, I’ll hopefully see you there.”

“Definitely.” She took a step closer to him, placing a kiss onto his cheek that almost made his knees give in. That would be something he thought about for weeks. “See you soon, Oscar.”

#formula one #formula 1 x reader #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #f1 x reader

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shy-writer-999 · 1 day ago

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𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝒾𝒾𝒾)

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Prince Luffy has taken a liking to you. If you refuse to be on his crew, he has a different sort of proposal. Are you going to allow yourself to grow closer to him, or will something (or someone) get in the way? 3.2k words.

Part 3 of (?) - (read part 1 here) Pairing: Luffy x reader (she/her pronouns used) CW: SFW! (so far...)

✦ Chapter 3: The night erases all worries ✦

You returned to Prince Luffy’s quarters after a couple of nights. He was happy to see you, immediately treating you as cordially and kindly as he had before. He treated you like an old friend, like there wasn’t any class difference between the pair of you, and it was easy to let your differing statuses fade into the background.

It was a little troubling though, and a hard line to walk, because as much as he treated you like a friend, and as much as you felt like one, you couldn’t shake the glaring fact that he was a prince. It was a fact that was dangerous to forget, and you didn’t want to fly too close to the sun.

When you entered his chambers, he was waiting on the chaise for you, staring at the door. He cracked a grin and got up.

Prince Luffy had been thinking about you ever since he met you. There was something about you that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He was wondering about your personality, your reality, and what you needed. He was determined to get you on his crew someday and he had a nagging feeling that you were better at woodworking than you let out. Of course, he already had someone on the crew who specialized in that, but he figured the more the merrier. Franky could use some help.

He decided that utilizing your services was a good excuse to have you come over, eat dinner with him, and keep him company. That maybe you felt more at ease when you were able to do your job and chat after or during. Maybe you felt on edge (and would be more comfortable talking to him) when you followed the palace protocols, which he knew had been your survival mechanisms.

After coming to this conclusion, the prince wondered what sorts of services you were capable of doing. He didn’t want to risk any more massages, gods forbid that happened again. So, when you came to see him, he eagerly asked you what his options were. “I don’t feel like a massage today. What else do you do?”

“I can do facials, bathing rituals, hot stone treatments, scrubs, manicures, anything like that.”

He thought about it. “How about a facial?”

“Certainly. But I must insist that we do it in the bathing chamber, because there’s too much and clay water involved to risk getting it all over your bed. Is that alright?”

When he agreed, he led you to the huge bathing chamber. It was spectacular—everything was made of marble, there was a bathhouse-style tub in one corner, a shower in another area, a sauna, sinks, you name it. All of this for one person? One person who couldn’t care less about it.

You pulled out a wooden folding table that was tucked away in a corner and set it up. Gesturing to it, you encouraged the prince to lay down.

“Do I keep my clothes on?” He asked quizzically, and you stifled a laugh at how clueless he was before telling him to keep them on.

The facial was nice. You could see each of his dark, long eyelashes, every pore, the shape of his lips. He was pretty.

You moved his hair out of his forehead, wiped his face down, then mixed up a eucalyptus and clay mask, applying it delicately to his skin with a brush.

“That tickles,” he giggled, moving around a bit. His eyes were closed and he scrunched his nose up whenever you brought the brush close to the center of his face.

“Please stay still, prince, so I don’t get this everywhere.”

Pouting, he corrected you. “It’s just Luffy. No prince. You never say my name just as it is.”

“My apologies, Luffy,” you said, realizing that his name minus his status slipped out of your lips with far too much ease. “Now, would you please stop wiggling around?”

Hearing you say his name made him smile and your heart did a thumping thing.

The prince enjoyed the treatment. Your touch was gentle, the clay mask smelled good, and you smelled good too. He opened his eyes once and you were close enough he could have leaned up and—

When the treatment was over, Luffy marveled at his glowing skin in the mirror, thanked you, and then you ate dinner together. A routine was forming, one that you had no qualms against. It was nice to eat dinner with him. He was unassuming, non-threatening, compassionate, and kind.

During the meal you talked about what life was like growing up. You learned that childhood had been rough for him—Luffy didn’t have the attitude that there was anything particularly hard about it, but it sounded twisted and tragic at times. He was put in isolation frequently for misbehaving, for spouting what his father called nonsensical dreams. He fought with his brothers but loved them all the same. He wasn’t allowed to play with toys, wasn’t allowed to have friends other than other nobility (who were horrible company), wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by himself or be by himself much until he was older. He funneled all this frustration into the only thing they would allow him to do—strength and combat training for hours each day, until he got old enough and strong enough to set sailing. No one could stop him from taking to the seas and no one dared to.

As you listened to him talk about his childhood and his attitudes towards the unfreedom that came with being a prince, you started to understand why he was being so kind to you, and why he spent all his time out at sea. The context and sincerity made you trust him more.

All he wanted was to be free. You felt the same. You shared a similar dream. You wanted to be free from the stress of money and labor, and he wanted to be free of the ginormous expectations and suffocating responsibilities foisted upon him by nature of his birth. But for Prince Luffy, achieving his dreams didn’t sound like the most herculean task. Maybe his fate was to be free. But you knew that yours wasn’t. You were stuck. You couldn’t think too much about dreams because this was your life, for good.

When the conversation about your shared dreams and differing circumstances dwindled down, you were both quite touched at how much you seemed to have in common. Dreams and views on life. Understandings of how things should be. Freedom.

Now came the moment the prince had been planning for. “I have a question,” he began, “I know you won’t join my crew yet, but… will you join my waitstaff? So we can hang out more? You’d get paid a lot more too.”

You were caught off guard and flattered, but hesitation flooded your body, twinged in happiness at the gesture.

“I want to say yes, but I need to get permission from the head of my department before I agree to anything,” you said.

“I already did that. She said it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.” He beamed and you felt your stomach flip.

“She did?”

You accepted his offer. He couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

“Your room is all set up,” Luffy said eagerly, “it’s the building next door. I made sure your pay would be tripled. And you get nice new robes too. I don’t want them to work you to the bone really so I told them to take it easy on you, you can just be the resident spa lady and that’s it. Does that all sound okay?”

You were speechless. The generosity was too good to be true. Triple pay. The words rang in your ears for a few seconds. Triple meant that you’d be able to send so much more back to your family. Think of the things they could do, you told yourself. Meat every night. New tools. New bedsheets. Tears started to well in your eyes.

After that, Luffy showed you to your new room. It was spacious with a plush bed. Such a stark difference from the old servant’s quarters. You’d miss some of your coworkers there, your friends, or, well, as close to friends as they could get. But it was worth it for all this.

Luffy was elated—one step closer to convincing you to go to sea with him. He hadn’t known you for long, but he knew that he wanted you on his crew, there was just something about you.

---

Your first couple of days on Luffy’s waitstaff team were uneventful. Luffy disappeared for a little while on palace business, dragged into meetings with his father and preparations for his eldest brother’s return from a long trip. The kingdom was going to throw a festival for Prince Ace, a welcome back party of sorts, since it had been over a year that he was last there. There was only a week until he was expected home.

You were quick to recognize that there had been no festivities for Luffy’s return, but it was not like he would have wanted them anyway.

The rest of the team told you that you didn’t have to help with preparations, since you were there expressly for spa services, but as you had nothing else to do you figured why not. It was easy to get sucked back into the monotonies of palace events, cleaning, etc., and it was a nice way to pass the time.

When Luffy finally summoned you, it had been four days. His presence was always in the back of your head—wondering about him, what he was doing, what he thought of you, why you got along so well, whether he was being sincere in asking you to join him at sea. The offer sounded crazy, considering the fact that he hadn’t known you long and you were just a commoner.

It was nice to see him again. He welcomed you all the same—with a big smile and a laugh. This time you gave him a manicure before you ate dinner. He had never had one before and was absorbed in the process for the first couple minutes, then got distracted and started chattering about other things.

“The doctor on my ship is named Chopper. He’s a reindeer. He’s the best doctor I know.”

You paused. “A reindeer?”

Luffy nodded vigorously. “He can fix anything. I wonder if he could do manicures, too. Do doctors do those?”

You let out a laugh. “Princ—Oh, sorry, Luffy, manicures aren’t something doctors do. They’re cosmetic. But if he’s so amazing, who knows.”

“Do you like giving manicures? Maybe you could teach him when you join my crew.”

He was talking about it like it was a given already. Would he fixate on this for a while and then forget about you? Fear of that is one of the reasons you were holding off on accepting his offer, as well as the fear of being disappointed, over-promised, and left for nothing.

“I do like giving manicures,” you started. “It’s basically just holding hands with a stranger for an hour and getting to make friendly conversation. It’s very repetitive and soothing to follow all the steps, too.”

“A stranger?” Luffy cocked his head. “But I’m not a stranger, right?”

A smile worked its way across your lips and you felt your heart threatening to flutter. Something about his unassuming way of making conversation, of insisting on your familiarity, and looking at you so plainly… it made your feel funny. That doesn’t bode well, you told yourself. You’re starting to like him like him, aren’t you?

“No, Luffy, you’re not a stranger.”

He was pleased with your response, as well as the results of the manicure, telling you that his hands had never looked so clean before. While he was chatting away, you pondered on what it would be like to really hold hands with the prince—his hands were nice. Big, strong, and manly. They’d feel good other places too…

“I said it’s dinner time,” Luffy broke you out of your distracted train of thought. “C’mon.”

The dinner table was set, the meal was enjoyable, and you found yourself feeling genuinely happy. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this happy. It was scary how happy you were.

Luffy was in the middle of a long-winded story about his right-hand man and best friend, Zoro. You learned that everyone on his crew was a member of the commonfolk— some came from countries that didn’t have a monarchy, some came from countries that Luffy had actually liberated from abusive and authoritarian governments.

You started to see that Luffy meant what he said he meant. He was a nobleman by birth but not by attitude. By attitude he was a something of an anarchist, a revolutionary, and a freedom fighter. Contrary to every other member of his family, his immediate friends and chosen family were as far from royalty as could be. He raised them up, fought for them, would die for them, loved them, and cared for them, and they did the same for him.

Maybe you could let yourself dream a little bit more about running away to join his crew. Running away to sail the seas with Luffy, no longer Prince Luffy, to you, but Luffy.

“He uses three swords, one in each hand and then one in his mouth. He bites the hilt and everything. I don’t know how his teeth handle it, and he’s so strong he can cut through—”

The huge wooden door on the other side of the room swung open with a bang. You couldn’t make out right away who was barging in, but you heard him before you saw him.

“LUFFY!”

He was tall with a dark, thick head of hair and sparkling eyes, wearing an all-black, high-collared military general’s uniform and tall black boots, with a sash and cape in the royal colors. There was a golden pin the right side of his chest—the royal crest. Your eyes grew wider.

“ACEEEE!” Luffy jumped up, running towards him, and the two brothers embraced, slapping each other on the back. You could immediately see the sibling dynamic jump out. “You’re back early?! I haven’t seen you in ages, how’ve you been? Have you still been getting your ass kicked?”

Prince Ace laughed and threw it right back in Luffy’s direction. “Yeah? Are you still not king of the pirates, little bro? What have you been up to, just gettin’ injured? Your crew had to drag your ass back home?”

“Pffft, you wish! last I heard they had to escort you out of the general’s meeting because you got your briefs in a twist—"

More bantering happened before the pair realized you were watching the reunion quietly, mere feet away.

Ace paused mid-sentence, spun on his heels, and sauntered over. “Who do we have here?”

Before you had the chance to get up and curtsy, he leaned down and pressed his face close to yours, like he was inspecting you. At this proximity, you could make out freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks. He had gorgeous, long eyelashes just like Luffy’s. His eyes were a deep, dark color; you would have thought they were black except for some residual rays of the sunset shining from the skylight above. His eyes were a rich chocolate, entrancing. It was hard to look away.

“You’re gorgeous,” he pronounced after a second. “The royal colors fit you beautifully. Luffy, I take it this is your fiancée? Have I missed out on yet another secret engagement? You dog!”

“No, she’s—" Luffy started, but Ace cut him off with a raucous laugh.

“I didn’t know you had it in you! C’mere.” He walked over, pulled Luffy’s head down forcefully, and started rubbing his hair with his knuckles.

They play fought for a moment until they were both out of breath before returning to the subject of you.

“So, where are you from?” Prince Ace approached and leaned down again, far too close to your face for comfort. His eyes did the same trailing around your face that Luffy’s had done the first time you met him. They landed on your lips for a second before flashing up to your eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you around before. Which noble family are you from? You’re ravishing.”

“Excuse me, your highness, I’m not—” You tried to speak again but Luffy cut you off to deliver the news.

“She’s not my fiancée, she’s a member of my waitstaff and a friend.”

Prince Ace’s jaw dropped, maintaining how close he was to your face for a second, studying it one more time before straightening up.

“Waitstaff? What’s she doing eating dinner with you?”

“We’re friends,” Luffy arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we eat together?”

Prince Ace exhaled and did a stiff bow in your direction. “Apologies for my impropriety, miss. I did think you were far too pretty for him,” he nudged his elbow in Luffy’s direction. “Not like this idiot could ever pull someone in the first place.”

You weren’t sure how to react. You were comfortable with Luffy at this point but… another prince?

The brothers didn’t waste a second before going back to fighting and catching up; you saw an opportunity to see yourself out and Luffy obliged.

---

When Prince Ace went back to his living quarters late that night, he started to pace.

There was something sick and twisted inside of him. It was tugging at his heart and whispering in his brain. He knew he shouldn’t indulge. He knew he couldn’t be trusted to indulge. But he notoriously lacked self-control when it came to these things.

One time couldn’t hurt, could it? He was just curious.

He wanted to get another glimpse of that woman from earlier.

So, she was a masseuse? Worked in the palace bathhouse before getting promoted (twice), ending up with Luffy, of all people? At first, he just assumed she was his brother’s fiancée because the colors she was wearing and how alluring she was. But afterwards, as he interrogated his own head of staff, Prince Ace learned that those robes were merely a new design for Luffy’s waitstaff and nothing more.

His mind wandered… a pretty woman like that, in private? Let alone one skilled in using her hands?

He hadn’t been touched in over a year. A massage or traditional bathing ritual would be nice. He deserved it.

Prince Ace stood still, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to control himself. But he lasted no more than thirty seconds before he hunted down a scroll and pen, and pinned the following note:

“Masseuse from Prince Luffy’s waitstaff requested at Prince Ace’s chambers tomorrow at dusk.”

Then he pinned another short message to have delivered to his brother:

“Need a massage. Borrowing that pretty servant for a night.”

< previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter >

thanks for reading!! next part out a week from today or sooner if i'm feeling frisky!

taglist: @eggrollforyou @starchild-unnamed @ocean-mochi @dahl14 @starzbrii @qhevy @midnightbears @divinedolliebun @hrhqueenfox @lonelygirlonblvd @csbnova

#chapter title from shway shway by talia lahoud #one piece smut #op smut #one piece x reader #op x reader #monkey d luffy smut #monkey d luffy x reader #monkey d luffy x you #luffy smut #luffy x reader #luffy x you #luffy x y/n #luffy x reader smut

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diamondwaters · 2 days ago

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heartbeat (chapter one)

pairing: heavily implied (if not outright) polytrix x fem!reader

warnings for this chapter: mention of sickness, poor eating habits, overworking, poor work habits

author's note: y'all have been showing this fic so much love already my heart!!!! thank you so much for reading and i hope this first chapter lives up to your expectations!! but im also writing this for shamelessly pure fun so im really happy with it <3

CHAPTER ONE: LUCID

IN WHICH THE HEART PUMPS BLOOD THROUGH THE BODY

You were okay! You were running on water and a single protein bar, covered in glitter, your phone was missing, and you lost the girl group you had been assisting for five years before a concert. Again! But you! Were! Oh! Kay!

It wasn't that the day had started out chaotic, at least no more chaotic than your workday usually was.

Historically, you were known to be on top of your job, if not to your own detriment. You left your apartment two hours early to get to the best coffee shop in Seoul before the morning rush. It just so happened that in those quick-paced mornings, when your attire was pristine but your hair was escaping containment from its loose claw clip, you were prone to forgetting your own needs. Preoccupied with making sure everyone else's orders were exactly right, you didn't realize you had forgotten your own until you were already on the train.

So, when you showed up to rehearsal an hour later, only four drinks in hand for your team, you hoped you'd be able to get away with a missing fifth going unnoticed. After passing the drinks around, the feeling of hopefulness began to grow. That was, until Mira asked, already knowing the answer, unfortunately, "Did you drink yours on the train or something?"

Already on the move to your next task, you hid your moment of panic well beneath a soft smile. "Sorry, girls! I gotta get to the stage to make sure they've been given the set list changes!"

Because they'd been in the middle of getting their outfits tailored by wardrobe, the best Mira could muster in response to your sorry excuse was a firm glare and a counter. “What about breakfast?”

The girls were nothing if not observant, but despite every part of you telling you to listen, you truly and honestly didn't have the slightest bit of time. "Set list— they need it!"

Unable to follow you, you witnessed their diverse reactions: Mira didn't hide her disbelief while Rumi resignedly shook her head, knowing that of them all, she was the last person to tell you to take care of yourself. Only Zoey, who suffered the wrath of a costumer not done stitching something together, jumped up and shouted down the hallway you escaped through, "You are so coming home with us after the show! You need to re-LAX!"

The early morning light was beginning to edge over the horizon by the time you made it to the stage. The golden hue, that tinge of burning orange over the nosebleeds, warmed your skin the second it touched. Innocently, you shut your eyes to take it in.

You made it a goal in the new year to take those little, grounding moments. Appreciating things, and all that.

Before working for the girls, you kept to the night. Your waking hours used to consist of caffeine-induced wake-up calls and late nights in the studio practicing piano with guys who couldn’t even dare to say thank you.

Content as you might've found yourself, you couldn’t ever truly forget what could have been when it stared at you on the daily Most days, that part of your life got lost somewhere between your tasks and the culmination— the show. But sometimes, in those solitary moments, you remembered watching videos of idols on stages just like the one you were on, gasping when the camera panned to thousands of people. You used to have trouble envisioning it— you used to dream of envisioning it. You didn't have to dream anymore…

Admittedly, you were on the stage when all the people were, but it was still enlightening from the pit.

After five years, you could imagine any number of people. From the starter days of thousands to tens of thousands, with millions across the entire world. You could see them all so clearly in the seats, their faces bright from their lightsticks and enthusiasm. You could see yourself too, in front of them. You could hear the song beckoning you… not that one. The one that might’ve been it.

"Uhh, jeogiyo?" The stagehand called out while passing by with boxes of wires.

Ripped from your nostalgic stupor, you tucked your hair back behind your ear, fortifying yourself with gratitude that he did that. You gave a slight bow, lifting yourself back with a breath that knocked you right back into shape. "I apologize. Here. This is the copy of the set list. Have you seen the sound team? They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, and they need this material more than anyone."

The rest of your day, in an attempt to move past what lingered, moved in frantic fragments of things you only half-remembered doing. You moved from person to person, greeting people who responded back with questions instead of introductions, and mitigating menial tasks that other people couldn't be bothered with. You didn't mind— your job was meant for this, and over the years, you sort of became a jack of all trades after you'd gotten the assistant thing down pat. Whether it was venturing back out into the city to pick up makeup supplies or fixing the lighting in the girls' dressing rooms, you were there to do it. Shake down a venue for a better price? You had that. Needed a boot heel fixed in the middle of a concert? Grab a lighter and a hot glue stick, and you were there.

Every second of your day was occupied, every moment of productivity put in your back pocket for a pick-me-up. When you walked inside your house, empty of all life— even the plant you'd gotten a year ago had shriveled— you could at least look back on your day knowing those little victories kept your girls shining bright. Worth it, in your opinion.

You hadn't seen them in a few hours, and you loathed how the one time you ran into them, it was after a completely horrible, absolutely day-ruining accident.

One of the girls saw the back of your head, ducked down over your trusty tablet, home to all your schedules— color-coded and equipped with multiple reminders— and emails you seemed to send every other minute. All of this to say, you were in your happy place, and that usually meant you were susceptible to their persuasion. So, when Zoey called your name with a cheery tone, she stopped short when she saw the entire front half of your body covered in blue glitter.

Your eyes were completely serious, only half-glowing like usual. You spotted Mira hiding her smile behind her fist, and your hand shot out to stop her in her tracks. "Don't. Do not even."

Rumi fought hers with the most success, trying to remain empathetic. "What happened?"

"I offered to help the special effects apprentice fix a glitter canister," You explained, vaguely motioning to the mess. "Apparently, his hands get sweaty when he's nervous."

"On the bright side," Zoey sheepishly added. She used her hands to gesture at your body, as if you were showing off clothing. "That shade of glitter really does look gorgeous on you."

You closed your eyes and gave a closed-mouth smile in appreciation, then looked back at your tablet. "Thank you, Zoey. Are you girls on your lunch break?"

"Yeah. We were coming to see if you could join us, but maybe you'd like to take care of that first? Maybe a shower…?"Mira offered.

"Well, lunch and a shower will both have to wait," You sighed, tapping away before slipping your tablet back into your tote bag. "The wardrobe team just texted me. They accidentally left Zoey's hairpiece for the second act in the trucks, which are out back. I gotta go grab those, and that's, like, a twenty-minute walk–"

Mira stepped in front of you when you made your way out the door. Were your guard any lower, you might've been alarmed, but in your occupation, you were constantly attentive. You likened it to being told a ball was going to get thrown at you, with no other direction as to from where or when, just that you had to catch it.

"Have you eaten anything yet?" Mira asked, clearly expecting a specific answer.

"Yes, actually…" You smiled without an ounce of smugness visible, but you knew it was riling her up all the same.

Mira had made it a goal— unspoken to you, but evident all the same— to get you to break like you used to.

When you first met, she'd been surprised that you weren't nervous around her, not because you were frightened of her; you had that same tentativeness around everyone. She exploited the absolute hell out of it. Mira had a fascination with seeing you flustered, aiming to do it so much that, over time, you eventually found yourself putting up a much tougher fight.

Outwardly, at least.

Inwardly, you were still very much that girl from five years ago. Maybe even worse.

You held up the wrapper of the protein bar you'd been eating for the last fifteen minutes in a post-glitter-bomb fury. You declared, "Protein bar."

Mira's gaze flicked between you and the wrapper, her expression saying that clearly wasn’t enough. You had no backup from Rumi, who pinched your brow and shook her head. Zoey just gave you a thumbs down.

"You asked if I ate; you never said what." You learned the patterns of a disagreement and decided to keep the spirit of their final show on the tour upbeat; you eased whatever worries they harbored so they could focus on the concert. "Look, girls, you know me. When I get into 'work mode,' I can get a little–"

"Distracted?"

"Forgetful?"

"Self-negligent?"

"I don't have to order you that barbecue place you guys love after the show tonight." The threat got them to straighten up, as it so often did. They never fully learned not to mess with the girl in control of their snacks. You lighten up, releasing some of that tension in your shoulders. "What I was trying to say is that I just get a little preoccupied. But, listen, I am taking good care of myself. In fact, tonight, as soon as the show's over, I'm going–"

"To be coming to our place for some well-needed rest. Yeah, we know," Mira finished for you.

You scratched your head and pointed at her, "I don't remember agreeing to that? Just being told it was happening.”

"Same thing," Zoey defended. She drew out your name in a strong-willed attempt to keep you from arguing. "You know we love how seriously you take your job, but you need to stop being in 'work mode' or you're going to burn out. And don't think I won't use my power as your technical boss to get you to come."

It was time to pull out the power move: the stance. Hands on your hips, you straightened your back to make yourself look a little taller. Eyebrow raised, jaw tense, you gave Zoey your infamous stare down.

What you didn't expect was for Zoey to do it back.

The nerves were already starting to fall away from sheer surprise; Zoey usually folded under it, not copy you! Maybe she was bolstered by the fact you were a walking mirrorball. Whatever the reason, she meant business, and for you, that was a problem. Off-stage, you could only do it for so long, usually relying on Zoey's submission to win. You didn’t have that.

The girls were already exchanging low-fives of victory when you pursed your lips and looked anywhere but them. You grumbled, "This has gotta be some kind of HR violation."

"The stare hasn't claimed another victim today!" Zoey rejoiced proudly. She leapt to hug you, not caring about the glitter catastrophe on your chest.

You kept her back with an extended arm and saw her pout. "You have a show in a few hours, and you can absolutely not afford to be resigned to the same fate as me."

"But–"

"Nope! I'm not getting yelled at by makeup tonight! Now off you girls go! You have to eat."

"Oh, don't worry, we will!" Mira promised, and you believed it. "You'll be on the plane, right?"

You roll your eyes affectionately, nothing ever getting by them. You conceded, shaking your head when you heard their distant shouts of excitement, "Yes, I will."

You’d never felt more ready for the start of a concert. Everything was set up perfectly aboard the plane the girls were set to drop into the stadium from. It had the lighting Rumi liked best, the seating Mira said was best for lounging, an in-flight hype playlist crafted around all three of their musical interests, their favorite snacks and ramen packs, and was given the stamp of approval with Zoey’s exaggerated gasp of wonder. You prided yourself on those moments; when they stroked your ego, there’d be a part of you flourishing under their praise and another part squirming at the warmth beneath your skin. Unfamiliar with the feeling, you shirked away from it, shrouding yourself in that professional veil.

You were coming back from grabbing more water bottles when one of the flight attendants intercepted you at the door.

She had a large, unnerving smile, and her eyes were twitching in wild ways. She looked flustered, and a zing of uncertainty pierced your ears while she stammered, “I-I apologize, but the air-aircraft as r-reached its cap…acity!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Capacity!” She repeated, her bony, claw-tipped finger raised. “The maximum amount that something can contain! And this plane has reached it, so you cannot board!”

Panic began to seep into your bones. “No, you don’t understand, I need to be on this plane. The girls need me to count them in— they won’t know when to jump!”

“Deepest apologies,” The flight attendant grabbed your shoulders, forcefully turning you around from the entrance. She walked you down the stairs, resolutely pushing you away. “But police law says we can’t fly unless we meet these standards.”

“Wha–” That didn’t sound right.

“Yes! Have a lovely night, all will be well with the hunters–Rix! HUNTR/X!”

You weren’t left with a second to argue before the jet engine roared to life and the side door was sealed shut. You felt another wave of anxiety washing over you. Still, you corrected it with a hopeful sigh by reaching into your pockets. At the very least, you could call them to tell them when to come—

Your pockets were empty.

You watched the plane flying off without you, the only thought in your head: They’re gonna be fine.

You tried to make yourself appear small while you searched high and low for your phone, but you weren't exactly an unknown figure. You might not have had a high-ranking title, but the crew who'd been with the company a while knew enough to know you set the tone for these kinds of things. When you were calm, everyone else was calm. When you were trying to hide your face, still half-covered in glitter while pretending you weren't losing your mind, people around you were trying not to do the same. Especially not when it was show time and there was no HUNTR/X to be seen.

That's when you heard Bobby's uplifting voice greeting the crew, breaking through the static of the crowd. His charm, typically so infectious, made you hesitant to approach with the news that you had no idea where the girls were when you heard him ask exactly that.

"Hey, Bobby…" You squeaked breathily.

Relief washed over Bobby for a moment, but then his eyes widened like he'd been dropped in ice water. He pointed to the sky, "Aren't you… supposed to be up there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I was supposed to be."

"Why aren't you?"

You pushed more of your hair back from your face. "Let's just say that this airline is going to be getting a very, very strongly-worded email from me in the morning. Can I please borrow your phone?"

"Where's yours?" Bobby asked.

"That's why I'm writing an email."

Realization dawned on Bobby, and he quickly handed his over to you.

You tapped his screen until you found the tracking app the girls had in case of emergencies. Much to your horror, it showed their plane flying away from the stadium instead of over it, as it was supposed to. You had to keep yourself upright against the wall, otherwise you would've crumbled to the floor.

Bobby questioned you for some kind of answer on their whereabouts, but you could only silently pass the phone to him. His exclamations were loud in your ear, and so reflected your own fears.

Pressing your forearm to the wall, you leant your forehead on it and stared into the beige void. There were so many people here, so many teams relying on you to just be in the same place as the girls. You should’ve pushed that flight attendant more. You should’ve banged on the door. You shivered at the sheer number of people you'd have to apologize to if they had to cancel the show—

No.

Nope.

Inhale the worst-case scenarios and exhale optimism… You came up with that saying, but that optimism you were exhaling was coming out very strained enough to use it as a jumprope. Steadfast, you spoke up. "You calling them, Bobby?"

"As we speak."

"I absolutely adore you."

After a few rings, you heard those voices you so needed to hear greeting Bobby as if they didn't have a care in the world, explaining they were eating the pre-show ramen you set up for them.

"Pre-show?" Bobby gasped in disbelief at about the same time you let out your last hopeful exhale. "What about the show-show?"

A few fans snatched Bobby's phone from his hands. The girls loved their fans so much that they entertained each and every one while Bobby struggled to wrestle the phone back. It was incredibly endearing, and would've been even more so were it not for the fact that their plane was only getting further away.

Determination spurring in your stomach, you found the strength to grab it from a man enthused to show off the tattoo he got of their group name. From the sound of it, only Mira appreciated it.

A girl with a large, satin ribbon bow wound through her hair recognized you and pulled on her partner's shoulder. Having been with the girls since their debut, you'd become familiar with their fandom, always in the background of paparazzi photos and in their V Lives. It was so kind, and you just so happened to be having a complete meltdown internally, so you had to slip on a smile and greet, "Hello! Thank you so much for coming!" so they didn't think anything was amiss.

Having heard you respond to the fans, the girls' attention was caught. You saw their eyes widen, Zoey calling your name curiously.

"The flight agency neglected to mention the capacity limit change to the plane," You explained with an irritated huff. It appeared the girls shared such sentiments while they looked off to the side, unimpressed. "I wanted to call you to let you know, but I don't know where my phone is, but, hey, just to let you know, I don't know where my phone is, and you need to be on stage right now!"

Bobby yoinked the phone back, his face now starting to get blotchy as tears streamed down his cheeks. He wept, "50,000 fans are waiting for you! They made cute signs and everything! How can you be late?"

Rumi boredly muttered that they'd be there in three before hanging up. Bobby finally calmed down with that, but you weren't so pacified with the promise. Yes, they would get there exactly when they said they would, but what kind of three minutes would those be? You knew those girls, and you knew that it could be anything from a smooth landing to a turbulent ride you had to navigate.

You knew from experience that there was only one thing you could do at that moment— wait.

Despite every part of you that screamed to go and do, even if you didn't know what, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. It happened slowly, as it usually did. The sporadic noise of the crowd melted away until the only thing in your ears was your own heartbeat, until even that fell away. It was quiet. Startlingly so, at first, but over time, it became a retreat, a lifeline that searched the silence for what you needed.

Then it was there— a whisper in your ear, the shiver it brought trailing down your spine like fingers gently caressing you. Your body released itself of its tension momentarily, and that brief respite was your cue; your feet moved before your mind caught up, as if on an instinct you never quite understood.

Like a tidal wave, you passed people without so much as a pause to say excuse me, trying to tune into the voices that circled your head like echoes. Things outside of that pull tried to sway you, but you couldn't be moved in any other direction than the one that brought you closer. It took you down halls, through the VIP section unflinchingly when they glared at your entrance, down halls, until you reached the south section of the pit. There you barely heard, "... Out like a lullaby! Hear that sound, ringing in your mind…"

"They started the set."

"Already?" Bobby cried behind you, but there wasn't time to panic, and he knew that.

He, along with everyone in the girls' personal teams, followed closely behind. You didn't have much authority in your job, but if the small victories got you through the day, then the crises like this kept you on a high all week long. They were the rare occasions where people listened to you, because, somehow, your intuition and excellent hearing had helped out on two occasions too many, then three, until five later and there you were. Like that one time the team lost the girls and you heard them giving a mini-concert to a group of fans outside, or the one where they got into a fight with the food delivery guy. Apparently, he gave them the wrong pizza and didn't believe them when they said it wasn't the correct order. That's how they explained how the room got coated in tomato sauce and scratch marks.

"We have to get ready for their landing. They're not coming in from the same angle as originally planned" You instructed. "We have three idol popstars a thousand feet in the air who need to be on stage in the next minute and thirty, so what is our plan?" Your eyes darted around for the right person to convey the right information to. "You–! Sound guy–!" You saw a crew member with the word "AUDIO” emboldened on his t-shirt. He looked at you with an air that told you he was going to make this difficult. "There's been a change with the entrance— I need your walkie."

You were right to anticipate his resistance. "I'm sorry?"

"We absolutely do not have time for this— I need to talk with the head sound guy right now! You have to get the music started already!"

“Please, the idols aren’t even here yet.”

There wasn’t enough time to explain the admittedly bizarre reasoning for your command, but this guy was making it exponentially hard. “I just need to say something over the walkie. It’s important!”

"And I am telling you, that I will not be doing that–!”

"Hey, new guy!" Jae, one of the AV mixers who had been working with your tour company for many years, hysterically shouted. "You better listen to her! She knows things, man!"

His direction, along with Bobby and the rest of the mass of people who began following you in your focused pursuit, must've finally pressured him enough to pass the walkie-talkie over.

You pressed down on the button, your lips close to the microphone, and carefully enunciated every single word. "Break, break, break— we have a change in music start time. Sound team, start the track from the second pre-chorus— A minute and 29! Acknowledge?"

Your knuckles shook while you awaited a response. Then the walkie crackled to life, "Roger!"

Around you, the air thrummed with a euphoric fog while their voices grew closer. Your senses snapped back into the present, your finger twitching into a point that directly outlined their trajectory. Into the walkie, you shouted, "They're airborne and incoming!" Everyone around you scattered to their respective spots. At the same time, you kept your balance and held your thumb to determine their exact position. Like a magnet, your gaze fell upon "Section 315! They're incoming over Section 315!"

With bated breath, you watched the lights turn toward Section 315. A moment passed, and you fought the fear that maybe your luck streak had worn out. You didn't have to hold it off for long when you saw them flying over the crowd, perfectly centered in the light like they were meant to be. Every part of them shimmered like the stars you couldn't see in Seoul, but could when they were finally on stage.

"Stage! I need mics on stage in ten! They are touching down NOW!"

The dust hadn't settled from their booming impact on the stage when the bottom lights turned on; their silhouettes towered over the crowd, and that flutter in your stomach took over your blossoming pride. The ear-numbing sound of 50,000 fans screaming finally returned. The rush of their presence enveloped you until Bobby grabbed your shoulder and, with tears still in his eyes, whimpered, "I love you so much, do you know that?"

Finally free of the tightness clinging to your chest, your shoulders finally loosened when the girls' voices filled the stadium, not just your head. A small smile on your lips, you handed the walkie to the boy who was red in the face from embarrassment.

Short-lived was your time on top, because when you turned around and saw what was sure to be a complaint. Several of them. On stage were either people in costumes or the most expensive effects the company would ever have to pay for, and undoubtedly, were not approved by the special effects team already working the concert.

"Looks like the girls added something new to the show!"

“Yup… Sure looks like it…”

This must've been how the directors at the Oscars felt when the wrong movie was called, because man, did that complete loss of an assured win tear you up inside. Or maybe that was the heat the special effects team was sending your way, any respect for you they might've gained in the last thirty seconds dissolved.

Definitely not to avoid the lasers drilling into the back of your head, you put your hands on your hips, stomping into the pit with the full intention of staring them down through the rest of the opening number. Your face pinched together in a grimace when you finally wrangled the courage to face them, but no amount of prep could stop it.

It was Zoey this time who did it— the eye contact. There was a nervous knot in her brow when she recognized that you were angry, but it quickly buffed. She knew just as well as Mira and Rumi that there was a quick fix for that. All she had to do was keep you looking at her, which wasn't a difficult task for any of them. How could you resist being drawn in by their powerful energy on stage? They commanded it, every action on it and every reaction off it. And Zoey, in the carefully-timed seconds she watched you, commanded your attention.

Who were you to deny her?

You'd try to fight that slow dissent into a smile, but it was a losing battle start to finish, and from day one. Sometimes, you joked that you were a fan before an assistant, but it was only half a joke and half a literal truth. Before you'd even been given the position, their music spoke to you in ways you didn't know to explain. Then you got to know them, see them. Zoey said it herself— you were their first fan, and affectionately nicknamed, their number one.

It was an earned title, though. You never missed a concert or failed to show up for them in any way possible. The only thing you hoped your actions told them was that if the world started to hate them tomorrow, you would always be in their corner.

It must have been three minutes after the concert ended before the special effects team ambushed you in the green room. While you were trying to make away with the remaining packs of honey twists, you were cornered and subsequently interrogated about their contracts. You, who knew very, very little about finance, had to pretend as if you knew the right thing to say. Even you had blind spots in your skill set, and money was one of those things that just nauseated you. You could only bow in regret, issuing apologies and tentative promises to figure out the root of the problem.

When you were finally released from that torturous conversation, you heard Bobby and the entourage congratulating the girls on the very thing you were just getting lectured for. What would've been irritating to most was oddly comforting to you; you'd rather you take the brunt of the consequence so they could keep focus on their music… That didn't mean that you didn't have something to say on the matter.

The girls were in the midst of devouring post-concert snacks, clad in fluffy, white robes and removing their makeup with a relaxed sigh when you stepped forward.

"I hate to break into the start of your hiatus," Your voice was not unkind but deeply serious. "But I need to have a word with you three."

Zoey squealed your name, forsaking the plethora of luxuries owed to her after all her hard work on tour, to hug you.

Though you would have treasured nothing more, you needed to speak your peace while the iron was hot. There was an immediate jab of regret for stopping her, but the wounds of the lead SFX operator were still fresh. It wasn't exactly nice being told to do your job better, even though you knew he was frightened of his pay being slashed and he needed to lash out at someone. You just happened to be the easiest target at the time.

You raised your brow at Rumi, who rubbed her neck and looked away like she didn't see your warning sign in the pit earlier.

"Girls, you know I absolutely love it when you do something experimental. Like, I got the whole blade thing in Australia last December. Like… Really got it," You coughed to yourself while looking at your tablet as a cover-up. "But, seriously, if you're going to change the special effects up at the last minute, you really have to tell a girl. The special effects team is requesting a bit more of a prior notice before you do it, though." And also demanding compensation.

Rumi, ever the liaison for the three of them, crept over and put her hands on your shoulders. She kept that same shy but knowing smile, one you recognized from the time you accidentally fell asleep at their penthouse. It had been a late night out, and you weren't exactly coherent, so you let yourself slink into the soft surface, which just so happened to be their couch. You found out you talked in your sleep when you woke up to see the three of them giggling above you.

At first, you feared they drew on your face. Which they did. Cat whiskers— Zoey liked to say that you were a domesticated housecat that definitely wanted attention but didn't want to admit it. You rebuked that comparison. And the Crayola marker on your face that morning.

They said that you asked if you could help them with anything, in a voice clear as day, before you let out a snore. And apparently, you were talking to butterflies, too. Not about, just to. They didn't hesitate to go into further detail, much to your chagrin.

It must've been the memory that pressured you to let go of your aggravations, and not how softly Rumi said your name. "I promise you, we've got that covered."

It would've been so easy to just let yourself relax, but you had a disposition to keep up. You put your tongue to your lips, through your teeth and squinted at them.

Mira, clean-faced and not a flaw in sight, was always hard to crack. You gave her a look, she looked back, but harder. It would've been a cycle that got you nowhere, which was one of Mira's more pesky tactics.

Quickly, you snapped your focus to Zoey, who shrank beneath your discernment once more. She flicked her eyes up and down. "The glitter still looks really pretty on you, you know."

You gave all three the same stern glare, but when they showed they were as impassive as you, you knew there was no use keeping that up. Not when there was so much to celebrate. "You girls get away with this one, okay? Just this one, because it's the end of the tour and that's it. Just… you guys please tell me next time?”

"Does it help if we're sorry?" Zoey tested her luck after the girls nodded to show they understood your plea. Mira and Rumi appeared before her with similar smiles to her, awaiting your judgement.

"Yes, it does." There's a sigh of relief from the crew, like they were finally allowed to breathe again based on your answer. Though you sucked it back, and also made the girls' spines go rod-straight, when you added, "And also!" You let them sweat for a beat, but weren’t cruel enough to torture them. The harsh lines on your face smoothed out into something much more tranquil. "You girls absolutely killed it out there, which is no surprise, and yeah, okay, sure, fine, the effects were cool."

You mumbled the last part, hopeful it got lost beneath the entourage lamenting how quick and vastly a change your personality was when irate. However, Mira, having heard and knew you well, wondered, "Oh? Does someone finally trust us?"

"Wha– I do trust you! I just hate not knowing!" You insisted while the girls finished with you, "You hate not knowing."

Mira threw an arm around your shoulder, pushing your face into the plushness of her robe at her side. Unconcerned with your stubbornness, Mira maneuvered your body with hers to walk back with the girls towards the exit. The sound of Bobby and the entourage scrambling behind you loud in your ears until Mira joked, "We like to think of it as keeping you on your toes."

"So that's what you call it? Not giving me a heart attack?" You jabbed back..

"Aww, and why would we wanna do that to our number one fan, huh?" Mira hushed slowly, far away enough for the volume to be innocent, but close enough to feel the start of a shiver tingle at the base of your neck. You liked that nickname, more than you were willing to admit.

She was definitely trying to give you a heart attack. And trying to succeed at getting you to break— two birds, one stone, or so they say. True to your word, and your inner competitive nature, you fought back, tempting her with a reciprocated whisper, "I don't know? Sport?" You tsked on your 't,' making Zoey and Rumi giggle.

"I love when my girls are happy…" Bobby dreamily sighed, hand to his cheek. You understood that feeling quite well. He skipped forward, phone in hand, quite pleased himself. "You girls aren't going to believe the numbers— they're off the charts! And to celebrate, I booked you a week-long staycation–" You blinked at that phrasing. "At the fanciest, most exclusive resort in Korea!"

"Sorry, Bobby," Mira apologized, not sounding very remorseful. "We already have plans."

"What? What plans?"

"We got the hottest tickets in town… to our couch!" Zoey sang.

Mira chimed in, eventually releasing you so you didn't have to hear them chanting "Couch!" repeatedly in your ear. You withheld your complaints about missing the warmth of the robe.

"Bobby, you should go to the resort," Rumi decided. "This tour has been grueling for everyone! You deserve it."

"Me? Oh, no, I couldn't possibly— Just kidding. Robe me; I'm a 34 Short." Bobby’s wish was instantly granted, along with a cooling eye mask. He glanced at you expectantly. "Joining me, my partner in success?"

"She can't either!" Zoey bound back over, finally getting to wrap her arms around your shoulders like she'd been trying to do all day. She rubbed it in your face that she finally got the jump on you by literally rubbing her face into yours. You pretended to scoff, but you were actually pretty grateful after such a stressful day. Her hugs were healing, and you'd said so on many occasions. To yourself. In your head. You tended to agree. "She finally agreed to hang out with us for the night!"

"I don't remember it happening that way."

"I do!"

"Funny how that works.

Bobby, admiring your antics but preferring his own comfortability more, bid you all a relaxing two weeks. You all waved him off and made toward the exit, Zoey and Mira expressing their excitement for the freedom they believed was before them.

Turning to Rumi, you hummed to her when the girls were far away enough, "Try not to let them get too comfortable before you drop the new single, alright?"

Her mouth dropped agape with surprise at your definitely correct assumption. There wasn't a single thing about Rumi in that moment that said "relaxed." All in all, Rumi tended to be a very level-headed person, but she constantly had a buzzing energy around her, like something was building up and needed release. For her, that was putting out songs the night they were supposed to start a break and start up promotional content ASAP. To each their own.

Not to mention, her braid was still in. When Rumi really took a break, she would take the rubber band of her braid out. You'd seen it only a handful of times, notably during their second tour, which featured a whopping 63 shows in the second year after their debut.

63 shows and some change later, and the girls were exhausted. You escorted them back to the hotel room after the show, and they didn't even stop to have a post-show snack. Mira and Zoey merely collapsed on the bed, but Rumi perched on the edge of it. Her fingers, slow in her fatigued daze, undid the band, which she dropped somewhere on the carpet. She didn't unwind the braids, but you saw them half-mussed the next morning.

The company car waited in the closed off alley for you, and the sounds of work fell away. You found comfort in the stagehands' barking commands, the tense atmosphere that urged you to never appear un-busy, so much that it was hard to figure out what came after. Even harder when you had to be yourself in front of the girls who only ever saw you as a blur.

They fell so easily together, leaning against one another in the same seat. Zoey watched Mira tapping something on her phone. You wanted to do the same, but you still hadn't found yours and it was starting to feel apparent without it in your grasp. You asked the staff to let you know if anyone found it, but something in your gut told you that was a long shot.

"So," You sighed, finally alone with the girls and itching for something to do with your hands. "What's on the agenda for tonight?"

Zoey, still attached to your shoulders, hummed, "No agenda, just vibes."

"We got nothing planned, but I plan to keep it that way. You need to let loose a little. Workaholics, the two of you." Mira commented.

"That is not true!" Rumi argued instantly.

You couldn't help the snicker from the back of your throat that you covered up with your forefinger when Rumi sent a poorly-conceived glare at you. You were no better, but at least you could admit it. You hid from it by doing exactly what you were just being made fun of for. You scrounged through your bag for your tablet, but, despite being very sure it was in there when you left, didn't see it.

Mira cleared her throat. She brandished your tablet, in all its glory, and before you even got the chance to question her methods, she stopped you. "You'll get sick if you keep this kind of stuff up."

You couldn't fight the flinch at the mention of sickness. The lack of food in your stomach became more apparent as it churned unsettlingly. Then it was gone.

Momentary.

Zoey nudged your knee with hers, and the warmth of it momentarily distracted you. "You okay?"

They did that sometimes— got concerned about you. It stirred… something in you, but you didn't have a good rapport with that sensation anymore. So you smiled in a way you knew calmed their worried hearts, even if it felt the least genuine out of all the ones you wore. "Always… Now, seriously, can I please have that back? I have emails to send?"

"Absolutely not."

taglist (to be added dm me or send a message to my inbox!): @sorryimamagpie @megamultifandomtrashposts

#heartbeat💘#rose's fics 🌹#polytrix x reader #zoey x reader #mira x reader #rumi x reader #huntrix x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpdh x reader

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borderlineex · 2 days ago

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₊˚⊹౨ west side ৎ₊˚⊹

⤷ 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽… soldier boy fucks you while telling you how much he wants to wife you up

⤷ 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈/𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓈... strong language, porn with no plot, p in v, oral(fem receiving), mentions of marriage, age gap (ben is in his 40s), perv!ben, 18+ content

⤷ 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉... 967

a/n: for 250 followers i’ll be making a series of smut fanfics based off the ariana grande album positions (i love it sm its overhated) i’m trying to get my fics to be longer so i hppe you guys like reading themm ! <33

shut up, 34+35, motive, just like magic, off the table, six thirty, safety net, my hair, nasty, west side, love language, positions, obvious, pov

"you gonna sit there and pretend you don’t know what you do to me?" ben’s voice was rough, the kind of deep that vibrated through your ribs as he crowded you against the wall. his breath was hot on your throat, the scent of leather and gunmetal still clinging to him from training.

you swallowed, fingers twisting in his shirt. "i don’t—"

"bullshit." his hand slid up your thigh, grip possessive. "makin’ me lose my goddamn mind every time you bite your lip like that. like you ain’t tryin’ to wreck me." his other hand palmed your ass, pulling you flush against the hard line of his cock straining against his pants.

you whimpered, arching into him. "maybe i am."

he groaned, grinding against you. "fuck, baby. gonna make me put a ring on you before i even fuck you right. that what you want? me claimin’ you while i ruin you?" his teeth grazed your neck, stubble scraping your skin. "say it."

"yes," you gasped.

"good girl." his hand found your waistband. "now let’s see if you can take what’s yours."

"that’s it—spread for me," ben growled, yanking your pants down your hips, fingers already slipping beneath the damp fabric of your panties. his thumb pressed hard against your clit, making you jerk against his hand. "fuck, you’re already soaked. this what you been thinkin’ about while i was gone?"

you nodded, breath hitching as he hooked two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "ben—"

"nah, don’t hide it." he bit your earlobe, his other hand dragging your shirt up, calloused palm rough against your ribs. "let me hear how bad you want it." you moaned, loud and shameless, as his fingers fucked into you faster. his cock strained against his fly, the thick outline unmistakable.

"gonna make you scream my name," he promised, dragging his lips down your throat. "then i’m gonna bend you over and show you why you’re never gonna need anyone else." his breath was ragged against your skin. "gonna wife you so damn good you’ll forget your own name."

you clenched around his fingers, whining as he added a third. "please—" "beggin’ already?" he smirked, twisting his wrist. "good. means i’m doin’ my job right."

ben’s fingers dragged out of you, glistening, before he brought them to his mouth with a filthy smirk. “tastes like mine already.” he unbuckled his belt with one hand, the leather snapping free as he crowded you back against the wall. “but I’m gonna make damn sure.”

you gasped as ben shoved his cock against your bare cunt, the thick head smearing precum over your clit. "look at you," he snarled, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, "drippin' for me like some fuckin' slut who don't know her own name." his tip caught your entrance, teasing. "you wanna be my good girl? take this cock like you mean it?"

you whimpered, grinding down, but he jerked you back. "nah—say it." his voice was rough, wrecked. "tell me who owns this pussy." "you," you choked out. "always you." "fuck yeah." he slammed inside with one brutal thrust, your back hitting the wall as he filled you to the hilt.

your scream tore through the room, his hand clamping over your mouth. "louder," he demanded, pounding into you, each snap of his hips hitting deeper. "let 'em all hear who you belong to."

your nails dug into his shoulders, his sweat-slick skin under your fingers as he fucked you raw. "gonna cum inside," he growled, mouth hot on your neck. "mark you up so good no one forgets." his thrusts turned erratic, his cock pulsing as he spilled deep, your own climax ripping through you as he murmured against your ear—"mine."

his grip tightened on your hips, keeping you pinned as his cock twitched inside you, still buried deep. "that's it, take it all," he groaned, grinding his hips to milk every last drop. "gonna fill you up like this every damn night when you're my wife—make sure you never forget who owns this sweet cunt."

his grip stayed tight on your hips as he shuddered, cock still buried deep inside you—pulsing, spilling, claiming. his blown-out pupils locked onto yours, all dark heat and something dangerously close to worship.

"fuck," he rasped, voice wrecked, grinding his hips to milk himself dry. "look at you. takin’ everything i give you like you were made for it."

a rough hand cradled your jaw, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. "gonna marry you so damn hard," he muttered, dazed, lips brushing yours. "put a ring on you, yeah, but fuck—" his hips jerked, pushing his spend deeper. "this pussy’s my real wedding band. feel that? my cum sealing you up, makin’ sure every part of you knows who you belong to."

you whimpered, oversensitive, but he caught your wrist and pressed your palm flat over his pounding heart. "don’t pull away. wanna see it in your eyes when you come again." his fingers circled your clit, relentless.

"wanna watch my wife—fuck, my wife—shake apart on my fingers ‘fore i stuff her full of me all over again."

you arched, gasping as pleasure spiked, but he just looked at you—like he was memorizing the way you fell apart for him. "say it," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "tell me you’re mine. not just tonight. always." "yours," you choked out, nails biting into his shoulders as another orgasm tore through you. "always—"

ben kissed you slow and deep, swallowing your moans, his cock already hardening against your thigh. "good girl," he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. "now let’s practice the wedding night ‘til you forget your own goddamn name." his laugh was low, rough with want.

"s’only right—gotta make sure my future wife can’t walk straight at the altar."

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angelsuecult · 1 day ago

Text

twenty years | s. crosby

warnings: some language

summary: you have fun reminding sidney about your significant age gap on the anniversary of his draft date

request: Thinking abt younger gf messing w Sid on his draft day anniversary, going 'yk where I was when you were getting drafted? Summer day care.'

word count: 2.2k

a/n: thank you to whoever requested this one. I had fun writing it😭😭. don’t hesitate to let me know if you love or hate it or anything! I changed it up just a bit so enjoy it guys, more to come.

—

The kitchen smelled like garlic and shallots and something buttery and a little lemony—whatever Sidney had going on in the pan was making your stomach growl in slow-motion agony. You were perched on one of the stools at the counter, legs up and bare, wearing one of his old Penguins shirts from some year you barely remembered—black and soft and oversized, sleeves cuffed twice. You weren’t helping much, other than occasionally stealing cherry tomatoes off the cutting board and giving unrequested input like, “You should add chili flakes,” and “More butter. Don’t be shy, Crosby.”

Outside, the sun was starting to fall behind the trees, long orange light spilling into the windows off the lake like warm honey. One of the sliding doors was cracked open and the bugs were already chirping. It was still too warm to need a sweater. Just enough breeze to lift the hairs on your arms.

Sid stood at the stove in soft black shorts and a light t-shirt that clung to his back, still damp from the lake earlier. Barefoot, cooking, quiet. His hair was a mess and his mouth was doing that thing it did when he was trying to concentrate—slightly parted, like he might start humming, like he might forget you were even in the room if you weren’t making it your full-time job to interrupt him every five minutes.

“You know,” you said, lazily scrolling on your phone. “I would just like to say… not everyone gets a cake and floral arrangement for a job they’ve had for two decades.”

Sid looked over his shoulder at you. “You decorated the cake with gravestones, babe.”

“Technically it was a single gravestone. Singular. And it said ‘RIP to Sid’s youth.’ You’re welcome for the originality.”

He just shook his head, laughing softly. “I don’t know what’s worse, the cake or the fact that the balloon said ‘over the hill.’ I’m not over the hill.”

“Uh huh. That’s what they all say when their knees start creaking,” you replied, propping your chin in your hand.

Sid sighed dramatically and turned back to the pan, giving it a little toss. “You made me flowers. There were black roses in it. You know how twisted that is?”

“And carnations shaped like a 2 and a 0! Honestly, I should be hired for event planning.”

“You’re insane,” he said, mostly to the salmon.

You grinned and tilted your phone toward him. “Look. NHL just posted a throwback clip. ‘20 years ago today, the Penguins drafted Sidney Crosby first overall.’ Wow. Look at you. Baby-faced. No wrinkles. No gray hairs. A simpler time.”

Sid glanced briefly, squinting. “I looked twelve.”

“You were twelve.”

“I was almost eighteen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Almost. Meanwhile, I was probably in Summer daycare, finger painting, wearing light-up sneakers with Velcro straps.” You paused for effect, then added with a grin: “I might’ve peed myself during naptime. Real big day for both of us.”

Sid made a low groaning noise, hiding his face behind his arm. “Jesus Christ. Don’t say that while I’m cooking. I just lost my appetite.”

“Sorry, Grandpa,” you said sweetly. “It’s just wild to think. You were putting on a Penguins uniform for the first time and I was over there asking my mom for another cup of apple juice and trying not to eat Play-Doh.”

He turned and pointed a wooden spoon at you, the one he’d been using to stir the pan. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he said instantly, tossing the spoon into the sink and walking over to you. He fit himself between your legs where they dangled off the stool and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You’re evil. But thoughtful.”

You batted your eyelashes. “I try.”

“Seriously, though. The cake was…” he paused, like he was actually getting shy about it. “It was sweet. All of it. I didn’t even think you’d remember the date.”

“You only got drafted once, Crosby. Kind of a big deal. I Googled the date weeks ago. Wrote it in my notes app.”

He looked pleased. And then even more flustered than before.

You teased, “Are you blushing? Aww.”

He stepped back and flicked water at you from the sink. “Do not start.”

You dodged it with a squeal. “Oh my god. Are you flustered right now? Is the stoic, media-trained hockey robot actually blushing? That’s so cute. Are you gonna cry next?”

“You’re so mean to me,” he muttered, shaking his head while trying not to laugh.

You were still scrolling and teasing when he plated dinner—some kind of lemon herb salmon with asparagus and roasted potatoes. When you finally leaned in to smell it, he gave you a little spank on the hip as a warning not to steal anything. You retaliated by licking his shoulder when he wasn’t looking, which he didn’t acknowledge beyond a very still pause and a quiet, “Babe.”

They say nothing tastes as good as love feels, but you had a very strong suspicion Sidney Crosby’s cooking might be the exception. It was quiet while he lit the citronella candle on the patio and brought out dinner. You followed behind him with your phone still in hand, the post still up.

You kept reading little bits aloud like a documentary narrator:

“‘Crosby was the No. 1 pick in the 2005 NHL Entry Draft after the lockout year…’ Oof. I didn’t even know what a lockout was. I was locked out of my own house once because I couldn’t reach the doorknob.”

Sid just muttered, “Oh my god,” and pulled your chair out for you.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, deliberately soft. “Happy 20 years of being a professional badass.”

He kissed your temple back. “Thanks for the cake. And the balloons. And the verbal abuse.”

Your fork was halfway to your mouth when your phone buzzed.

You glanced down at the screen, expecting some dumb group chat message or a spammy email, but it was from your mom. A message bubble, and then immediately another. Two photos. No text. And then, a second later, a follow-up:

Mom: Look at my two babies!! Handsome Sid on his big day and my little penguin princess!!

You made a noise in your throat that was probably supposed to be a laugh but came out more like a cough-sob. Sid glanced over at you, eyebrows raised.

You were already snorting. “Oh my god. My mom is actually deranged.”

“What’d she say now?” he asked, chewing.

You just turned your phone toward him without saying a word.

The first photo was one you’d seen a dozen times—Sid on draft day, bright-eyed and baby-faced in his brand new Penguins jersey, standing between Mario and the old GM. He looked excited, happy, trying to hide how overwhelmed he was. His tie was perfectly straight. You couldn’t believe how young he looked—skin flushed, hair perfect, still figuring out how to smile like a pro.

Sid groaned like he’d just been stabbed. “Oh my god. No. No, she didn’t.”

“She did.”

He covered his face with both hands. “Why does your mom love me more than you do?”

“Because you didn’t throw up on her new rug on New Years.”

He laughed into his hands. “That wasn’t your fault, though.”

“Yeah, it was the vodka. It had a vendetta.”

You scrolled to the second image and then actually snorted.

“What? What now?”

You tilted the phone again. This time, the picture was clearly from some sort of party. You recognized your cousin Evan’s living room from childhood—cluttered with plastic folding chairs, confetti, streamers in black and gold. There was a cardboard cutout of Mario Lemieux near the fireplace and a homemade banner that said "GO PENS!" in clumsy block letters. Right in the center of it all was you.

Four, maybe five years old. Sitting on the carpet in pink leggings and light-up sneakers that looked suspiciously like they were from Payless. Your hair was in pigtails with those little butterfly clips. You were holding a plastic Penguins puck and staring directly at the camera, mid-blink, mouth slightly open. Probably mid-sentence. You looked like a dazed little goblin in an alternate timeline. And yes—your shoes were glowing.

Sid leaned in, trying to get a better look. “No fucking way.”

You nearly cried laughing. “It gets better—look at the timestamp in the corner. July 29, 2005. The day before your draft.”

His eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“My cousin Evan’s birthday party. It was Penguins-themed. I had no idea. I was eating cake under a Mario Lemieux cutout while you were boarding a flight to Ottawa. We were destined.”

Sid was silent for a beat, blinking at the image. Then he let out a breathless, helpless laugh.

“Oh my god, you were a literal fetus.”

“I was preschool royalty.”

“You look like you’d bite someone if they got too close to your crayons.”

You zoomed in. “I did bite people. That was a rough summer for everyone.”

Sid was full-on laughing now. You could see it in his shoulders, in the way he tipped his head back. He looked at you, then at the phone again, then back at you.

“You… were at a Penguins-themed birthday party the day before I was drafted, and now we’re here—at my lake house—having dinner—after you gave me a cake that said ‘RIP Sid’s Youth.’”

You smiled brightly. “Full circle, baby.”

He grinned at you, all pleased with himself, then nodded toward your phone. “What’d your mom say with the picture?”

You looked down at the message thread.

The text below the photo said:

“Can you believe this?? You were at a Penguins party and had no idea your future boyfriend was about to be drafted, you look like you’re about to steal something. Little menace.”

You turned the screen again. “She said I looked like I was about to commit a crime.”

Sid nodded approvingly. “Accurate.”

“I’m telling her you said that.”

“She already knows. That’s why she likes me.”

The next message she sent just added more fuel to the fire:

‘One of these kids grew up to kiss the man on the posters. The other one is Sidney Crosby.’

You dissolved into a loud, wheezing laugh, nearly spilling your wine.

“Your mother,” Sid said through a crooked smile. “Your actual mother texted you that? That’s fucking hilarious.”

“She’s deranged. Unhinged. We reward her with grandchildren someday, she better know I expect full-time babysitting in return.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” he said, grinning as he leaned closer. “You’re the one with the glow shoes and pink leggings. I was just out here, getting drafted. Minding my business.”

You flicked him lightly in the chest. “You were drafted to a team I was already a fan of, mind you. I was loyal before you even arrived. That photo is literal proof.”

He laughed into his wineglass. “That explains everything. You were like, five years old and already getting emotionally prepped to ruin my life.”

“And my taste in men. Traumatized before I could even spell ‘center.’”

He let out a full, loud ugh, and buried his face in his hands for a second.

You leaned forward, poking him again. “I was probably still learning how to spell my own name when you got handed a six-figure contract. I was still losing baby teeth while you were doing press conferences.”

He groaned even louder. “Stop, stop, stop.”

You swirled your wine like you were a villain in a movie. “You were buying your first luxury watch and I was still crying when my mom made me eat the crust on my sandwich.”

“I’m gonna throw myself in the lake.”

You grinned. “Too late. You already made dinner. You’re locked in now.”

“Unreal,” he muttered, shaking his head, still laughing. “I’m dating someone who didn’t even know how to tie her shoes when I got drafted.”

“I still don’t,” you said breezily. “I just shove my foot in and hope for the best.” You raised your wine glass. “To growing old disgracefully.”

He clinked his against yours. “To you being a brat.”

You sipped, then added, “By the way, when you were lifting the Cup for the first time, I was probably doing my third grade multiplication tables.”

He groaned so loud it echoed off the trees. “Why are you like this?”

“I was a prodigy,” you said smugly. “Counting to one hundred by fives and dreaming about boys. You were the boy.”

He buried his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“I was ahead of my time.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

You grinned at him and popped a tomato in your mouth. “Not when I’m in love.”

That shut him up for a second. The corners of his mouth lifted slowly, soft and crooked and a little too fond for his own good. He reached across the table and curled his fingers around yours.

“You’re an absolute nightmare,” he said, voice low.

“Your nightmare,” you said sweetly, and winked. “With benefits.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth and he tilted his head slightly. “You know I’m gonna make you pay for all these jokes later, right?”

You dragged your toe up the inside of his calf. “Yeah. I’m counting on it.”

Sid just shook his head again, hiding a smirk behind his wine glass, cheeks a little pink now under the setting sun. His hand stayed on yours. His thumb traced slow, quiet circles against your palm, and when you looked at him again, he was already staring. Like he hadn’t stopped. Like you were the best anniversary gift he’d gotten all day.

—

#angelsuecultwrites #angelsuecult #twenty years | s. crosby #sidney crosby #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl players #pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby x reader #reqs open

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heliosunny · 2 days ago

Text

No Backsies

Yandere!Boothill x Reader

You were still catching your breath when you felt his hand clamp firmly around your arm, steadying you before you could tumble backward off the wall. You looked up. That guy - the same white hair, black streaks you saw last night on the street.

“Well, look at that” he said, “Should’ve figured you’d be the type to climb walls. Makes my job real easy, though.”

You tried to laugh it off, tugging your wrist free. “Haha… guess you caught me. So we’re good, right? We can forget this?”

He laughed “Forget it? C’mon. If I let you slide, I’d be out of a job.”

He flipped open a slim black notebook, pages scrawled with names and tiny notes. He turned it so you could see your name, already underlined twice.

“You got a cute signature, by the way,” he said, tapping his pen against it. “Late, trespassing,… gonna be fun explaining this to your homeroom.”

“Wait! You can’t just-”

“Hey, rules are rules. Break ‘em, pay for ‘em.”

He slid the pen behind his ear. “I’m not your friend. I’m just the guy who keeps the scoreboard honest. So… better luck next time, yeah?”

He turned away, hands shoved in his pockets. “Try the front gate tomorrow. Might save you the trouble of runnin’ into me.”

And just like that, your class points were gone, and so was he.

You couldn’t let him win that easy. Later you found out his name - Boothill.

So you planned your first real prank. A chalk eraser rigged over the council office door, ready to drop a fine, dusty cloud right on that stupid hair the moment he strolled in.

Your best friend caught you stuffing the eraser into your bag during lunch break.

“You, pulling a prank? On Boothill?” She flicked your forehead. “Good luck, genius. Why not go for something better?”

“Better?” you asked, rubbing your forehead.

“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “Make him fall for you. Break that icy heart, then dump him in front of everyone.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving the eraser deeper in your bag. “I’m not running a soap opera. One prank, and that's it.”

Turns out, one prank wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anything, because Boothill saw it coming from ten meters away.

“Aw, come on. You think I haven’t seen the eraser-on-the-door trick since primary?” Boothill’s laugh rumbled in his chest as he stepped closer. You spun around, and nearly bumped right into him. He held the chalk eraser in one hand like it was a dead mouse.

“You know, if you’re gonna try and prank me, at least be original. Or… maybe you just like my attention, huh?”

He dropped the eraser into your hands, brushing chalk dust off his coat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone in the hall.

You’d given up, or at least that’s what you told yourself. The pranks didn’t work. The eraser failed. The water bucket failed. The glitter bomb? You didn’t even get to set it up.

You were late again, overslept. This time, though, it wasn’t Boothill waiting at the wall.

By recess you were back in your usual seat, eating bread with your friend and planning tonight’s freedom. “So,” she said, mouth half full of rice cracker. “Movie or karaoke? Wait.. You didn't tell me about Boothill.”

“I’m done with him.”

She snorted. “Coward. I told you, break his heart instead.”

You shoved the rest of your bread in her mouth to shut her up, which only made her laugh harder.

When the last bell rang, you stayed behind, wiping chalk dust off the blackboard and sweeping the crumbs from the floor.

When you finally stepped out, there he was. “Well, look who it is.” he said, pushing off the wall with that annoying catlike grace. “Gave up already, huh, sunshine?”

You scowled. “Sunshine?”

“What? That’s you. Right? … Wait. What was your name again?”

“You forgot?”

He just shrugged, “Hey, I catch a lotta rule-breakers. Hard to keep up. ‘Sides, sunshine suits ya.”

He brushed past you, shoulder knocking yours on purpose. “Anyway, keep it up. Gives me somethin’ fun to do.”

You stood frozen, watching his back as he disappeared down the hall. Your phone buzzed - your bestie, blowing it up with “Movie tonight? Or pranking plan?”

You glared at the message, then at the empty hall. Fine. If he wanted a nickname, he’d get one, and a heartbreak to match.

Your bestie didn’t just rope you in, she basically drafted a full-on script. By the time lunch break rolled around, you and your three partners-in-crime were ready.

You stood cornered near the old vending machine, tray of half-eaten lunch on the floor, one friend looming with arms crossed, another talks just loud enough for people to definitely hear.

“Seriously? You’re dragging all of us down. Maybe we shouldn’t let you sit with us anymore.”

“Next time you screw up, don’t expect us to cover for you.”

You acted out your role perfectly: the pitiful, stubborn “weak link”.

A few students threw glances your way. Some giggled, some whispered. Then a familiar shape blocked out the hallway light.

“You kids runnin’ your mouths in public, real brave, huh?”

They turned, freezing on cue. Boothill’s gaze swept over them. “Didn’t your folks teach ya not to pick on easy targets? Kinda pathetic, ain’t it?”

Your bestie, bless her inner theater kid, rolled her eyes at him, scoffing like a brat. “Stay out of it. This is our problem.”

“‘Fraid not.”

He tugged you by the wrist, pulling you out of the circle of “bullies” with zero effort.

“Go pick a new hobby, yeah?”

You cleared your throat, tugging your wrist free, trying not to grin like an idiot.

“…Thanks. I could’ve handled it myself, though.”

“Sure, Sunshine. Looked real tough in there, cryin’ in front of the soda machine.”

You bristled, flicking a piece of dust off your sleeve for dramatic effect. “I wasn’t crying.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

When the final bell rang, you found him waiting outside your classroom door. “C’mon. I’m walkin’ you home today. Gotta make sure no one tries somethin’ dumb again.”

Your bestie peeked around the corner as you left, giving you a massive double thumbs-up - the worst secret spy in history. You bit your tongue to keep from laughing.

----

Now you just had to keep him hooked long enough to break that stupid, smug grin right off his face.

The next few days you played your part like you were born for it. After the whole “bullied in the canteen” act, you made sure to pop up around him just enough to keep your hooks in. Not clingy, just coincidentally there. Like fate had a sense of humor.

One afternoon, you waited outside the student council room, pretending to scroll your phone, until the door cracked open and the other council members drifted out in pairs.

Boothill was last, twirling his keys on one finger. When he spotted you, he arched a brow. “You waitin’ for me?”

You made a show of looking startled, then awkwardly thrust the little carton of milk at him. “You’ve been busy. Thought you’d forget lunch again.”

He snorted, flicking the straw attached to the side. “Gonna bribe me with milk now?”

“Or you could give it back.”

He just popped the straw in, taking a slow, obnoxious sip right in front of you. “Too late.”

He tossed the empty carton in the trash the second you turned the corner.

A few days later, you got your chance.

It started with the old lady who sometimes set out food by the front gate after school. You’d seen her chatting with Boothill once, handing him a bag of mandarins while he pretended not to look too soft about it.

So when you overheard her muttering about Momo - her fat orange cat who liked to wander off - you knew exactly what to do. You trailed that dumb cat for half an hour through muddy backstreets, past someone’s garden, behind the convenience store dumpsters. Momo hissed at you twice, but you snatched her up anyway, ignoring the tiny claws scratching your arm.

You were just rounding the corner back to the old lady’s gate when Boothill appeared.

He froze when he saw you - filthy, hugging that fat orange gremlin. “You steal people's pet now?”

You glared at him through Momo’s tail. “She was lost. Mrs. Oda was worried.” You jutted your chin at the tiny old lady standing just behind him, covering her mouth in relief.

When you handed Momo over, Mrs. Oda fussed over you, patting your cheek and pressing two candy drops into your palm. Boothill just watched.

When the old lady shuffled inside, he kicked a pebble at your shoe. “Look at you. Little hero, huh?”

You wiped cat hair off your shirt. “Someone had to.” He cracked his neck, glancing sideways at you as he fell into step beside you, “Next time she calls, lemme know. I’ll help.”

You gave him your most innocent grin. “Aw, look at you. Playing hero, too.”

Behind you, from the corner of the street, your bestie and the other two peeked out from behind the mailbox, giving you silent jazz hands of victory.

Now all you had to do was keep the “coincidences” coming until he fell so hard he wouldn’t see you cutting the strings.

You’d done it all. And still.. nothing.

So when you saw him standing outside the school gate with his usual crew, something in you just snapped. You stomped up, right past his friends’ curious stares, right into his personal space. He arched a brow at you, amused as usual.

“You lose somethin’ again? Or you wanna-”

“I like you!” you blurted, louder than you meant to. “So go out with me. Or not. Whatever.”

A silence fell over the group. Boothill’s friends all turned to stare, one of them coughed, the other bit his knuckle to keep from laughing. Boothill just stared at you for a second.

“...Huh. Sure. Okay.”

He slung an arm around your shoulders like he was claiming you on the spot. “Guess you’re mine now.”

His friends immediately burst into obnoxious whoops and catcalls. One of them punched his arm. Another shouted, “Took you long enough!”

You wished the ground would swallow you whole. This was not in the plan, but it was too late to take it back now.

From then on, he was everywhere.

In the morning, leaning against your locker door with a carton of milk. During breaks, draped lazily across your desk while you tried to study, flicking your pens off your notebook just to see you glare. After school, waiting by the gate like a bored bodyguard, walking you home even when you told him not to.

At first, you kept telling yourself it was just part of the plan. But it got harder to say that when he actually did care.

He noticed when you forgot your umbrella and handed you his instead, even if it meant he got drenched.

He pulled you away from suspicious creeps at the convenience store without a word, standing behind you.

He sat next to you in the library, head on your shoulder when he got bored of reading his own book.

And the worst part was… he looked so bored to everyone else. But with you, he was watching. Always. Like he couldn’t risk blinking in case you vanished.

One weekend, you found yourselves at a café - your choice. He ordered for you before you could even speak, like he’d memorized exactly what you’d want.

You stirred your drink. “Hey,” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You’ve… you’ve been in a relationship before, right?”

Boothill tilted his head, sipping his iced coffee through a straw he was definitely chewing just to annoy you. “Nah.”

“Seriously? No one?”

“You’re the first.”

“…Why?”

“Never seemed worth it. ‘Til now, anyway.”

Then he reached over, flicked a crumb off your cheek with that same annoying gentleness. You could only stare at him. You’d started this as a joke, a revenge plan, a petty prank. So why did it feel like you were the one losing now?

----

It wasn’t supposed to drag on this long. But every time he smiled at you, every time he waited outside your class, it got harder to remember why.

So you did the only thing left in your little revenge script. Blocked him on every app. Ignored his knock on your classroom door. Dodged his waiting shadow at the gate.

Your bestie covered for you, kept him busy.

You told yourself it would fade. He’d get bored, find someone else. Except he didn’t.

---

It was late, the rain smashing the windows like a thousand tiny fists. You were towel-drying your hair, half-listening to the thunder, when the doorbell rang. Your parents were at Grandpa’s house, your phone was dead.

You cracked the door open, ready to snap at some poor scammer. And froze.

Boothill stood there on your porch, soaked through like he’d walked straight out of the river. His bangs plastered to his forehead. One eye glared at you from under all that dripping hair.

You were so stunned you forgot to slam the door in his face. “...What the hell”

He pushed right past you. The rain hit your ankles where you stood barefoot. His wet coat brushed your arm.

“Hey-” you stammered, shutting the door before the storm could blow it off the hinges. “You’re soaked. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

You grabbed the towel off your shoulders and pressed it against his hair, mumbling something about idiots and umbrellas. He didn’t move, just let you fuss for about three seconds.

Then his hands clamped your wrists, stopping you mid-motion.

“You think you’re funny, huh? Blockin’ me. Hidin’. You really think that works on me?”

“Boothill-”

His grip tightened just enough to sting. His hair dripped onto your collarbone.

“You shoulda known better,” he murmured, leaning in until your foreheads touched, wet hair brushing your cheeks. “You shoulda known once we start somethin’ like this..”

He kissed you. You tried to breathe but he didn’t give you space, his hand fisted in the back of your hair, tilting your head like you’d try to run. When you gasped, he bit down, his teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to make you wince.

“There ain’t no backin’ out.”

His thumb dragged across your bitten lip, smearing the sting deeper.

“You run again? I’ll just drag you right back.”

He kissed the bruise he’d left, like an apology that wasn’t really one at all. Then his mouth ghosted your ear.

“Remember that next time you think about ghostin’ me, Sunshine.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #boothill x reader #boothill #hsr boothill #boothill x you

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cxsmicbaby · 1 day ago

Text

this is a part two to my previous johnny drabble... i think you can read it without reading the other and still understand but it'll make more sense if you read that one first :) enjoy

read part 3 here

mdni; this is suggestive from the beginning and straight up filthy by the end... 😈

you figure things are going to be different now that johnny's had you laid out naked on the floor in his room. you're almost put off by how normal he acts, though—maybe a little disappointed, if you really let yourself think about it.

it reminds you how little the night meant to him. he's probably used to it, you realize—fucking someone he works with, and then pretending nothing happened. he had a life before the fantastic four and you can only imagine how much worse he was back then. at least you didn't really fuck, but the difference feels negligible.

did it mean something to you? you try to ignore how much you think about it, but it's hard, especially when you're alone with him. you look at his annoying mouth stretched into a self-satisfied grin and can only picture how it felt when his lips were on you. they're much more useful that way, you think; at least then, he shuts up. well, kind of. he's certainly a dirty talker.

johnny is very good at hiding it—you're right, he does have some degree of practice in this field—but it becomes more difficult everyday. he's with you in your office in the morning and wonders what's really stopping him from crawling under your desk and eating the attitude right out of you. his hand brushes your thigh at dinner and it takes a lot to convince himself not to just rest it there.

it's like he has a devil and angel on his shoulders—the angel is him, but with reed's insufferably monotonous voice, and the devil looks a lot like you in that matching lace set he can't get out of his head.

a week passes and neither of you have brought it up, so you decide maybe he just wants to forget about it, despite the way he'd made clear how much he didn't want to directly after it happened. it's none of your business, you convince yourself. and it's probably better in a professional capacity for you to ignore this slip-up, anyway.

then, sue throws a party. it's for a charity, and you remember setting it up at the beginning of the month, but the time has passed you and when she starts talking about it you have to pretend you're just as prepared as she is. you want to blame johnny for distracting you from your job, but you know it's your fault.

it's a beautiful party. the baxter building is opened to the public—at least, to the guest list—and you hired a band to play live music, which reed seems to like very much. you decide to wear something a little more on the revealing side; nothing crazy, but enough to get some stares, some double-takes, just to make you feel good. you know there's only one guy you want to pay attention to you but you tell yourself it's not for him. that would be pathetic, right?

there's a bartender, too, and you spend most of your time talking to him, because the one guy you really want to talk to is off flirting with some redhead. and he looks good, too—he's wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dress pants fitting him perfectly (a surprise, since all his bottoms seem to you on the verge of being too tight). his hair is tousled and the only way you can categorize it is a very put-together bedhead. the memory of tugging on the honey-blonde strands washes over you and you order another drink.

"tough night, huh?" the bartender comments, eyeing you with a little smile as he mixes your next drink. you sigh, propping your elbow onto the makeshift bar, leaning your chin into your palm. he's a handsome guy; dark brown hair, relatively tall, pretty eyes. not the worst company.

"...it's a very nice party," you say, as if you're trying to convince yourself of the fact. you haven't really answered him, but your response is enough of an answer in itself. the bartender looks up, dark eyes studying the crowd, and nods.

"mmhm. you don't seem to be enjoying it, is all."

he places your drink in front of you and you swirl the liquid around with the little black straw, sighing like a lovesick schoolgirl. you're already a bit tipsy, so you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed at your obvious lack of excitement. you just hope nobody is paying enough attention to you to notice—nobody but your handsome conversation partner, that is.

but someone else has noticed. of course he has. how could johnny not be looking at you, when you look like that?

it was all he could do when he'd seen you, two hours earlier, walking in step with sue as you checked things off a clipboard, making sure the tower was ready for the event. he had thought a lot about what he'd say to you tonight; he wanted to talk about what happened, maybe orchestrate it happening again, but the sight of you took all the words from his overactive mouth, and for once he couldn't think of what to say.

"you okay?" ben had asked, sitting next to him in the kitchen. the smug smile on his face had been enough to let johnny know he didn't really care about the answer. "you look a little pale."

johnny had just scoffed, turning his whole body away from you, crossing his arms. it felt a bit childish but he did it anyway.

so now, johnny is stealing glances at you over the top of his whiskey glass, hoping the girl he's talking to doesn't notice. you're sat at the bar, leaning toward the stupidly handsome bartender, who's smiling at you in a way that irritates johnny immediately. he thinks this is your third drink; he lost sight of you for a few moments, but he doubts you had the time to chug another in that period.

you seem a little upset. johnny doesn't want to give himself too much credit but he hopes it's because of him. not that he wants to make you upset, but in his experience the degree of upsetness equates to how much you care. he hopes you care about him. the thought is scary so he takes another, longer sip of his drink, finishing it.

"oop, looks like i'm out," he says, flashing the girl a toothy smile. "i'll just be a second."

he makes a beeline for the bar now, knowing it's probably not a good idea to have two drinks in a row—especially because he can already feel the effects of the others he's had—but not really caring. the bartender sees him before you do. the guy turns his attention to his new customer, but doesn't move far enough away from you for johnny's liking. he bites his tongue and takes the seat beside you.

"johnny," you say, before he can think of something smart to greet you with. you sound a little drunk—nothing concerning, just bubbly, and your smile is more dazed than he's used to seeing. "having fun?"

johnny glances from you to the bartender, asks for something he knows is convulted and time-consuming, ignoring the guy's slightly annoyed expression. once the intruder is safely distracted making his drink, johnny puts his attention on you, and his body warms at your eye contact.

"yeah, yeah," he answers, clearing his throat. "you did a good job. with the whole thing. music is nice."

you giggle softly. johnny likes that sound. it's like wind chimes twinkling in the breeze. "sue did a lot of the planning, to be honest. i kind of forgot this was happening until yesterday."

johnny smiles, laughs under his breath. his hands are interlocked on the bar's surface and he's playing with his fingers as he watches you. you think for a moment that he's nervous, but the thought is ludicrous—johnny, nervous? never in a million years.

"isn't that your whole job? you know, organizing stuff?" he teases, because it sounds like something he would say if things were not so strange between you. he wonders if you even feel the strangeness—you've been acting perfectly normal all week, like he didn't just have his face buried in you, which ticks johnny off more than he wants to admit. it's not fair to expect you to acknowledge it if he won't, which he knows, but he's never been one to advocate for all that is fair.

you roll your eyes, but when you look back at him there's something soft, malleable. "i guess i've been a little distracted."

johnny's eyebrows twitch. he takes a deep breath, swallows hard, has to look away from you. "distracted, huh? that's no good."

you take a sip of whatever drink you've ordered and johnny wonders if he should tell you to slow down, but you're an adult. he doesn't want to parent you. plus, he hates when you tell him to slow down at things like this, and he doesn't want to ruin the delicacy of the moment.

he thinks very hard before he speaks. very, very hard.

"well, if you're ever feeling that way, and you really need to focus..." he starts, after a breath, spinning in the barstool so that his entire body faces you, "i'm always more than willing to help out."

johnny bites back a smile at the look on your face. god, you're adorable.

"more than willing, huh?" you repeat, and he watches, fascinated, as your tongue pokes out, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth for just a second. "i didn't know you were such a good samaritan."

he scoffs. "really? couldn't tell by my superhero status?"

you laugh, and the tension breaks just the slightest bit, but johnny doesn't want that—he wants it to be suffocating, wants it to be so strong you can't resist its pull.

"besides, you know i always get something out of helping you." he says it low, looking right at you, so it's impossible for you to miss what he's trying to say. you hear it, you see it; your smile falters and your eyelashes flutter when you blink at him. "i'm a pleaser."

people-pleaser, is what you know he should've said, but you also know johnny usually says what he means, even if that meaning is obscured. the alcohol in your blood makes you feel hot and you shift in your seat, ignoring the way your core starts to ache. god, you're easy, you think, but it doesn't stop you from playing johnny's game.

you're both standing and moving to somewhere with less lighting just a moment later. the bartender turns to place johnny's ridiculous drink in front of him only to see, with a frustrated huff, that he's gone. better add it to the tab.

he takes you to his room, because he 'doesn't feel like having to small talk a bunch of idiots', and no one will bother you in here. you're both sitting on plush chairs this time—your outfit is not made for you to be comfortably seated on the floor. you keep glancing at the spot where you were lying down as he made you see stars and hope he doesn't notice.

"that bartender was checking you out," johnny says, relaxing into his seat. his legs are spread and his head is tilted back, eyes low as they look at you. you're close enough that his knee brushes yours, but you ignore it as best you can.

"so?" you counter, shrugging. "he was cute."

you imagine this will annoy him, waiting for some sort of comically insulting quip, but all johnny does is stare at you. his head rolls to face the ceiling and you watch his adam's apple bob with a particularly hard swallow. a pregnant beat passes, a rare moment where you have no clue what johnny is going to say—usually, you can predict his conversational rhythm, but whatever this is, it's out of bounds.

"i can't stop thinking about you." he says it like it's nothing, like he's telling you what he had for breakfast or what he plans to do this weekend. your breath hitches, and he continues, eyes still trained on the ceiling. "when i saw you in that outfit i was hoping you wore it for me."

johnny's honesty shocks you, almost enough to coax you into being honest too—i did wear it for you. but even if he's being genuine, you know his ego is dangerously big, and if you inflate it anymore he might burst.

you want to play it cool, but your heart is hammering, and you can't think of anything you could possibly say that wouldn't result in you making another very big mistake. his head swivels to face you again, a crooked grin playing on his lips. you wish he wasn't so handsome.

"you look beautiful. makes me think about how beautiful you looked begging for me."

your stomach flips, your face boiling. johnny's hand is lazily reaching out to you, resting palm up on your knee. the skin-to-skin contact is light but it makes you feel dizzy.

"come here," he asks; too soft for a demand, and there's an unspoken please, his fingers flexing.

you can't bring yourself to say anything, so you take his hand.

johnny pulls you fluidly toward him, and now you're perched sideways on his lap, legs resting over his. your arm is over his shoulder because there's nowhere else to put it, but it brings your face even closer to his. he's smiling up at you, dazed, and his tongue traces his bottom lip, like he's trying to taunt you.

"johnny," you whisper; you meant for it to be louder, but your voice fails you. "this isn't a good idea."

his hand lets go of yours and falls to your thigh, rubbing gently up over your hips, to your waist, and back down again. his other is on the small of your back, keeping you secure against him. the drunkenness renders you a little more dumbfounded than you would've otherwise been and you think you might be in a dream.

"mm, right," he hums, almost absentmindedly. "but... you're still sitting here."

your eyes fall to his lips, and that's enough confirmation for him.

when johnny kisses you, you finally understand how he gets all those girls to come running back to him, even when he publicly shows them he doesn't care. it's slow at first, but so personal, so deep, you're immediately lost.

what you don't know is that johnny doesn't kiss every girl like that. sometimes he doesn't kiss them at all. he didn't kiss you last time, even though he wanted to, but now he can't resist it. kissing is a strangely intimate act to him, reserved only for the heat of the moment or when absolutely necessary. right now, it's neither of those things—or is it both?—and he's enjoying it more than he ever has.

he molds his lips to yours, his hand on your hip squeezing the flesh just barely before he moves to hold your head, thumb pressed against your chin, coaxing your mouth open. his tongue bullies inside and you moan at how soft it is. you start thinking about feeling his tongue elsewhere and pray he doesn't feel your thighs clench.

but he does. johnny feels it, and sighs into your mouth like he's wounded, pulling away only enough to breath. there's a little string of saliva stretching between you and his eyes darken when you lick your lips to get rid of it.

"i wanna touch you," he rasps, like he's been dying to say it since the beginning of the night. since the last time. since he met you. "let me, please. you know i'll make you feel good."

it pains you, because you do know. and you want it, more than anything you've ever wanted.

"okay," you say, like you're acquiescing, when in reality you've started to throb just thinking about his fingers on you. "okay."

johnny kisses you again, and his hand releases your face to trace down your collarbones, ending at the curve of your tits—he cups one, his thumb going in circles over where your nipple would be. you feel it hardening under his touch, and he must feel it too, even over the fabric. he's helping you take your top off in a second, unclasping your bra like he's done it a million times before; on second thought, he probably has.

he wants to take his time to admire you, play with you until you're squirming in his lap, but the drunkenness is making him feel rushed, urgent, like he has a finite amount of time before this bubble bursts. he bites you gently when his tongue pushes past your lips again, fingers pinching at your pebbled nipples just to soothe over them with his calloused thumb.

"you have the prettiest tits," johnny huffs, between kisses. he gets an idea then, when you keen into him; he pulls away from your mouth, quite reluctantly, and then he hoists you up by the waist, shifting you so you’re straddling him. his hands find purchase on your hips and he drags you forward; his bulge is pressed right up against the inside of your thigh now, and you're in awe at how hard he is.

you don't have time to ask what he's doing—his lips lock around your nipple, hot tongue circling it, and you let out a soft, surprised cry.

he hums, sending vibrations through your chest, making your hips twitch. you hate to beg him because you know it's what he wants but you can't help it. you tangle your fingers in his hair and scratch at his scalp, in a way that makes johnny feel weak.

"you’re being cruel," you breathe, staring down at him. he's looking up at you with something like affection and it makes you pant harder. "if you wanna touch me, you better do it."

you know he's not, not by a long shot—you know he could be crueler, the thought of which shockingly appealing to you.

but johnny seems to like what you've said, smiling even as he's got your tits in his mouth, hands grabbing at your ass. then, he pulls away with a soft pop, insufferable smirk stll playing on his flushed face.

"but i am touching you, sweetheart. gotta be a little more specific."

you huff. he is such a dick. any other man would be falling over himself, but he's so put together it frustrates you.

you kiss him this time, your tongue licking into his mouth; johnny is shameless in showing his appreciation, moaning against your lips, tilting his head so you can explore him a little deeper, palms flat on the curve of your ass. emboldened by how much he seems to like this, you drag your hips forward, over his clothed length—you're almost giddy at the sound he makes. it's like the groan gets caught in his throat, like he's trying not to let it out, but just can't help it.

"fuck," johnny breathes, when you pull away. his pupils are swallowing up all the color in his eyes. "keep doing that."

so you do; a little harder this time, but just as slow, and you don't stop. the tip of his dick catches against you and you gasp, a little high-pitched—johnny's lashes flutter and his head rolls back, hands pushing against you, trying to guide your movements. you're surprised, because he's almost enjoying it a little too much; like it's the first time he's been anything close to touched in a while.

you don't know, but it really has been a bit for him, a month and some change, he isn't counting. johnny has been very busy; that's what he tells himself, but the truth is he hasn't been able to make himself want anyone but you. he hasn't even really tried, to be honest.

it's almost like he knew he would get the chance to have you like this, and he was saving himself, making himself wait so it would be all the better when it finally happened. he's not really thinking about it like that in the moment, though—his mind is kind of going blank, edges blurring together, corners rounding.

johnny angles his hips up towards yours, so he can match the rhythm of your grinding. it somehow feels better like that, and your hands clutch at his shoulders when he surges forward for another kiss. it's breathier this time, more broken—you swear he's letting out whines into your mouth.

"shit, wait—" he finally mutters, tugging on your bottom lip as he pulls away from you. "you almost made me forget what i was gonna do."

truth is, johnny's a little scared he's gonna blow his load in his pants like a teenager if you keep going, so he has to find a way to redirect your attention.

it works beautifully, especially when his hand is moving over your stomach, and then down between your thighs. he watches you the whole time, making you feel extremely exposed. you realize that you're topless and he's still fully clothed, so you reach for the buttons of his shirt, managing to undo a few before he slaps your hand away, and rips through the rest.

you giggle in surprise, cheeks going hot at johnny's eagerness. you press your palms against the expanse of his chest and feel him take a sharp breath.

you're very good at distracting him, but johnny's not going to let himself get tied up this time. he fights through the way you're touching him and continues his task, hand slipping under your bottoms so he can cup your cunt. you shiver, and he presses his middle finger into the seam of your panties, feeling how wet you already are. god, he wants to fuck you, but that somehow seems more serious, and very irreversible. not that he can take any of this back. not that he wants to.

"was that guy really doing it for you, or is this all me?"

johnny tries to sound like he's in control but his voice is strained and a little debauched. you catch the way he says that guy, like he's disgusted at the idea of any other man coming close to having you like he does right now.

"shut up," you try, but it only makes him laugh, dark and breathy. he's rubbing up and down the seam now, soaking the fabric, teasing you the way he's quickly grown very fond of doing. he leans forward and hooks his face into your neck, sucking a bruise right beneath your ear.

"i don't think you really want me to. you seemed to like it when i talked before."

johnny pushes your panties, slowly sliding his middle into you. you feel his hot pants against your neck and let out a soft sigh. how is it that his mouth and his fingers both feel like heaven? you can't imagine them combined. you hope that you won't have to—that he'll just show you how good it feels. maybe next time.

"lucky for you, my mouth's not really occupied this time, so i can talk all you want," he whispers, finger slowly finding a rhythm, palm pressing up into your clit. you whimper softly, eyes fluttering shut—your hands tug at his hair, almost trying to keep him in the crook of your neck, so he won't be able to see how much you're enjoying his touch. (even though it might already be too late for that.)

"i've thought about this so long." your breath hitches at his confession, at his tone of voice, suspiciously unguarded. "wanted this so long."

wanted you, is what you hear, and you bite your bottom lip to stop from moaning out loud. your hips start to grind into his hand and johnny's other comes up to play with your tits, licking at your pulse point.

"you make me fuckin' crazy, sweetheart," he sighs, like finally saying it has lifted a weight from his chest. "you make me pathetic. sometimes i get hard just looking at you. or hearing your pretty voice."

johnny slips another finger inside you and your back arches into him, breathy whimpers shamelessly escaping you, because he's right—you do like it when he talks. you like it a lot. he's got a dirty mouth, but it's laced with something soft, pliable, like he's bearing himself open to you, even though you're the one being touched.

he lifts his head from you and you're forced to make eye contact. there's something dangerously similar to adoration in his gaze and it makes you shiver.

"but you never notice. even now, you're looking at me like you're surprised." his fingers curl inside you, picking up pace, and your head falls to his shoulder. he lets you, even though he would really rather see your beautiful face as you're falling apart.

"what's a guy gotta do, huh? how do i prove to you, how fuckin' badly i want you?" johnny's tone is teasing but it's just in his nature—he really means what he says. he'd do anything you asked him to do to you. god, he'd let you do anything to him.

"johnny," you whine; you don't know how to say anything else. "you—just—"

he laughs at your inability to really tell him what you want to say—he doubts you have anything you want to say at all. "what is it, honey? you wanna cum? c'mon, tell me. i'll give you whatever you want."

his palm grinds hard and slow into your clit, a sharp contrast to the way he's fucking you on his fingers in earnest now. you let out a shaky moan, hips struggling to keep rhythm with his movements.

"yes, please—" you gasp, forcing yourself to face him again. "please, i wanna cum."

johnny's eyes flash so dark your stomach drops. a drawn out groan of surprised disappointment leaves you when he's suddenly retracting his fingers, pulling them out of your panties. you open your mouth to beg him to keep going, but then he's bringing his glistening digits to his lips, and you watch as his eyes flutter shut, tasting you on his own skin.

"you are such a freak," you huff, chest heaving.

he smiles at you but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, because he's already hoisting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. he makes it to his bed in three hurried strides, lies you down on the mattress, and is between your legs before you can complain.

he takes your bottoms off in record time, and your panties, throwing them haphazardly onto the floor. then, his mouth is on you again, and it feels somehow better than the last time—your hips lift up to chase his tongue, a depraved moan escaping you. you hope the music is loud enough.

johnny is not being as careful as he was last time. last time, he was trying to pick you apart, but this time he's already been pieced apart himself, and he's lost in you. he's eating you out like he hasn't had a morsel of food in days, like he's sick and you're the only thing that can make him feel better. your hands are tangled in his hair, tugging to the point of pain, but he just groans into you when you do it, hips jutting forward like he's so turned on he can't contain himself.

it's overwhelming, and you're on the brink of cumming before you can really process it.

"j-johnny!" you keen, hips squirming against him. he's not even bothering holding you down this time, hands grabbing at your thighs to keep himself pressed between them. "oh fuck, i'mgonnacum—!"

your vision whites out, legs tensing around johnny's head so tight you're afraid he's gonna suffocate. he'd like nothing more, and wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you there, makes sure he gets his fill, even as you're gasping and telling him it's too much.

three very loud knocks on his bedroom door make you both freeze, and he finally lets you go—you can't tell if you're relieved or disappointed. you make startled eye contact; johnny just raises his finger to his mouth, telling you to be quiet.

"yeah? i'm kind of busy," he calls, slowly walking around the bed and approaching the door. you sit up on shaky arms, eyes following him. your chest is still heaving, and your brain is lit up with fog, like the night sky right after fireworks.

"doing what? you better not be jerking off in there." you let out a heavy sigh of relief. it's just ben. you know the hulking man is just a sweetheart at his core and would never come in johnny's room unannounced.

johnny looks to you and then back to the door, smile trembling like he's trying to keep in a laugh.

"so what if i was? it's my room, jackass."

ben groans. "just come out, man. sue's looking for you."

you think you're safe, but then ben doubles back, and reminds johnny that you put in a lot of work for this event, and that it would probably hurt your feelings to know he was cooped up in his room hating it. your face grows hot, like that's what really embarrasses you and not the way johnny's face is still casually slick with your heat.

"just be nice to her, alright? she's a very sweet girl."

if only ben knew just how nice johnny had been to you tonight, he thinks, but he just laughs to himself and listens for retreating heavy footsteps.

a beat of awkward silence passes. you let your head fall to the mattress and squeeze your eyes shut, exhaustion and slight regret warring in your body. you're almost upset you don't regret it more.

"so," johnny starts, breaking the quiet. "we should probably get out of here, right? they're gonna be suspicious if we're both gone too long. "

there it is. he's about to pretend nothing happened again, to pretend he didn't say all those things to you, pretend he didn't touch you with reverence saved only for an intimacy you hadn't been familiar with until this. your head is starting to hurt. you're certainly beginning to regret it more now.

"right," you say, "we should get out of here." you force yourself to sit up, stand, walking toward your clothes so you can get dressed again. you expect johnny to move toward his closet and grab another shirt—the one he'd been wearing is lying torn on the floor—but he only watches you, hands on his hips.

"right," he finally echoes. "but... you know. you should probably go first. i need... a couple minutes."

you turn to him, about to ask why, but then your eyes fall to the unmistakable print in his pants, and the small wet stain right where his tip would be. you almost feel badly for blueballing him twice in a row, but not badly enough to suppress your laughter.

"really? a couple minutes, that's all it takes you?"

he scoffs, but there's a grateful smile on his face. "i wouldn't tease, sweetheart. it's not like you've been lasting much longer."

something in you feels emboldened by the things he's whispered to you tonight. you stare at him and a teasing smile plays on your lips, eyes still a little blissed out.

"maybe next time, i'll help you out. we'll see who lasts longer."

you adjust your top and go to walk past him, but johnny catches your arm, and pulls you in. you're surprised when he kisses you. it's soft, unhurried, not as desperate. you feel an uncomfortable ache in your chest when you pull away. there it is again, the adoration in his eyes; this time, he blinks, and it's gone.

"right," johnny whispers, against your lips. "next time."

and when you walk out of his room, glancing down the hallway in both directions to be safe, you can't help the giddy butterflies in your stomach at the thought. next time.

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shedelulululu · 3 days ago

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saw your movie theatre hc’s do you have anything for them working in a restaurant together? 👀

well, yes I do!

so for the restaurant itself, it's a decently nice brew pub, the food is a bit expensive but it really is better quality and pretty good. (i was gonna do smth different but i realized I kept picturing this restaurant i kinda worked at kinda didnt -- I worked the brewery shop that was attached to the restaurant)

Frank is a local and has been working there since he was like 17 having decided school wasn't in the cards for him, why piss away money his folks didn't have . Mel is now 21 and has only just started working there -- this was the first summer she didn't have a home to go to when the school year ended, having decided to sell her childhood home when her mom died.

Frank knows Mel's name, he could hardly forget their introduction. Within the first week of her working he calls her "Sweetheart", because half of his job is cooking the other half is flirting with waiters and waitresses. She sticks out her hand through the pass to shake his hand, and says "oh I'm Mel!" because she assumed he was only using that pet name because he forgot her name !!! he chuckles at her, shoots her a smirk and says "yeah I know" which just puzzles her and she just walks away with the orders for her table

the pet names continue! he tries out all kinds on her to see what sticks! she asks "do you just find it easier to not remember our names so you use random pet names?" and he says "no :)" and won't explain further, she wants to push him on it but then Samira and Trinity come through to pick up and put in orders and they give her a look that is confused why she's still back here.

One sunday she works a double shift including the brunch shift. It's absolutely hell on earth because its move in weekend and they serve bottomless mimosas. By 2 PM their brunch service is finally over and she's passing by the kitchen to go outside to the alley to catch a breath, but she's stopped by the sound of her name being called, she spins around and it's Frank -- this is the first time he's called her by her name -- and he tilts his head towards a plate made, "order up for you" and she's like ? my tables haven't ordered yet ? and he's like "no it's for you, you're probably hungry?" and well, he's not wrong, and the eggs benedict and home fries looked really fucking good. She beams at him with a "Thank You" and the scurries out to eat in the alley. (btw they don't get free meals, they still have to punch it in, they get 25% off at least (: )

Mel is closing, she's already locked the doors, she's wiping down tables and double checking the tills. She can't help but notice this man standing outside the floor to ceiling windows that surround the restaurant. He's been outside for 20 minutes, following her every move. She hears a bang against one of the windows and runs back into the kitchen to hide. Frank has his bag slung over his shoulder about to walk out after cleaning the kitchen when she burst in through the door with a spooked look on her face. he grabs her shoulders to steady her "Mel what's wrong?" and she explains everything.

Frank drops his bag and says he'll be right back. He returns with a bleeding cheek and Mel is like what the heck happened??? he's rubbing against his knuckles and just says, don't worry about it, your problem is gone.

Obviously she insists on cleaning and dressing his wounds, she's so focused she can't even process that she's practically sitting in his lap. Frank is very aware, enjoying it very much, and endlessly charmed that she has no idea what she's doing to him. When she finishes and is ready to get up she finally realizes where she is and gets up abruptly nearly falling backward. "Thank you, you really shouldn't have done that, but thank you." he's staring at his shoes refusing to make eye contact "anything for you darlin'" and she's like "what if he had a weapon!" and he just chuckles, shaking his head, "wouldn't be the worst thing. for a good cause anyhow." she furrows her brows, "I would really prefer you alive." he shrugs "You flatter me, but hey things happen. C'mon let me walk you to your car."

Mel starts hanging out with him on his smoke breaks just to have an excuse to talk to him more. He'll set out a pack on the pass station to let her know he's going out soon. The first time she finds him out there she lectures him gently on the dangers of smoking, "It can take years off your life.", he takes a drag, exhaling away from her, "I think you'd have to plan to make it to those years to lose them." "I don't what you mean by that." "Do you know about the 27 club?" she nods "always thought that's a good time to go out." he ashes out his cigarette and goes back inside.

Mel starts asking her coworkers about Frank, essentially trying to get a sense of whether he's an active suicide risk or it's just a thing he says. Most everyone says that's just the way Frank is until she asks Robby who pauses. He scrubs a hand through his beard, "Usually, it's just something he says out of habit. But uh, if he's actually upset and saying it, take it seriously."

Later that shift she asks for his phone, she inputs her number, and tells him that he has to say goodbye to her no matter what.

#i...probably have more in me but i'm gonna stop here for length sake #im also writing this very late and need to get to bed #kingdon #melfrank #langdonmel #melangdon #i only replied to this ask 4 u #i only headcanon this 4 u

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shyxcherry · 12 hours ago

Text

bruised hearts & steady hands | nicholas

summary: when your friends drag you for a night out, you didn't expect to catch the attention of the most attractive guy you've ever met. nor did you expect to sleep with him. but here you were, with messed up feelings about someone whose name you didn't even know. oh, and don't forget he's your brother's best friend (and boss).

pairing: tattooartist!nicholas x female!reader

warning: fluff, angst, smut (oral (both), fingering, both protected and unprotected sex), reader has some trauma in her past (mental health issues that aren't descripted but hinted at)

word count: 11.4k

notes: 2/9 of the series down! i absolutely loved how this turned out. like i need tattoo artist nicho like right now... next up in the series will be yuma! let me know who we want after him. likes and reblogs appreciated!

ink and asphalt masterlist

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you let out a sigh as you set the box of kitchen items on the counter. every part of your body was killing you, having to go up two flights of stairs because of course the elevator would be out of service the day you move in. you all but collapse onto the cold tile floor to cool yourself off, looking up when you see your brother walk in with two more large boxes– looking unbothered as usual.

you wouldn't expect anything less from your brother, fuma. he was three years older than you, claiming the title as older sibling– and always using that against you. he's been your guardian since you were practically born. he hated when you moved a few hours away to go to college for the past few years. now that you were back, you were of course thrown under his wing again– not that you minded.

"how are you so unphased by this?" you ask, a little winded from your trip. fuma laughs, sitting the boxes down before grabbing a water, opening it before handing it to you. you drink half of the bottle before sitting it down beside you.

"maybe it's time for you to start working out, brat." you roll your eyes at his statement.

"i'll start working out when you get a girlfriend." you respond, grabbing his outstretched hand as he helped you off of the floor. "i still don't understand how you got me the apartment right next to yours."

"i promised the owner a free tattoo of any size."

your eyes widened. "that wasn't necessary, bear. i could've rented someplace else."

"it was necessary." he told you, leaving no room for argument. "it's my job to keep you safe."

you hum out a response as you start opening boxes to begin packing away. "you gonna hold my hand and walk me to work too?"

"no, but i am driving you."

you rolled your eyes at his answer. "that's only because i'm saving up for a car. it won't be for long."

"i don't care how long it is." fuma responded. "take your time. maybe spend some money on a new shirt first."

you look down when he tugged on the frayed shirt that clearly had a couple holes in it. this was one of your favorite shirts– fuma got it for you when you two went to a concert together when you were 15. you gasped at the notion, smacking his hand away from you. "how dare you say such a thing? you don't see me telling you to get rid of that dirty pokémon that i got you."

"maybe i will when you learn its name." he crossed his arms, waiting for you to tell him the name– chuckling when it was clear that you didn't know the name. "it's eevee."

"i knew that."

fuma rolled his eyes, messing up your hair as he walked by. "of course you did, brat."

"whatever." you huffed. "you got plans for the weekend?"

"yeah. i'm going out clubbing with the guys. wanna come?"

you shook your head. "chae and yunjin are also going clubbing and asked if i wanted to go with them."

"be careful, okay. i won't be drinking, so let me know if you need a ride."

you nod your head, a small smile on your face. "of course, bear. i'll be careful. promise."

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your promise to fuma to be careful went out the window as soon as you stepped into the club. you told yourself you were really going to try, but you immediately caught sight of arguably one of the most attractive guys you've ever seen. he instantly caught your eye– even as you sat down at a booth with chae and yunjin.

you couldn't see too much due to the dark lights, but you could see the way his dark eyes scanned the space with a confident aura. your eyes followed the sharp lines of his jaw, watching as they become more defined as he smiled at some guy as he walked by. and when he lifted his hand to brush his hair out of his face, you could see the tattoos peeking out from under his jacket sleeve. you felt yourself becoming entranced by the man who hadn't even looked in your direction yet.

you shouldn't even be entertaining the idea. you just moved here a few days ago– still getting settled into a new job. you shouldn't be tempted to find someone, but maybe you didn't. maybe you could just have some fun. just fun. no commitment.

"who are we staring at, babe?" you glance over to yunjin as she slides into the booth across from you, sitting down a round of drinks.

"he must be cute because she's been ignoring me for the last 5 minutes." chae responded with a light laugh.

you blush at the fact that you got caught staring at someone. "it's nothing. just a cute guy."

"cute like i want to bring him to meet the parents, or cute like i want to end the night underneath him screaming his name?" you nearly choke on your drink at yunjin's question. "i'm guessing it's the second option."

"oh, girl this could be so good for you." chae exclaimed.

you shook your head. "i don't have time for anything."

"but you do have time for a one night stand." yunjin spoke as she took a sip of her drink before motioning behind you. "i'm hoping that's the guy you were staring at because he's looking at you like he wants to devour you."

chae leaned over to look– a small gasp slipping past her lips. "yn! he's so cute."

you quickly glance over your shoulder, meeting the dark eyes that had captured your attention earlier. when he realized you were staring at him, he smirked, sending a wink in your direction. you bite your lip at the motion, an action that he noticed– eyes trailing to your lips. you smiled at that before quickly turning back around.

"oh my god. that's him." you whisper shout to your two clearly excited friends.

"whatever you just did worked because he has not stopped staring." chae responded. "who knew our girl had it in her?"

"she's about to have a lot more in her."

you groan at her words but couldn't help the stir in your stomach at the thought. you never thought you would be the one for a one night stand, but for someone like him, you would make an exception. "what do i do?"

"you're going to get your ass up and make him come to you." yunjin said, receiving two confused looks from you and chae. "go dance babe."

your eyes widened. "not alone!"

"oh please." yunjin brushed off your concerns with a flick of her wrist. "you won’t be alone for more than a few seconds. i guarantee it. if not, i’ll join you. just make sure you text us in the morning, so we know you're still alive."

you thought about it for a moment, chewing on your lip. "am i really about to do this?"

"yes, you are." chae nodded. "you said it yourself. you have worked hard to get to where you are, and you deserve a night of fun. besides, you said your last boyfriend was shit in bed, so you clearly need to get laid properly."

you let out a sigh, drinking the rest of your drink before standing up. even as you leave the table and disappear in the large crowd, you could still feel his eyes on you– watching you. you tried to blend in, even though you've never danced alone before, closing your eyes before dancing along to the music.

you were alone for maybe 30 seconds before you felt a warm body slide behind yours. his sharp cologne hit your nose as his hand flattened on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. as the two of you dance, you could feel his semi as your back pressed against his front– feeling as it gets harder when you roll your hips back. his other hand moves across your shoulder, running his thumb over your jaw before tilting your head up– meeting his gaze for a second time.

"keep dancing with me like this, and you're not leaving alone." his voice low, rough as he leans in to whisper in your ear.

your breath hitches as his lips graze the shell of your ear. you turn your head, catching more glimpses of tattoos on his neck and chest as you turn around in his arms – grabbing his jacket and pulling him closer to you. “good.”

his eyes scan your face for any sort of hesitance, but he doesn’t get any. his hand slides to the small of your back – the other one in your hair. he slightly tugs on the strands, angling your gaze back up to his. his breath was warm as it hit your skin as his nose brushed yours. “i don’t let go easy.”

“who likes easy?” you respond, earning a low chuckle from him. “but if you take me home, i should at least know your name.”

his smirk was teasing, lips almost brushing yours as his hand moves out of your hair – thumb trailing along your bottom lip that was painted red. “you’ll forget it with the way i plan to touch you, but you can call me weno if you want.” you could tell that wasn’t his actual name, and somehow that made you feel more calm about this. he knew it as well that it was only for tonight. “and i’ll call you red.”

your mouth parted, and he took the opportunity to slide his thumb into your mouth. you wrapped your lips around him, circling your tongue around his thumb as you suck – all while keeping eye contact with him. a small curse leaves his mouth as he watches you. he slowly pulls his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your saliva on your lower lip. he didn’t say another word, grabbing your jaw before slamming his lips onto yours.

his kiss was rough, claiming you like he’s been wanting to do since he set his sights on you. you gasp into his mouth, fingers clutching his shoulders before moving up to tangle into his hair. he lets out a barely their groan when you pull on the strands, but you could feel the vibration against your lips. your lips parted– his tongue sliding against yours, slow and teasing. you shiver as the cool jewel of his tongue piercing slid against your tongue because of course he had one. he almost refused to stop, but as much as he wanted to, he didn’t take it any further – not while the two of you were still in the middle of the dance floor. his grip on your back tightened as he pulled away from you first. you let out a breath, finally feeling the intensity of the kiss, you just shared. your eyes meet his, slightly nervous that he didn’t feel the same way, but all you saw was his eyes, somehow darker now, staring down at you with the same intensity you were sure you had.

“do you want to go back to mine?” his tone was short, clearly struggling to keep control of his emotions.

“i would be really disappointed if not.” you untangle your hands from his hair– him grabbing your hand immediately before guiding you out of the club. you met yunjin’s and chae’s eyes for a second, sending a quick wave while watching the two freak out. you would never hear the end of this from the two of them.

he led you over to his car. “i haven’t had anything to drink, so you’re safe with me.”

you nodded your head, allowing him to help you get in before he got in himself. the lights lit up the car as you passed under them before you two were developed into darkness. his hand drifted to your thigh, right above your knee– unmoving as he tries to focus on the road, but you were making it impossible. the way your eyes watch his every move, lips swollen from where he’s kissed you, thighs clenched shut as you shift in your seat.

he meets your gaze as he pulls up to his place. “last chance to turn back.”

you wait until he parks the car before unbuckling your seatbelt, leaning over– lips grazing his ear while your other hand brushes against his erection. “bold word coming from someone with a boner.”

“get out of the car.” you smile at his demand, pulling away from him before getting out of the car. he once again grabs your hand, guiding you up the driveway before letting the two of you into the house. it was dark, and he didn’t bother to turn any lights on before he pulled you into him. “you’re mine now.”

his mouth crashed against yours, done with the teasing from earlier. the kiss was hot and messy– all tongue and teeth as his hands grip at your sides. his hands bunch up your dress, allowing his hands to run along your bare legs, squeezing at the tender flesh. you moan into the kiss when his hands pull your dress up even more, exposing your lower half to him. his lips leave yours as he spins you around, chest pressed against the wall as his thigh pushes between your legs. his hands tightly grip your waist as his hips press against yours– moaning out when his clothed erection rolls against you. his breath was rough on your neck as his lips attach to the skin, biting down hard enough to have you gasp.

“this is what you wanted, isn’t it red?” you nod your head. tilting your head to allow him even more of your body that felt like it was on fire– everywhere he touched felt like a match had been stuck there.

his hand slides around your waist, trailing along the edge of your waistband before moving down between your legs. his touch was slow, teasing as his fingers ran over the fabric– feeling the wet spot and showing how much you wanted him. “so wet, red. and i haven’t even started yet.”

“weno–” you whine out when his fingers slip into the front of your underwear. his touch was slow, just enough to make you squirm, not enough to satisfy. you hear his low chuckle in your ear when you push back against him.

“patience, red. i’m going to take my time with you.”

your whine quickly turns into a sigh in relief, cheek resting against the wall when his thumb finally puts pressure on your throbbing clit. his lips continued to kiss and bite along your neck as his touch deepens, teasing your slit before he slides a finger inside of you, barely giving you any time to adjust before he’s moving his hand– groaning against your ear when you clench around him as a moan escapes your lips.

“so tight.” he breaths, curling his finger just right to have your back arch, crying out at the feeling. “how long has it been since someone’s touch this gorgeous body?”

“too long.” you groan out as he plunges in a second finger. he started out slow before building up a rhythm that had you rolling your hips against his hand. “fuck– weno.”

“there she is. i want you to lose control for me. you’re not leaving here without screaming my name to the point where you can’t talk.” you jump when his thumb increases speed on your clit, circling the bud tightly. you whine out his name as his hand pumped faster, motions deliberate– wanting to watch as you fell apart. “let me hear how good you sound as you come all over my fingers, red.”

his fingers curled, hitting the perfect spot to bring you over the edge. you cried out his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your high. his grip was tight on your waist as you opened your eyes to meet his, lust filling his eyes. his fingers leave you as he pulls his glistening hand up to his face. he makes sure you keep eye contact as he cleans off his hand with his mouth, groaning at the taste and leaving you desperate for more.

“you’re not getting any sleep tonight.”

your world is flipped upside down as he throws you over his shoulder. he climbs a set of stairs before opening a door down the hallway. it was pitch black as he threw you back onto the bed. he turned his bedside lamp on before he climbed on top of you– legs keeping you hostage. his breath hit your lips before his tongue shoved past your lips, brushing against your tongue lazily, but it kept you wanting more. your hands gripped his shoulders, pushing his jacket off before trying to pull his shirt off as well. he bit your lip before he sat up– a silent warning to not being patient as he pulled off his shirt.

your eyes ran down his chest and arms, seeing the tattoos that painted over almost all of his skin. you only looked away when you heard him laugh, meeting his eyes as he leans back down– holding your jaw as he kissed you. “like what you see red?”

you open your mouth to respond but stop when his hands cup your breasts. a small gasp left your mouth when he pulled the top of your dress down, exposing your breasts to him. his lips trail down your neck, biting and sucking, while his hands return to your breasts. his hands rough and teasing, squeezing just enough to make you arch into his touch. you could feel his smug smile on your skin, nipping at your neck as his thumb brushed over your nipple. you jump– a moan leaving your lips when he pinches the sensitive bud.

“listen to you. so responsive already, and i’m just getting started.”

his mouth left your neck, impatiently moving down to your chest. he pulled your dress down even further as he kissed between your breasts, letting his tongue trace shapes as he slowly trailed down. his hands cupped your breasts again– like he loved the feeling of them in his hands. he squeezed them one last time before his tongue found your breast. he flicked your nipple teasingly before latching his mouth around it, sucking harshly.

you gasp, back arching as your hands tangle in his hair. “fuck, weno.” he was like an animal– biting and sucking until your skin turned red before running his tongue along the area, soothing it. his hands groping and squeezing at every inch of skin his mouth couldn’t. your back arched into his mouth when he groaned– the vibration sending chills across your skin. “weno, please.”

“greedy girl. begging for more already?” he taunted as his hands started to pull the dress off your body. as soon as he threw the dress, his lips moved away from your breast, trailing slow, heated kisses down your stomach while his hands toyed with your waistband. “say please again and maybe i’ll give you what you want.”

“please.” you beg, raising your hips, desperate for more. “please, weno.”

he let out a hum of approval, sliding your bottoms down your legs. his kissed the inside of your thigh before kissing the other one, biting down in warning when you whined in impatience. he moved forward, finally giving you some relief. his tongue was slow, licking along your folds – watching when you jerked when his piercing pressed against your clit. you had never felt anything like it before, and now you were questioning why. “you’re sweet as sin, red.”

he dove in completely without warning, tongue moving against you like he had done it a million times and knew exactly how to make you scream. he let his piercing do most of the work, circling and rolling over your clit – having you grab the sheets to try to ground yourself. your moans were getting louder, more frequent as his hand spread across your stomach, holding you down. his other hand that was gripping your thigh moved, slightly ghosting up your leg until he was teasing your entrance. with one motion, he plunged two fingers deep inside of you– your hand tangling in his hair at the action.

“f- weno.”

you could feel him get more confident, more into making you come undone again for him. he kept changing up his speed, going fast enough to have your eyes rolling back before slowing down– allowing you to feel everything he was giving you. your heels dug into the mattress, thighs trying to close around his head which only made him pull you closer to his mouth. you glanced down, eyes widening when you took him in. his eyes were half closed, glazed over with lust– face glistening with your slick. he blinked, looking up to see you looking at him. you feel him smirk against you before he winked, curling his fingers enough to have you throw your head back. your stomach tightened, curling with heat– making you let out a low, whining moan.

“are you going to come again, red?” he taunted, pressing his piercing flat against your clit, holding you down when you jerk. you’re unable to answer him, nodding your head at his question. “say please.”

“p-please let me come, weno.”

“good girl.” he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking harshly, watching as your back arches off the bed. he fills you tighten around his fingers, his name leaving your lips a second later as you reach your high. your hand wounded tightly in his hair, pulling hard enough to have him groaning against you. he stuck his tongue out, cleaning up every drop of your release off you and his hand before moving back up your body. you opened your eyes, instantly meeting his dark ones. “you’re going to ruin me red.”

instead of responded, you hand wrapped around his neck, pulling him down to you. your lips crashed together in a heated kiss as he closes the distance between you– chest pressed tightly together as his lips move against yours. your hands roam his body, feeling every muscle and grove before your hands meet his waistband. he lifted up slightly, helping you get his bottoms off, leaving him bare above you. your eyes glaze over his body, examining every inch of his skin. most of it was tattooed– colors and symbols marking his skin and making him even more stunning.

he moved to hover over you again, but your hands caught him, pushing him to lay on his back before you moved to straddle him. you lean down, capturing his lips again before moving down to his neck. he exposed his neck, keeping his hands tight around your waist, as he lets you bite and mark him like he did to you. you continue making your way down his neck before moving down his chest and stomach until your reach his cock, thick and throbbing– leaking against his stomach. your hand wraps around him, giving him a soft stroke that had him biting his lip, nearly bucking into your hand with need.

you lean down, taking your time as you slowly run your tongue along the underside, watching as he curses with your touch. “fuck, red.”

you smirk before taking as much of him into your mouth as you could– hand wrapping around the rest. he lets out a groan, hand wrapping in your hair. you fully expected him to guide you, but he didn’t. he let your pick the pace, pulling when your tongue swirled around him. you moan, and that alone has him nearly coming undone. you pull away from him with a small ‘pop’ before looking up at him. you kept your hand moving, squeezing at the base and watching him thrust up into your hand.

“condom?” he blinks at your question for a second before the words register. you keep your hand slowly moving as he reaches over into his nightstand, pulling out a condom. you grab it from him– him groaning when you open it with your teeth before sliding it down him.

you move up, hands braced on his shoulders as you straddled his hips. he had a teasing grin on his face that you watched falter as you sank down onto him. a low groan left his lips, along with a gasp from you. his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as your hips met his. your breath hitched at the fill of him, loving the way he felt as you adjusted to him.

you started out slow, rolling your hips in a way that had him squeezing your sides– no doubt leaving bruises. his hands started to help guide you, his hips thrusting up at points to meet yours. you lean down, breath shaky as your lips meet his. his hand grips the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss. he felt your moves falter, thighs trembling from your efforts. his hands move, wrapping around your waist before flipping you over. your back hits the mattress– his lips pressing into yours as he thrusts into you.

“i’ve got you.” his voice quiet against your lips, moving to your neck as his pace builds into fast, desperate thrusts. “fuck, red. you feel so fucking good.”

your nails dig into his back, chest arching into his as his lips claim yours again. he kisses you messily– getting lost in pleasure like you were. your voice raw as your moans turn into soft gasps, hips rolling up to meet his. he could feel you– could tell that you were close by the way your thighs started trembling again, nails scraping down his back.

his hand reaches between you, finding your swollen clit with his fingers, circling it slowly. it was just enough to have you crying out his name as you fell over the edge. you arch into him, extremities wrapping around him tightly, clenching around him as you start to come down. his hips kept moving, starting to stutter as he feels it. your arms pull him down, clinging to him as you kiss him, and that was enough for him. he thrusted one last time with a groan against your lips as he released into the condom.

he stays still for a moment, head resting against yours as the two of you catch your breaths. his hand moves up, fingers trailing along your jaw. “are you okay?”

“i’m okay.” you nod with a soft smile. you expected things to turn awkward after this. like he would immediately want you gone. instead, you felt the opposite, smiling when he leans down to kiss you again.

he doesn’t say much after, leading you not to either. he moves away from you, taking off the condom before grabbing a towel before helping you clean up. you were confused, wondering why he wasn’t asking you to leave. he laid back down beside you, pulling you against his chest, holding you. he pulls the cover around the two of you, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before you hear his breaths even out– signaling that he was asleep.

you allow yourself to believe that all of this meant something to him like it did to you. maybe it wasn’t just a one night stand because none of this felt like one. but then your thoughts started creeping in– your fear of commitment. you’ve had plenty of boyfriends, but you’ve always kept them at an arm's length, not even letting your brother or mother meet them. you wouldn’t be able to do that with him, and that scared you more that it should. you start to regret coming here because now you’re now going to be stuck on some guy who’s name you didn’t even know.

that thought alone sent a pain through your chest. you asked for his name, and he wouldn’t give it to you. he made his intentions clear that this wasn’t anything more than one night. you try to convince yourself that it meant nothing. he got what he wanted, and so did you. that was it.

so why did it hurt so bad when you snuck out that next morning?

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the last two weeks have been hard to say the least. every time you let your mind drift, they drifted back to your mystery man. his sharp, dark eyes. his teasing smile that seemed to never leave. the way your skin still feels like it’s on fire from where he touched, no matter how many times you scrubbed at the skin. the love bites and bruises that littered your skin took a week to disappear, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at them– mind drifting back to the best night you’ve ever had before you ruined it.

a part of you felt stupid for being so hung up on someone you only knew for a few hours. it wasn’t supposed to feel like this– like a part of you was broken because you didn’t stay. leaving didn’t normally hurt like this. it didn’t normally leave a pit in your stomach that refused to go away. no matter what you did or what you told yourself, it stayed almost like it was mocking you.

you open the door to the tattoo shop where your brother works, the bell dinging and signaling your arrival. you were supposed to be meeting with him to go car shopping since you were finally settled in. the shop was quiet, empty since it was late on a tuesday afternoon. you noticed some guy sitting behind the counter, hood on sketching on a tablet with his back turned towards you.

“excuse me.” you call out, walking up to the counter. “i’m looking for fuma.”

you watch as his back tenses, confusing you. his hand stops, dropping the pen before turning around. your eyes widen, jaw dropping when you see the guy from that night staring back at you just as shocked as you were. unlike you, he quickly pulled together his act, taking his hood off before standing up– smirk back on his lips.

“didn’t think i’d see you again, red.” his tone was cocky, borderline cruel nearly making you flinch. you try to brush off the sting, matching his tone with an equally rude one.

“didn’t think you’d care, weno.”

“right.” he let out a scoff, leaning forward onto the counter. “that’s why you left, huh?”

he watched your expression flicker, hurt flashing before you covered it up. “what was i supposed to? stay? you didn’t say anything. not even your name. just held me like i was a stuffed animal– like i was convenient for you.”

“i didn’t want to mess anything up.” he spoke. “i thought if i said something, it would only push you away.”

“and i thought if i stayed, you’d push me away.”

his mouth opened like he was going to say something but was stopped when fuma walked into the room. “nicho, i see you met yn.”

his eyes widen just slightly as his gaze flickers back to you. you nod your head, finally knowing his name. it was nicholas. him and another guy owned this tattoo shop where fuma works. he was also one of fuma’s best friends. you unknowingly slept with your brother's best friend.

you blink away your pain, replacing it with a smile as you turn to your brother. “yes, he was just telling me about the shop.”

“maybe now that you’ve seen the place, you’ll finally let me tattoo you.” you roll your eyes at your brother’s antics.

“in your dreams.”

he laughs before motioning to the back. “i’m going to go grab the car. i’ll meet you out front.”

once he walked back the way he came, nicholas turned to you. “did you-”

“no.” you answer, knowing what he was going to ask. “did you?”

“no.” you nod your head, turning to leave out of the front door when he stopped you again. “did that night really mean nothing to you?”

you sigh, hand on the handle before turning to him. “it doesn’t matter if it did anymore. not only are you my brother’s boss, but you’re his friend. i’m not doing that to him. no matter how much that night meant to me.”

you left the store without another word, and you thought that would be the last you would see of nicholas, but of course the universe had other plans. and by universe, you meant fuma. he kept inviting you out with the guys, so you could get to know them. and of course, you couldn’t say no because he would ask why, and you weren’t telling him you unknowingly slept with his friend. he also introduced you to one of his friend’s k’s girlfriend, who you absolutely adored. his friends were nice, and you got along with all of them. except one– the one who refused to leave your mind.

you couldn’t stand to be anywhere close to nicholas. every time you were near him, you could feel your chest ache, the guilt of leaving him hitting you. you weren’t going to go back on your word, and that made it so much harder because he kept trying to get you to. every time no one was paying attention, there was some sort of lingering touch or hushed words that made you just want to jump into his arms. it was starting to get harder and harder to brush them off. he was making you go crazy– like you couldn’t breathe when you were around him. every time you closed your eyes you saw him. every time you saw something red, you thought of him and that nickname he only called you when no one was paying attention. it was only a matter of time before you snapped.

it was late, after hours at the shop. everyone had left, except you, nicholas, and fuma. you were helping fuma clean his station when he stepped out for a smoke because he wouldn’t do it near you since you didn’t like it. as soon as you were alone, you could feel his eyes on you, lingering until he finally spoke up.

“are you really not going to say anything to me?”

you shrug your shoulders, not looking at him. “there’s nothing for me to say.”

“red, you left before i could wake up and say anything.” you turn around, meeting his gaze and trying not to falter. you needed to be strong not only for you but for your brother. you wouldn’t hurt him, and you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

“exactly.”

you watch as his jaw clenches in anger, storming up to you from across the room– chests brushing as he looks down at you. “so that was it? just one night?”

“you and i both made it clear that it was only one night. hence the phrase one night stand.” you take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest.

“things change.”

you nod. “they do. like the fact that you’re my brother's friend.”

“i didn’t know that, but that doesn’t change anything.” you let out a sigh as he argues with you.

“it does.” you argue back. “it makes it complicated. messy.”

“or maybe it makes it real.”

your breath hitches at his words, gazing fully into his eyes for the first time tonight. you feel a knot in your throat as you blink back tears. “why do you care so much? it was supposed to be only one night.”

“because i haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night.” he answers. “and i know you haven’t either. i know you watch when you think i’m not paying attention. staring at me– my body as you remember how good i made you feel. how real it felt. and you just want to what? forget it ever happened because it’s easier? because you’re scared?”

“you don’t know me!” you snap, tears falling– hitting your cheeks. you watch as his face drops at the sight of your tears. his hand clenches like he’s stopping himself from wiping your tears. “you’re asking me to give you something that i’ve never given to anyone before.”

“it’s okay to be scared, red. i won’t hurt you.” you almost soften at the nickname that you came to love, but you still couldn’t force yourself to go there.

“i’m not scared. i’m terrified. what if i let you in, and you leave? what if you become important to me, and you leave? i can’t– i just can’t.” you move away from him, ignoring the calling of your name as you run out of the shop– with hopes of never seeing him again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

it’s been a week since your breakdown on nicholas. you had completely stopped tagging along with fuma much to everyone’s dismay. you kept pushing away fuma and his interrogations– burying yourself in work and your other friends to avoid him. you’ve gotten a few texts from some of the guys, begging you to come hang out with them, but you refused every time. you couldn’t let yourself be around nicholas because you don’t trust yourself to keep being able to refuse him. a part of you also thinks he actually got the message, moving on from you. you weren’t going to be able to handle that, but it was your fault. you were the one who told him to leave you alone. why were you like this? why couldn’t just give him a chance? instead, you let your fear ruin you once again.

you know you were starting to concern fuma. you had done this before– slowly drifting away from him until he nearly lost you. you could tell it was starting to scare him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him what was wrong. what if he was mad at you or judged you? you can handle anyone else doing those things, but not your brother. not the man who has taken care of you since you were a kid because your mother wasn’t able to– too wrapped up in her sorrows to care for two kids. he was the one who taught you to ride a bike. to cook. he even learned how to do makeup, so he could teach you how to do it. he was the one person who was always there for you, so you never want him to be disappointed in you. but the guilt of sleeping with nicholas, and him not knowing was making you lose sleep at night.

it was a friday evening, and fuma texted you seeing if you wanted to hang out at the shop with him and some of the guys. of course, you said no because you knew nicholas would be there. you didn’t get a response, so you expected to be alone for the evening when you heard a knock on your door. you get up, moving towards the door before opening it. there stood your brother with some alcohol and fried food– your guys go to for nights in.

you move aside, letting him in. “i thought you were hanging out with the guys.”

“got the urge to hang out with my favorite person instead.” he responded, dragging you into the living room before setting up the food. you sit next to him, curling your legs as you watch him pull food out of the bags. “i’d rather hang out with you instead.”

“i know i’m pretty awesome, but you didn’t have to do this.” you bump his shoulder before grabbing a piece of chicken.

“i wanted to.” he opened a drink for you before opening one of his own. “you’ve been acting weird lately.”

“weird?” you question.

“like before.” you went quiet at his words. you didn’t expect him to come right out and say it. you know your pasts were rough and that caused you two to go through some things, but you promised him you would never go to that dark place again.

“it’s not like that. i promise.” you reassure him. your eyes meet his, and you could tell he was trying to make sure you were telling the truth– giving you a small nod when he realized you were. “i’m just- i don’t know. going through something, and i’m trying to figure out how to get over it.”

fuma leaned over, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “let me help you, brat.”

“i don’t think you can, bear.”

“we’ll never know if you don’t tell me.” fuma pushed. you look down at your lap, picking at your hoodie before you spoke up.

“when i went to the club with the girls, i met someone.” you started to explain. “it felt like- i don’t know– like a chemical reaction. i’d never felt like that with someone before.”

“did you sleep with him?” fuma questioned.

you nodded your head– choosing not to go into detail to save you both the trauma. “it was supposed to be a one night stand. we didn’t even tell each other our names. but it didn’t feel like that. it felt like i had just found a missing piece i didn’t know i lost. but i ruined it.”

“how so?”

“i left that next morning without waking him. i wanted to stay, so bad. but i was scared that he was going to push me away, so i left before he could. and that’s not what he wanted at all.”

“he wanted you to stay?” you nod your head at his question. “so i’m assuming you ran into him again.” another nod from you. “so, what’s the isssue then?”

“i got scared, so i pushed him away.”

“why?”

“because of mom.” you answered– listening as fuma sighed out. he was fully aware of your fear of commitment because of your guys’ mother. “we watched her, bear. after dad died, she became a shell, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. you had to step up and take care of me because i would’ve ended up like her. after watching her, i made a promise that i wouldn’t allow myself to get close to anyone, so they couldn’t hurt me like that.”

“yn–” fuma started to say, but you shook your head.

“you don’t get it. the way i feel about him is exactly the way mom felt about dad. i remember always asking her why she chose him and not understanding any of her reasons. now i do, and that terrifies me. if i let him in, and something happens, i’m not strong enough to survive that.”

silence encases the two of you while fuma processes your words. “you’re not mom. you are so much stronger than her– stronger than anyone i know.”

“he makes me feel weak.” you tell him. “but he also makes me feel things no one else has.”

“then give him a chance to prove it. it will hurt you more to live with this regret of not doing something.”

“you think i should go after him?” you ask.

fuma nods. “i think if not being with him makes you feel like this, i think it’s worth trying. after i meet him, that is.”

“you already have.” you mumble, watching as his face turns to confusion– before turning into horror.

“is it nicho?” your silence was his answer. “i knew something was going on with him. he hasn’t been acting himself the past few weeks, especially this last week.”

“i kind of blew up on him last week.” you speak up. “but i didn’t know who he was when i slept with him. you gotta believe me.”

fuma smiles at you, relieving your fear of him being mad. “i know, brat. i’m not mad. i just wish you told me sooner, so we could’ve talked about this. you know i hate it when you push me away.”

“i’m sorry.” you apologize. “i was scared you would be upset.”

fuma pulls you into his side. “upset with you? i don’t think that’s a thing. you couldn’t do anything that would make me be upset with you.”

“even being with your friend who is also your boss?” fuma nods.

“even then, brat. but you got to promise me you’ll start talking to me if something is bothering you.”

“i promise.” you smile. “so, what do i do?”

“stop running. give him a chance. i’ve known nicho for years, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. he’s a good guy.” fuma explained. “k has a race tomorrow, and he’s going to be there. want to tag along?”

you thought about it for a moment before nodding. “let’s do it.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━☆━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the air was thick, and you couldn’t tell if it was from your nerves of seeing nicholas again, or if it was the giant crowd that never seemed to disperse. your brother was in front of you, guiding you over to where the rest of the guys were. the music was loud– lights blinding you. but that didn’t stop you from finding him.

he was leaning back on a black car you knew belonged to k, dark hair parted showing his forehead. he was dressed like when you first met him– black jeans and a leather jacket with a white shirt that was low cut, exposing his tattoos. he was sporting a smile as he watched harua and some girl you didn’t recognize argue.

“yn!” you turn just in time to be tackled in a spine crushing hug. you let out a groan as you try to wiggle out of your capture’s arms.

“taki, let me go.”

“never.” he squeezed you, laughing when you let out a groan. “not until you promise you won’t avoid us again.”

“i wasn’t avoiding you, but i promise.” you gasp when he let you go. you push him away from you, nearly knocking him over as you moved away from him. “k, control your psycho son.”

“i will when you tell me why you haven’t been coming around.” k spoke as he walked up to you. you stilled for a moment at his question– something that he didn’t notice, but someone else did.

“k, leave her alone.” a feminine voice spoke up as k’s girlfriend made her presence known. the heavily tattooed girl had her arms crossed over her chest as she made her way to you two. “you guys keep bombarding her, and she’s going to leave again. i don’t blame you though, yn. these guys are a lot sometimes.”

“angel!”

she ignored him, turning fully towards you with a smile. “let’s go get something to drink.”

you laugh at the betrayed look on k’s face, snorting when it turned into glaring at you for taking his girl away. the two of you leave, but not before you glance at where you last saw nicholas– furrowing your brows when you couldn’t find him. you kept your eye out for him as the two of you went to get drinks– listening to her tell a story about high school when you found him. and how you wished you didn’t.

he was talking to a girl you didn’t know, laughing when she said something funny. her hand brushed his arm, lingering for a second too long for it to be innocent. she was tall, model like pretty, and covered in tattoos just like him. they looked good standing side by side, and that hurt you more than you like to admit. you wanted to mad at him but stopped yourself. you shouldn’t even be acting like this. you two weren’t anything– you made sure of it by pushing him away. and the pain in your chest watching them is why you didn’t want to get any closer to him, but there was a new part that had you still wanting him despite the fact he could hurt you.

“are you okay?” you look up to see her looking at you in concern. you smile, nodding your head.

“i’m fine. just looking for a bathroom.”

she pointed it out, and you took the chance to walk away. not just from her, but from the race itself. you didn’t realize that you were almost home but didn’t stop until you closed the door of your empty apartment– something that used to bring you comfort but now brings you sorrow. you were tired of the quiet. tired of the alone, but you didn’t know how to do otherwise. you’ve ran for so long, you don’t know how to stay still.

a low knock on the door broke you from your thoughts. you stand there, staring at the door unmoving. it wasn’t until they knocked again– harder that you moved. you unlocked the door and had just barely opened it when you saw a flash of black push their way into your apartment, shutting the door, leaving you completely alone with who you’ve been running from. you watch as nicholas blocks your exit, leaving you locked in your apartment with him. his eyes never leaving yours as he did so.

“why did you leave?”

you shrug your shoulders, trying to stop yourself from becoming defensive as it came to natural to you at this point. “that’s not my scene.”

“are you sure?” nicholas questioned, taking a step towards you. his voice level– calm but still had that pushing edge to it. “or is it because you saw me talking to someone? because you seemed completely fine until you saw her.”

you shake your head, folding your arms to stop the shaking. “no. it wasn’t about her.”

“no, it wasn’t. it was about you.” you back up when he walks forward, trying desperately to keep your distance. “you weren’t mad. you weren’t upset. you were scared.”

“stop.”

he continued, despite your beg for him to stop. “you looked hurt. like it hurt you to lose me.”

you swallow hard, hating how well he could read you. how could he know this? you two barely knew each other. “don’t-”

“you said you don’t do this.” he stopped an inch from you, arms shooting out to hold onto the couch– blocking you in. “i can be patient. i can wait as long as i have to for you. i’m not asking you to give me all of you. i’m only asking for you to stop running away from things that feel real. from me.”

“what if it is real?” your expression tightened, pushing back your tears. “what if i let it be real, and one day i wake up and it’s gone?”

his gaze softened, lifting his hand up– brushing against your cheek. you didn’t flinch away like the last time he tried to touch you. his jaw dropped when he realized you were letting him in or at least trying to. “then i’ll be right by your side telling you that i’m not going anywhere, red.”

“i don’t know how to let people in. or how to stop running.” he smiled at your honesty, something that shocked you.

“that’s okay. we have time, okay? just don’t shut me out anymore. let me prove to you that i’m not going anywhere.”

you blink at him, jaw clenching as you fought against everything you had believed in for so long. nicholas could see the fight, hoping that you would pick him. his heart dropped when you brushed his hand away from you, but that disappeared when you when you fell into his arms, wrapping your arms around him. his hand cradled your head as you rested it on his chest, other one pulling you closer to him. his lips pressed against your forehead– a silent thank you for choosing him.

his hands cupped your cheeks when you pulled back to look at him before leaning down. the kiss was soft, patient– like he was promising you he wouldn’t mess it up. your hands curled against his jacket, pulling him closer to you. it felt the same but completely different than last time. it felt like he was trying to take away all of your fears and worries, but it was okay if he couldn’t– because he was going to be there every step of the way until you weren’t.

you sighed into the kiss, lips parting when his tongue traced across them. his hands drifted, running down your sides until he was gripping your hips– pulling them flush against his. your thumb ran along his jaw, drawing a silent groan from him. he pulled away from you, resting his head against yours. “you okay, red?”

“i’m okay.” you nod, letting your hands slowly run down his chest. he watched your actions– intentions clear as day. his eyes met yours, and he couldn’t see any doubt. any fear. just want.

his mouth met yours again, pressing deeper– needier as he felt how much you wanted him. his hands slide underneath your shirt, heating up your skin as he traces along your skin. as his lips got more heated, he didn’t rush. you could tell he was going to take his time just like last time. he was going to make you feel everything he was going to give you, so you never have to question his intentions again.

his grip tightened when you leaned up to kiss him, trying so hard to apologize through your touch. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

“hey. hey.” he soothed as he saw your tears. “you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? you don’t have to be sorry.”

“but you never gave up trying to talk to me, and i pushed you away every time.”

“because you were hurt in the past.” he spoke calmly, watching as you try to blink back your tears before they fell. “fuma told us about your guy’s upbringing, and i didn’t realize the effect that had on you until the last time we talked.”

“i missed you.” you admitted quietly, watching as his breath hitched at your words.

“i missed you too.” he admitted. “every time i’m in my room, i’m just brought back to that night over and over again.”

“i shouldn’t have left. i didn’t want too.” nicholas smiles at your confession.

“i should’ve been clearer about what this was.” he told you. “this wasn’t just one night, red. never was. i wanted you that night and every night since then, and i will want you just as much tomorrow.” you push down the fear at his words, nodding your head. you were ready to try. you wanted to trust him when he said he wasn’t leaving. he leaned his forehead against yours. “and i will tell you every day until you believe me because i’m not going anywhere.”

you push forward, pulling him closer to you as you kissed him. his hand splayed across your lower back, keeping you in place. he kept the pace slow– hand guiding your head how he wanted to, tilting your head back as his lips left yours. he kissed your neck, leaving marks on your sensitive skin. your hands let go of his jacket when you feel him shrug it off before throwing it onto the couch behind you.

he kept his kisses and touches slow, but they did become more heated– setting your skin on fire. his hands trailing down to your waist. “where’s your room, red?”

“behind you.” you answer, letting out a shriek when he threw you over his shoulder just like he did last time. “i have legs, you know?” you heard him chuckle as he opened the door. you thought that was the end of it, but you jumped when you felt a sharp pain. “did you just bite my ass?”

your back landed against the mattress as he threw you off of his shoulder, but instead of crawling on top of you, he stood in between your open legs, gripping your thighs before pulling your hips to the edge of the bed. his eyes, dark and glazed with lust, trailed over you, lingering on the exposed skin where your shirt rode up. you sit up, pulling the shirt over your head before throwing it behind you. he kneels in front of you when you take your bra off as well, hands roaming your body as he attached his lips to yours. the softness from before was slowly going away– him starting to roughly grip your breasts, rolling your nipple between his fingers and smirking against your lips when you moan into him.

“tell me, red.” he spoke as he pulled away from your lips– still keeping his hands cupped to your breasts. “tell me how much you’ve been craving for me to touch you again.”

you gasp when his lips suddenly attach to your nipple, sucking harshly before biting down hard enough to have you jerk in his hold. “so bad, weno. i had to keep myself b-busy constantly or my mind would drift to you. sleep was a nightmare.”

“my poor girl.” he teased, teeth nipping at your skin– tongue running over the marks. “it’s okay though. i’ll take care of you, red.”

“please.” you almost moan out when his hands unbutton your shorts. his mouth leaves yours before he pushes you back flat on the bed, motioning for you to lift your hips. he pulls them down, leaving you exposed for him– waiting as he ran his hands along your thighs.

“look how pretty you are waiting for me.” his voice rough as he pressed kisses to your thighs, biting down and causing you to yelp when you whine at his words. “you’re practically dripping onto the bed, red. you’re that desperate for me?”

you nod your head. “yes.”

“say please.”

“please.” you beg him.

“please what?” you nearly groan out when his fingers run along your soaked slit before pulling away. his fingers glistened with your arousal before he stuck them in his mouth, shamelessly cleaning you off of him– eyes closing in pleasure.

“please touch me.”

as soon as the words left your mouth, he latched to you like a starving man. the loudest moan left your lips at the action, back arching as his tongue flicks your clit. he hums at the sound causing a whimper to leave your lips at the sensation. your hands gripped the sheets as you try to ground yourself as you became overwhelmed with pleasure.

his tongue pushed inside of you, starting out slow before speeding up. a broken moan left you when you felt his piercing against your walls. you could tell he was loving the sounds, loving unraveling you by the tightening of his hands on your thighs– pulling you closer to his mouth. his hands held you open when you tried to close your legs when he curled his tongue. he heard your broken sounds, smirking when one of them sounded like ‘more.’

he curled his tongue one last time before licking a long strip up your core. one of his hands left your thighs, running down to your soaked core. he slid his fingers through your slick before thrusting two fingers inside of you, watching you as you sharply cry out in pleasure. his eyes watched you as he moved his fingers, curling them just right– your back arching at the feeling. his gaze stayed on you while his lips circled your clit, flicking and sucking at the bud.

“weno-” you cry out as his mouth and hand worked together as he brought you closer to your high. you could feel him smirk at every sound or movement you made, like watching you brought him as much pleasure as he was giving you. he had no intentions on stopping until you were clenching around his fingers.

every nerve in your body felt like it was on fire. your back arched when his fingers curled again. “w-weno. can i please- fuck?”

“can you please what, red?” he teased, knowing exactly what you wanted. he could tell by your trembling thighs and how tightly you were clenching around his fingers that you were close. “do you want to come?”

all you could do is nod your head, way to lost in pleasure. you feel him chuckle against your skin as he kisses along your thigh. “i can feel you shaking, red. just give into me. let me know how good i make you feel.”

that was all you needed to fall over the edge. you moan out his name, not weno this time, but his actual name. he didn’t know how bad he needed to hear you moan his name until it was falling from your lips. he groaned, helping you down from your high before climbing on top of you, capturing your lips. you could feel his erection through his jeans, twitching when you groan out his name again.

your hands trail down his torso, pulling at the edge of his shirt and helping him take it off. you do the same to his bottoms before you reach from him– trying to return the favor when he stops you. “not so fast, red. no moving until i’m inside of you.”

“but-”

“no buts, baby.” he stops you, eyes dark with need. you try again, but this time he grabs your hand– intertwining your fingers. “be good, or i’ll make you beg for it.”

but he doesn’t because a second later he’s sliding into you with one smooth thrust. his hips press against yours, lips kissing your face as you feel all of the air leave your lungs at the feeling of him inside of you. you choke out a gasp, feeling overwhelmed with the feeling of him– not thinking you would ever feel it again.

“there she is.” he coos, biting the lobe of your ear as he starts to move. “there’s my girl. so tight and perfect for me.”

you cling to him as his thrusts start going deeper as he speeds up– groaning against your skin like he’s been wanting this just as much as you have. like he’s stayed up all night, going over that night over and over until you pass out from exhaustion. “weno- mhm”

“that’s it.” his lips press against yours as he felt the stinging of your nails digging into his skin. “are you finally letting go for me, red?”

you nod, or at least you think you do. it felt like a blur. that could also be from the tears wheeling in your eyes. him moving inside of you like he owns every part of you– even the parts you tried so hard to guard from him. all of your reserve was slipping away with every thrust of his hips.

“do you feel that?” he questions, feeling the exact same thing you do. “that’s real. we are real. you don’t get to run anymore.”

you swallow your sob as you pull him down to your lips. the man above you was the only thing holding you together at this point, and you felt like he knew it by how tightly his arms were holding you. he groans against your lips when you clench around him– coming completely unraveled. “nicholas.”

“i know, my girl.” he whispers, feeling the same as you. “come on. give it to me again. i know you can.”

his hips meet yours one last time, and you feel him coat your walls at the same time that you come undone. you cling to him tightly as he helps the two of you come down from your highs, breathing heavy when he finally stills. his weight not heavy but grounding on top of you as he rests his head on yours. you felt one of the tears that you had been holding hit your cheek. nicholas of course noticing before wiping it away.

“hey now.” he murmurs softly as a couple more tears fall. “don’t cry, red. we’re okay. you’re okay.”

you could hear the underlining fear in his voice– scared that he pushed you too hard. maybe even scared you were going to leave again. “we’re okay.”

“i didn’t push too hard, did i?” you shake your head at his question.

“no. it- it was perfect.”

“good. because if you try to leave me again, i’m chaining myself to you.” you laugh at his threat, feeling as he lets out a breath of relief at the sound. like he knows that you aren’t running. you weren’t going to push him away again. “all seriousness. you can’t leave me after this like some sort of fucked up fairy tale.”

your hands run through his hair, something you’ve found he likes. “i’m not going anywhere this time.”

“damn right you’re not.” he kisses the tip of your nose before moving away from you. he got you clean and comfortable before he got into bed behind you, holding you tightly– pressing light kisses to your neck as the two of you let sleep take over. “goodnight, red.”

“goodnight weno.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━☆━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

three months later

“you move one more fucking time, and i’m tattooing dumbass on you.”

“your threats turn me on, baby.”

you roll your eyes, readjusting your legs where you were straddling nicholas. he has been begging you for the last two months to teach you how to tattoo, so you could tattoo him. it took forever for you to say yes. you practiced for many hours on practice skins before you even thought about inking him– with him teaching you every step of the way. so here you were, sitting on his lap in one of the private rooms while tattooing a design the two of you came up with together.

“you’re lucky i like you.” you grumble as the buzzing of the tattoo starts up again as you continue your piece. his hands were gentle, trying not to distract you as the rested on your hips.

“it’s a good thing you do because you’re stuck with me.” you glance up at him to see him smiling down at you– no smirk or teasing in sight. and since you had the machine away from his skin, he leaned forward to kiss your cheek. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

after three months of him being by your side, not only saying that but proving it multiple times a day, you believed him. “i know.”

“i’m proud of you, red.” you keep your focus on the tattoo, but preen at his praise.

“i don’t want to stroke your impossible ego, but i wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you. you’re very stubborn.”

he laughs at your words. “you started out cute. why did you ruin it?”

“i told you. i can’t let this ego get any bigger.”

you finish up the tattoo, cleaning it up like he taught you before climbing off of his lap. he looked at it in the mirror before turning to you. “you did so good. though i don’t expect anything less from my girl.”

he pulls you into his arms, leaning down before stealing a kiss. you pull him closer to you, not letting him pull away from you just yet. his arms wrapped around you, tucking you into his chest where you felt like you were meant to be. when you pulled away, you kissed the new tattoo– a mark on him caused by you, just like he marked you.

you didn’t realize what life could feel when you didn’t run. you don’t know why you didn’t stop sooner, but a part of you is glad you didn’t. because you may not have the man who was holding you like you were his whole world. “i didn’t believe you could make me feel like this.”

“like what?”

“safe. secure.” you answer before looking up and meeting his gaze. “and so stupidly in love with you.”

you feel him still for a beat, like he was trying to make sure you actually said that, and it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him. once he realizes you said that, he grins larger than you’ve ever seen as he brings his lips to yours, cupping your cheeks as he did so. “i love you too”

he pulls you back into him, and as his lips perfectly mold with yours, you realize something. you didn’t just stop running. you didn’t just stay. you chose him. and you weren't going anywhere unless he was by your side.

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elixirfromthestars · 2 days ago

Text

The fact that Jake is in the warnings is all I need to know that this is about to be gooooood 🙂‍↕️✨✨

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

“Y/n!” Called Tom, one of your regulars. He had been a good friend to your father, having known him from his early fishing days. Tom had done well for himself, having been able to put enough money away to buy his own ship - the Iceman. “How’s about another ale!”

^ Iceman!! 🥹🩷

“Coming, Captain!” you hollered over at him jovially, already moving to grab a fresh glass. You had always liked the old captain, and had considered him to be a part of your family growing up. When your parents had died, he had seen to it personally that you were taken care of and that Bradley was able to secure steady work on the various shipping vessels that docked on your shores.

^ That’s so nice of him 🥺🩷 I love that Bradley and Guppy stuck together all these years 🥺🩷

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you hissed, eyes blazing, “I have known you for twenty years now. Either you tell me what you’re up to right now, or I will personally see to it that you won’t be able to get another job for a month.” “Alright,” he winced, setting the glass down and finally meeting your stare. “You have to promise me you won’t yell.”

^ Bradley is stubborn as ever I see 😂 I love the sibling banter 😂

“You’re what?” you shrieked, causing some of the patrons to turn to the two of you as Bradley hissed at you to be quiet. “You promised you wouldn’t be mad.” “That was before you told me you were leaving,” you snapped. “Where are you even going to go?”

^ Yeah, I’d like to know that too 👀

“Y/n, please,” Bradley begged, his long legs having helped him catch up to you by now. You stopped in your tracks, feet sliding into the sand beneath you as you whirled around. You shoved Bradley with all of your strength, shock at the unexpected movement being the only reason stumbled back at all. “How could you?” you cried, tears falling quicker and your breath coming out shallower as you fought to keep your composure. “How could you just plan to leave me?”

^ I get that they’re adults and get to choose the paths their lives take, but I feel for Guppy so much 🥺 her parents are gone and now her brother is planning to leave ugh ☹️💔

“Don’t lie to me, Bradley,” you seethed, hands now clenched at your sides. “Don’t. I deserve the truth. Were you even going to say goodbye to me, or were you just going to vanish one day?” “Of course not,” he murmured, staring at you with eyes once again pleading with you. “I would never do that to you. You know that.” “I thought I knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t leave,” you shot back, causing Bradley to wince. “Guess I don’t know as much as I thought I did.”

^ OOF 💔💔 that’s an emotional blow right there 💔💔

“It wouldn’t be forever,” he continued, giving you a pointed look. “It would only be until I earned enough to buy my own ship.”

^ Oh? 👀 A whole ship?? 👀 That sounds like it’ll be expensive though 😬

You couldn’t argue. You knew he was right, and you knew that this was not the life he had dreamed of. He had dreamed of going off with your father on one of his many voyages before the sea had claimed him. It had been years, but the pain of his and your mother’s passing still felt fresh in your heart. You saw how Bradley looked longingly out at the sea when he thought you weren’t looking, or how he always looked happiest standing on the deck of a boat. No, Bradley was meant for a life at sea, and you knew it. You just never thought he would leave you behind.

^ Can’t he take her with him? 😭 Please!! 😭

“It won’t be forever,” he says again, moving to put his hands on your shoulders, bending down so he was eye level with you. “And when I earn enough money to buy my own ship, I’ll come back for you.” “That could be years,” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper. Bradley sucks in a breath before slowly nodding. “You’re right,” he conceded, wiping the tears from your cheek. “What if you forget about me?” Bradley huffed out a laugh before drawing you into his arms. He hugged you tightly, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “How could I forget my baby sister? Besides, I think you’d swim across the ocean to find me if I ever forgot about you.”

^ Brother Bradley has me taking out the tissues already 🤧 For awhile they’ve only had each other and now Guppy won’t have him ☹️💔

Before you could respond, the pub door swung open, hitting the wall with a thud. All three of you turned to see a large group step through the doorway and into the warm glow of the lantern filled room. A blond man stood at the front of the group, lips curled into a confident smirk. You noted the handsome features of him and his companions, and you knew the other women in the room had as well due to the scattered giggles from around the room.

^ My beloved blonde, I always know when it’s you 🤭🩷🩷

“Shame,” the stranger grins, watching as you pour his drink. You hand it to him, and you feel a shiver run up your spine as his fingers graze yours. “Would have been nice to have someone as pretty as you in my bed tonight.”

^ Now I see why he was a warning 🫠💘 how silly of me to forget how boldly flirtatious this man is 🫠💕

“Seresin,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Jake Seresin. And I’m not interested in having anyone but you, pretty girl.” “Well, then it looks like your bed will go cold tonight after all,” you said to him. Bradley snorted, trying to cover it with a cough, but Jake ignored him.

^ I’m living for Bradley’s little reactions 😂

“Pirate is such a nasty word,” he drawled, taking a sip of his ale. “I prefer the term…liberator.”

^ Of course he’d say that 💀

“I beg to differ, my friend,” Jake countered, moving to stand. Turning to the rest of the room, he stated, “I’m looking for men to join my crew. You keep what you can carry with you. If you’re interested, come see me.”

^ Omg…Bradley is going to join the crew, isn’t he?? 👀

“Don’t even think about it,” you hissed in warning. Bradley glared right back at you before hopping off his stool and strutting towards the crew at the back. You scrambled around the bar after him. You closed the distance just as he stopped in front of Jake.

^ Yep, and there he goes! 👀

“Sign here,” Jake instructed, pointing to the piece of parchment he had rolled out onto the table. Bradley obeyed, scratching his name in quick strokes to the bottom. You felt the tears start to run down your face before you could stop them. You couldn’t stop anything, it seemed. Bradley straightened and turned to look at you. The two of you stared at one another for several moments before you turned on your heel and stormed away from him.

^ I feel for Guppy, I do 🥺, but also… here’s to me hoping that now that Bradley joined Jake’s crew Guppy will also join🤞🏼💖

That night, as you lay in bed, you dreamed of the sea. You dreamed of blue and green swirling around you as you struggled to breath. You dreamed of splintering wood and echoed shrieks that were drowned out by thundering waves. You dreamed of strange creatures that lurked the deep as they waited for their next meal. You dreamed of golden hair and cocky smirks as they taunted you beneath the waves. You dreamt of a cold, calloused hand that pulled you under until the surface was nothing but a distant memory.

^ Oh no ☹️💔 I just want to give her a hug and tell her everything will be okay 😭

Oh Liz, I am so excited to see what happens next!! 👀✨✨ We got but a glimpse of pirate Jake here and I’m already so here for him I swear 🥰🥰 I love the dynamic between Bradley and Guppy, and I’m so curious to see what Guppy does now that Bradley’s joined Jake’s crew!! 🫢✨ Beautiful writing as always! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

Fool's Fare: Chapter One

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Trigger Warnings: Alcohol, Jake Seresin, suggestive language, fear of abandonment. I think that's it?

Word Count: 2.87k

A/N: Wasn't sure I was going to post again tonight, but here we are! Not sure I'm going to post a fic update tomorrow, but I might work on some drabbles and post some of the asks sitting in my inbox. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated. 18+ ONLY!! You can find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond!

Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist

The cool, night breeze twisted its way through the door of the crowded pub as a group of patrons exited, offering the briefest relief to your clammy skin as you busied yourself behind the bar. Patrons crowded around the various tables, some laughing in the open while others crowded in the dark shadows of the corners. Your regulars were easy to spot, most of them fishermen. Their carefree attitudes set them apart from the strangers passing through who kept themselves closed off and guarded in an unfamiliar places.

“Should be coming along soon, I suspect,” Tom smiled warmly. Bradley had been picking up different odd jobs as of late, his latest one being aboard the Iceman loading and unloading cargo. He had been dodging your questions about it as of late, and you had started to wonder if he was up to something.

“He’s going to work himself into an early grave,” you grumbled, sliding the glass of ale down to the captain who caught it easily. “He won’t even tell me what he’s doing all of these jobs for.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” mused Tom, lifting the glass up to his lips to take a swig. “He probably doesn’t want you to worry.”

“He’s worrying me by not saying anything,” you countered, leaning against the bar. At that moment, the pub door swung open, and an exhausted looking Bradley stumbled through. You rounded the bar to help him sit down as he staggered onto a stool. “Bradley, for heaven’s sake!”

“Think you can get me an ale, Guppy?” he asked, rubbing at the bags under his eyes. The tips of his ears and nose were seared pink from hours spent in the intense sun, and you frowned at him.

“What you need is sleep,” you countered, but Bradley shook his head, fixing you with tired, pleading eyes.

“Please?” he asked again, softer this time. You sighed, moving back behind the bar and pouring him a draft before sliding it over to him. He grabbed it, raising it up in a silent cheers before tossing his head back with a long swig.

“Easy, lad,” Tom frowned, watching the young man as he took another long pull from his glass. Bradley set his drink down, absentmindedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Another,” he told you, but you shook your head.

“No, absolutely not,” you scowled as the furrow between his eyes deepened. “You need to go home and rest, Bradley.”

“She’s right, lad,” Tom started, twisting in his seat to face the younger man. “You’ll work yourself into an early grave if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine,” Bradley muttered, resting his head against the palm of his hand. Tom gave him a wry smile before clapping his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He shot you a wink before getting up to join his crew that was gathered on the opposite side of the room. You watched him go before turning back to look at Bradley with a frown.

“C’mon, Roos,” you prodded, leaning your head down so you could meet his gaze that was fixed on the bartop. “Tell me what you’re up to.”

“Nothin’” he grumbled unconvincingly. You rolled your eyes with a purse of your lips.

“I’m having a hard time believing you,” you sniped, snatching the glass away from him. Without another word to him, you poured another ale and offered it to him. He took it, offering a small smile. He met your even gaze just long enough for you to see the flash of guilt that flitted in his eyes. “What was that?”

“What was what?” he asked, taking a small sip from his glass.

“Why do you look guilty?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alright,” he winced, setting the glass down and finally meeting your stare. “You have to promise me you won’t yell.”

You scoffed. “Are you twelve?”

“Guppy, promise me,” he insisted, hazel eyes pleading with you. You studied him another moment before sighing.

“Alright, fine.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re what?” you shrieked, causing some of the patrons to turn to the two of you as Bradley hissed at you to be quiet.

“You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“That was before you told me you were leaving,” you snapped. “Where are you even going to go?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, leaning back. “Still need to find a crew that will take me on long-term.”

You stayed silent, watching him with furious eyes. After a couple of beats, you turned to walk back around the bar. “Caroline, I’m leaving.”

She waved after you, moving to tend to some patrons on the opposite end of the bar. Bradley watched you walk away with wide eyes before getting up to stumble after you. You flung the door of the pub open before setting off with a brisk pace down the road.

“Guppy!”

You ignored the man behind you, tears starting to gather in your eyes.

“Guppy?”

The tears began to fall, the trails they left behind on your cheeks turning to ice in the cool, night air. You turned to walk down to the beach past the docks. How could he drop that bomb shell on you? How could he keep that hidden from you in the first place? Your anger only served to cover up the true emotion you tried your hardest to ignore. Betrayal.

“How could you?” you cried, tears falling quicker and your breath coming out shallower as you fought to keep your composure. “How could you just plan to leave me?”

“It’s not like that,” he started, but you shook your head.

“Of course not,” he murmured, staring at you with eyes once again pleading with you. “I would never do that to you. You know that.”

“I thought I knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t leave,” you shot back, causing Bradley to wince. “Guess I don’t know as much as I thought I did.”

“Y/n,” he sighed, running a hand over his face and looking out at the ocean. He seemed to be mulling over his words. “It wouldn’t be forever.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” you laughed humorlessly.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” he continued, giving you a pointed look. “It would only be until I earned enough to buy my own ship.”

“You can do that here,” you argued, but Bradley shook his head with a small, empty laugh.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve barely earned enough these past weeks to live off of for a month out at sea. I’d be buried in the ground before I earned enough to buy a ship, and you know that.”

You saw how Bradley looked longingly out at the sea when he thought you weren’t looking, or how he always looked happiest standing on the deck of a boat. No, Bradley was meant for a life at sea, and you knew it. You just never thought he would leave you behind.

“That could be years,” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper. Bradley sucks in a breath before slowly nodding.

“You’re right,” he conceded, wiping the tears from your cheek.

“What if you forget about me?”

Bradley huffed out a laugh before drawing you into his arms. He hugged you tightly, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “How could I forget my baby sister? Besides, I think you’d swim across the ocean to find me if I ever forgot about you.”

You huffed a laugh, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re probably right.”

“‘Course I am,” he chuckled, pulling away from you. “Now, c’mon. It’s freezin’ out here, and I’m exhausted.”

You allowed him to lead you up the hill to your shared home. He left a chaste kiss to the top of your head before wishing you goodnight. As you lay in bed that night, you obsessed over the one question you had refused to allow yourself to ask him down at the beach. What if the sea claimed him too?

The following night, you found yourself back behind the bar of the pub. You had heard snippets of chatter amongst the locals about an unknown ship that had docked on your shores.

“I don’t like the look of’em,” Tom had told you and Bradley as he sat at the bar. A lull in the crowd had granted you a moment to stop and talk with the two of them.

“Why’s that?” you asked. He frowned.

“When you get to be my age,” he grumbled, “you can start to pick out the rotten sorts from just a glance.”

“That’s them,” Tom mumbled, taking another sip of his ale.

The blond scanned his eyes across the room before catching sight of you at the bar. A twinkle of intrigue shone in his eyes as he began to saunter over to you, his crew dispersing to find a table to sit at. You shot a weary glance at Tom before moving to meet the tall stranger on the opposite side of where Bradley sat.

“Evenin’” you greeted with a polite smile. “What can I get you?”

The man looked you over with lick of his lips. “An ale, and your company if you’re offerin’ that too.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm. It wasn’t the first time a patron had made a pass at you, but it was the first time a patron was that devilishly handsome. “The ale, I can get you, but I’m not in the habit of entertaining sailors.”

You saw Bradley’s jaw tick from the corner of your eye, and you shot him a warning glance. This part of your job wasn’t new, and you had long since learned how to handle yourself in these situations.

“I believe there are more than a couple of girls over there who would be willing to warm your bed tonight, Mr…?”

“Seresin,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Jake Seresin. And I’m not interested in having anyone but you, pretty girl.”

“Well, then it looks like your bed will go cold tonight after all,” you said to him. Bradley snorted, trying to cover it with a cough, but Jake ignored him.

“Seresin,” Tom grunted, causing all three of you to look at him. He shook his head, and turned to glare at Jake. “I’ve heard of you. You’re a pirate.”

The conversation died in the pub as everyone turned to look at your little group by the bar. Jake’s easy grin never faltered as he stared back at Tom.

“Pirate is such a nasty word,” he drawled, taking a sip of his ale. “I prefer the term…liberator.”

“Whatever you call it, you have no business here,” Tom snapped.

And with one final glance at you, he sauntered off towards the back of the room where his crew had taken up purchase.

“Pirates?” you asked, looking at Tom hesitantly. He shook his head and got up to go join his own crew in the corner. You peered at Bradley from the corner of your eye. He studied the rim of his glass as he stroked it thoughtfully.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked him. He jumped as your words pulled him from his train of thought.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, refusing to meet your gaze. You studied him him for a moment until you saw the quick glance he threw towards the back of the room.

“No,” you snapped, causing him to finally meet your gaze. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” he scowled, but you fixed him with a glare and a finger pointed into his chest.

“I want to join your crew,” he stated. Jake looked at him with an amused look, eyes flickering to you as you pulled on Bradley’s arm so that he faced you.

“Bradley, don’t,” you begged.

“Y/n, enough,” he snapped down at you, taking you aback. His eyes softened as you looked up at his broad frame with hurt bewilderment. He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his sandy brown locks. He looked back at you before continuing. “Don’t you see, Guppy? This is my chance. If I don’t go now, who knows when I’ll get another opportunity to leave and make my fortune.”

“Roo, you’re my brother. I can’t let you do this,” you pleaded, taking his hand in yours. You willed him to listen to you, but it was no use.

“I’ve made my decision, Guppy,” he said. You couldn’t stop the flash of hurt you knew passed over your face as Bradley turned back to the captain. You looked around at the other patrons desperately before settling your eyes on Tom. He was already looking at you with a solemn expression, shaking his head.

#mel recommends 📖#lantern reblog challenge #liz ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚#lovely mutuals ♡🎀♡#jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you

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anaburbononburbon · 2 days ago

Text

Rest with me baby, just for a moment

(Part 6)

Previous parts

Tw: 18+, MDNI, language, mentions of breastfeeding, some Kyle propaganda this time, little tiny hints of sexual tension

Divider made by @/enchanthings

You and the kiddos ended up with a few days to yourselves. Johnny sent you a quick message (and you'll ignore how he got your number) saying how work needed him for a week, but please don't forget about him.

Honestly, you wish you could.

Maybe you should move. Should run away. Grab the kids and head across the pond, but you didn't. You kept your same routine. Waking up every three hours with the kids, feeding them, burping them, rocking Eleanor back to sleep as Thomas passed out after being laid down. Pumping for an extra 10 minutes, collecting any milk, and reminding your body to produce more. Washing and drying the necessary parts. Falling asleep for 45 minutes before doing it all over again until the morning birds sang.

In that time, you couldn't stop thinking about the men.

Their fathers and their fathers friends.

John would haunt you in your hallways. You could smell his scent, his cologne. You could hear him whispering how you were doing too much, and yet, you were doing such a wonderful job.

As much as his protective nature should have been suffocating and debilitating, it wasn't. You wondered if it was because he had no hold over you. The house was yours, bought from your own hard work and fighting to get the best pay, work for the best company and happily play "teachers pet" to get on everyone's good side for the benefits and the meaningless praise.

Your car was yours. You paid for the food, you paid your bills, you paid for your babies, and you paid for their stuff. You had all the materialistic items taken care of and more.

But who took care of you?

Who cooked you dinner except yourself?

Who took care of getting the children out of their car seats and ready for their meal?

You.

You. You. You. You.

You.

You had always taken care of yourself. From a small child to now, you learned the hard way that no one was coming to save you. No one would care if you got hurt, or fell sick, or had a nightmare or was picked on by other children or strange men who would visit your house to see your mom.

Would it be so wrong to see how this all played out?

Would it be so wrong to finally admit that you wanted this to play out?

Your mind screamed every bad scenario that could happen. That they could take the kids. They could take everything from you and leave you high and dry. They could hurt-

You had to shake your head and stop that.

Leap of faith.

And if that failed-

Run.

A few days went by before you heard knocking at your front door. Turning off the kitchen sink and wiping your hands, you quickly went to the front door, hoping the kids were still asleep in the living room.

They've been going through some growth spurts, which means less sleep for you and a bigger mess all around you.

It was eating you alive.

Looking through the peep hole, you were pleasantly surprised to see Kyle standing with a casserole dish covered in tinfoil in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.

Tan brown jacket covered a black shirt and blue jeans that gripped his thighs perfectly. Hair almost messy, but purposeful and his lips...

There was a reason he made you nervous that first night.

Reason why he still made you nervous.

You opened the door, giving him the best smile that you could.

You couldn't lie, you felt like a wreck. Old shirt covered in milk stains. Baggy sweat pants that you hadn't changed in two days. You stopped looking in the mirror, but you were sure that your eye bags had eye bags that were gearing up towards more eye bags.

"Hey, Ky." You whispered, letting him in, not realizing the nickname that fell from your lips. It was too late to take it back now, but the smile that Kyle gave you...

You wouldn't of even if you could.

"Hey, love. Johnny made you a few dinners and put 'em in the freezer. Little shit didn't tell us until a few hours ago. I heated up one for you and got you some other stuff I hope you like." Your heart melted.

How sweet of Johnny, taking care of you, even when he was gone.

And Kyle for going to the store, for thinking of you.

"Thank you so much. It smells wonderful. Here, lets put it in the kitchen." He followed you through the house, already knowing where he was going, but that wasn't the point.

He let you lead, because that's what he was suppose to do.

You didn't realize how much you needed it - needed him.

Needed them.

You put a pot holder on the counter before Kyle rested the dish on top of it. Eagerly ripping into the tinfoil, you were slammed with the scent of warm mash potatoes, gravy, lamb, vegetables and herbs.

Sheppards pie. Kyle quickly occupied his time with removing the items from the bag, trying to ignore your moans and hums in approval. He started counting backwards from 100 to ease the tightening in his pants and force the memories of your first time together in the back of his mind.

It was worse when you took your first bite.

"Oh my - for the love of all things holy, this is amazing!" You moaned, and Kye thought you had to be doing it on purpose.

You wanted to kill him.

But he looked at you and you were in heaven, eyes closed, fork full of your next bite and Kyle couldn't help but stare at you.

Beautiful.

He put away a few sweet treats for later, some odds and ins that he saw in your cabinets a few days ago and two little stuffed animals for the kids. A dog and a cat. Perfect for the sleeping little animals.

You ate as Kyle started finishing up your dishes, happy to actually be helping you out for once instead of causing more pain.

Hearing glass clink together made you snap out of your love making to the pie.

You would never admit it to anyone, so erase this when you see it, but you were absolutely enamored with Kyle's forearms. His jacket tossed on a chair. His black sleeves rolled up, his hands wet and soapy and you couldn't stop staring.

Thick with veins protruding. Sprinkle of dark hair covering them, a few tattoos peaking out from his shirt.

His hands.

Holy fuck, his hands.

Hard work. Manual labor. You could tell that he took care of himself, but he also got things handled. He wasn't as prim and proper as you could believe.

His eyes shifted to yours and you quickly dropped his gaze, face on fire, body sweating.

He was so beautiful.

Kyle couldn't help his smirk, the warmth in his gut and the satisfied beast roaming in his head.

Maybe he wasn't the only affected one.

"How've the kids been treating you?" Thankful for the topic change but you couldn't help but wince when you remembered how crazy you looked.

You're his child's mother... nothing more.

"Good, good. They've been good. Going through a sleep regression, so it's been no sleep for two days. I know it'll pass. Thank you for doing those dishes. I swear I was doing them before you knocked." You were still embarrassed by it all. You felt like your house needed to be in tip-top shape. You needed to put together but -

You just couldn't. Not right now.

Kyle made it a point to stop and look at you, drinking you in and understanding what you were saying without saying it.

"Love, everyone needs help with newborns. Crazy how far you managed just by yourself. You're doing a great job. It's okay that some stuff doesn't get done, yeah? It's why you can text us. We'd love to come over and help." You couldn't help but chuckle and half way roll your eyes.

"Yeah, get a message from me asking to help with laundry or dishes. It's not fun stuff and-"

"Don't want it to be 'fun stuff'. We get to help the mother of our children. Get to help someone we wronged. Get to help someone who..." Kyle bite his lip and looked away. The water was turned off and silence suffocated the room. "If you need dishes or clothes or need a shower or a nap - I want to be there. I want to help. And I know I'm not the only person. If you'll let us, that is."

Warmth, comfort, ease rolled you like a gentle massage and flattened you on the surface.

Wouldn't it be nice to lean on someone? Wouldn't it be nice to trust?

"The kids should be sleeping for a bit more. Would you mind keeping an ear out for them while I shower?"

Kyle couldn't shove you to the bathroom quick enough.

You were naked, with warm water running down your body. Soap soaking your flesh. Your hands trailing over your breasts and down-

Kyle had to stop thinking about you in the shower.

Dishes were done. Counters were wiped down. Dinner was in the fridge and Kyle made his way into the living room.

Two bassinets sat across from each other. The TV played a video from an aquarium, classical music gently whispered from the speakers and fairy lights covered the TV stand, leaving the living room in a orange glow. Light enough to see, not too bright to wake the children.

Kyle's heart pounded.

Watching his children sleep, their little eyelids moving, lips smacking and eyebrows scrunching together landed an arrow deep in his chest. Lodged in his heart. He would never be the same again.

He'd never want to.

Eleanor was perfect. One arm out from her swaddle, raised high above her. Her lips gently quivered like she was dreaming about food.

Thomas was his most perfect little man. Eyebrows squeezed together like he was mad. Eyelids moving but still swaddled nice and tight, comfortable and warm.

Kyle didn't hear you get out and dressed in clothes that made you feel more human. You felt like a new person, and couldn't wait to thank him.

You couldn't stop staring at him as he stared at your babies.

The heart in his eyes.

The smile on his lips.

He was almost tearing up and apart of you melted into goo.

"Wanna hold them?" You whispered, coming up to Kyle and almost pressing yourself against him. He regrettably shook his head, his heart collapsing.

"Don't wanna wake 'em. Can I stay for a bit, though?" You didn't answer. You just pulled him on the couch with you. You sat there together, thighs against thigh, arm to arm. TV playing something too quiet to even matter and the kids sound asleep.

"Thank you for coming over." You whispered against Kyle's neck, unaware how close you gotten, but, at the same time, snuggling closer and closer until your body draped over his own.

"Thank you for having me." He whispered back, arms tightening against your body, lips pressing against your cheek, close to your own. "Thank you for having us."

"I don't regret our twins at all. If I could go back, I'd make sure to do it all over again." Kyle smiled, pressing his lips against your cheek again.

"I'd change a few things, but never them. Never you." Your hips pressed and rolled, finding comfort, finding a soft hint of pleasure, finding something solid in this life you've created.

His hands found your hips, your waist, tightening and helping you roll, helping you adjust -

Helping you press your warm center against his bulge. He could feel himself pulsing, the horrific desire to rut up into you like a true animal.

That's not what this was about, Kyle knew that.

But - fuck, your moans. Soft. Sweet. So tired. Melting into him. Letting him lull you into sleep. Letting your body take what it needs from him.

Always.

Always take from him, little love. You deserve it. You need it.

"Let me stay." Kyle adjusted you both so he could lay on the couch with you on top of him. You hummed in approval and then -

Fast asleep.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 7

#call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #call of duty #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz #eventual 141 x reader #simon ‘ghost’ riley #john price #johnny soap mactavish #theres a baby in my blurb #theres a baby in my fic #theres a baby #eventual smut #cod smut

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hamilton-here · 17 hours ago

Note

Lewis Hamilton falls head over heals for the new F1 doctor. (She's around 35 and takes cares of all the drivers on the grid, like checkups before and after races). She's introduced to the drivers and from the moment lewis saw her, he was a goner and everyone could see it, the drivers, his friends, his family. Always finds little ways to talk to reader even doing medical research to talk to her about. One day he fakes an injury like a sprained ankle or something and she had to meet him in his driver's room (you can add something funny here maybe like lewis tells her one foot and then forgets which foot it is and reader laughs and figures it out) he finally decided to come clean and ask her out.

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝒷𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Just dropped another one-shot slowly but surely making my way through them all. It’s Hungary F1 race week and I’m sending all my prayers to Lewis. Wishing you a beautiful day or peaceful night, wherever you are. Lots of love xx

Summary: LH44 fakes a sprained ankle to win a date with the doctor who’s stolen his heart.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

From the moment you stepped into the paddock, the whirlwind of Formula 1 didn’t rattle you in the slightest. The thunderous roar of engines reverberating through the air, the blur of mechanics darting around in a perfectly choreographed ballet of precision and urgency. The press swarming like bees around the hive of drama it was intense, yes, but not unfamiliar.

You’d spent the better part of your adult life in trauma wards and surgical theatres, where adrenaline wasn’t just a byproduct of chaos but the very fuel that kept you going.

You’d endured 36-hour shifts without flinching, stitched up wounds while arguing with surgeons twice your age and twice as stubborn and navigated the politics of hospital hierarchies with the grace of a seasoned diplomat and the grit of someone who’d learned to fight for her place at the table. You’d held trembling hands in final moments, whispered comfort into ears that would never hear again, and celebrated with families when the impossible became reality.

Pressure didn’t scare you it shaped you.

So when the FIA reached out asking if you’d consider stepping into the role of lead medical officer for the Formula 1 grid, you didn’t hesitate. It was a new kind of challenge less blood, more bruises - fewer emergencies, more endurance; not so much life or death but still demanding a level of care and precision that only someone with your experience could offer.

Your job was to care for twenty of the most physically and mentally resilient athletes on the planet, men who pushed their bodies to the edge of human capability every single race weekend. You were responsible for pre-race checkups, post-race evaluations, hydration monitoring, injury prevention, mental health support and everything in between.

You were their anchor in a sport that demanded perfection and punished weakness. At 35, you were confident, composed and quietly brilliant seasoned enough to command respect, yet warm enough to earn trust. And you were ready.

The first time you walked into the paddock in your crisp FIA uniform, clipboard in hand and stethoscope tucked neatly into your bag, the drivers were gathered for their usual Thursday media duties. The air buzzed with anticipation and caffeine and you could feel the subtle shift in energy as you were introduced as the new grid physician. The room didn’t go silent, but it did pause. Some of the drivers offered polite nods, a few cracked jokes about needing extra attention or faking injuries to get out of press conferences.

Max Verstappen gave you a smirk and a wink, his usual brand of cheeky charm. Charles Leclerc asked if you’d brought snacks, his grin boyish and disarming. Lando Norris tried to guess your star sign, launching into a half serious debate about whether you gave off Virgo or Capricorn energy. It was all lighthearted, the kind of banter that came from men who lived in a pressure cooker and had learned to release steam wherever they could.

But Lewis Hamilton didn’t say a word not right away. He simply stood there, caught in a peculiar kind of stillness, the sort that wraps around you like a hush between heartbeats and demands silence out of reverence for whatever sacred thing is unfolding.

He just looked at you, not in the fleeting way people glance when they’re trying to gauge familiarity or pin down a memory they can’t quite place. No, Lewis blinked like someone whose entire day had shifted off its axis like his world had suddenly paused mid-race and the rhythm he’d been running on had skipped, leaving him standing there with no idea what lap he was on.

His eyes, always expressive beneath the brim of his cap and the weight of expectation, held a softness now that made your breath catch and stall somewhere between your ribs. There was a tenderness flickering in his gaze warm, thoughtful and layered with stories he hadn’t told and emotions he rarely let show.

He didn’t smile at first. He just stared. And it was the kind of stare that felt like discovery like someone had walked through a doorway into a room they hadn’t known existed, and couldn’t tear their eyes away from the view.

You felt it, too. That strange, quiet hum that buzzed beneath your skin, like the static charge before a lightning strike. Your heart skipped just once but it was enough to make you feel like maybe something profound was happening, even if no one had said a word.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sweeping music or slow-motion cameras. Just that breathless kind of quiet that settles in moments where something important begins not loudly, but unmistakably. Like the first kiss of spring sunlight on frostbitten earth, whispering promises of warmth and bloom.

Around you, the atmosphere shifted, subtle and unspoken. George Russell tilted his head, his brow arching in quiet amusement as he exchanged a glance with someone nearby, silently clocking the change in Lewis’s demeanour. Fernando Alonso let out a low, knowing chuckle that was barely more than a rumble in his chest like he’d seen this kind of look before and knew exactly what it meant.

Even Toto Wolff, the picture of poised authority with his arms folded across his chest like armour, gave the briefest glance between the two of you a flicker of recognition in his eyes that said he’d seen sparks before and he knew flame when it was coming.

And Lewis? From that moment on, he was unequivocally, unapologetically gone.

It wasn’t just visible in the way he lingered in doorways after your checkups, or how he asked questions that didn’t need asking just so he could stay a moment longer. It was in the way he remembered tiny things you said in passing like how you preferred peppermint tea over chamomile, or how you always hummed under your breath when double-checking vitals.

He started showing up early for briefings that he could easily have joined five minutes late. But he didn’t he was always there first, sitting quietly in the corner, waiting for you with a soft smile and bright eyes that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

He listened to everything you said with the kind of reverence usually reserved for engineers dissecting telemetry data, nodding with quiet seriousness even when you were just reminding him to hydrate properly or suggesting stretches to keep his shoulder from locking up.

And when you laughed with your head tilted back and your eyes crinkling at the corners his entire face lit up like he’d discovered a new kind of beauty. It wasn’t just joy. It was awe. As if your laugh had become a soundtrack he hadn’t realised he’d been waiting for his whole life and now he was desperate to memorise it.

You too, had begun to shift. There was something about him that was grounded and kind, something that felt like the edge of a story you wanted to tell again and again. You didn’t crave attention, didn’t care for the spotlight, and yet here was someone who saw you in perfect clarity without any of the noise. You were steadfast. Unshaken. A quiet force in his whirlwind world. And he noticed. Every time.

And somehow, without the grand gestures or overt declarations or without a single rehearsed line or dramatic interruption, you were falling not in a headlong sprint, but gently. Slowly. Like rain soaking into roots that had waited a long time for nourishment. Like petals unfolding one by one to greet the sun they didn’t know they’d needed.

Not carelessly. Not urgently.

But sweetly.

With a softness that felt eternal. Like something rare and extraordinary had bloomed in that space between racing hearts and quiet glances and now, with every shared moment, it was growing beautifully, undeniably, into something neither of you had planned for but neither of you could imagine letting go.

And then it began.

At first, it was barely noticeable so subtle it could’ve been mistaken for coincidence, a passing moment, a flicker of something that didn’t quite register until it started happening again. And again. Just the tiniest shift in rhythm during your conversations, a slight change in the cadence of his voice when he spoke to you, a lingering glance that held a little more warmth, a little more softness, than it ever had before.

You started noticing it in the way his routine checkups once brisk and efficient, squeezed between media obligations and simulator sessions began to stretch just a little longer than necessary. Not in a way that disrupted the schedule, but in a way that made you wonder if he was genuinely concerned about his recovery or just reluctant to leave the room while you were still in it.

His questions, too, began to drift. They stopped being strictly medical, stopped being about lap times and muscle fatigue and electrolyte balance. Instead, they wandered into territory that felt oddly personal, oddly curious like he was trying to understand not just your professional opinion, but the way your mind worked, the things you cared about, the philosophies you quietly lived by.

“So,” he’d begin, his voice casual but his eyes searching, always searching, “how much hydration is too much hydration, really? Like, hypothetically speaking, if someone were trying to optimise their performance but also maybe impress their favourite performance coach?”

You’d raise an eyebrow, amused by the transparency of it all but he’d just flash that signature grin charming, a little sheepish like he knew exactly how obvious he was being and didn’t mind one bit. Then, without missing a beat, he’d move on to the next question, as if he hadn’t just dropped a compliment disguised as a scientific inquiry.

“What’s your opinion on magnesium supplements?” he’d ask, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees in that relaxed way that made him look like he was genuinely invested in your answer. “I read somewhere they help with sleep and recovery, but I figured I’d ask the expert. You always seem to know what’s best.”

And then, with a tone so innocent it was almost comical, he’d add “Do you believe in cold water therapy? Just like for general well-being? Not because I started doing it every morning after you mentioned it once in passing or anything. Definitely not that.”

You caught on quickly, of course. You weren’t oblivious. You’d spent enough time around elite athletes to recognise when someone was trying awkwardly, endearingly to find excuses to talk to you, to linger in your orbit a little longer than necessary. But you weren’t about to call out a seven-time world champion for developing a crush like a teenager in a high school biology class. Instead, you smiled, played it cool and kept things professional. Mostly.

But the paddock? Oh, they weren’t subtle. Not even a little.

George was the first to say something, his tone teasing but not unkind, the kind of playful jab that came from genuine affection. “You know, Lewis has been doing breathing exercises lately. Told me it was something you mentioned in passing. Looks kind of ridiculous doing it in his car before practice, but hey he’s committed. Or maybe just smitten.”

Then came Charles, who couldn’t resist poking fun, his grin wide and mischievous. “He asked what hours you’re usually working. Said something about checking in on driver stress levels, but I think he’s more worried about your stress levels. Wants to make sure you’re not overworked. Sweet, isn’t it?”

Even Max who usually couldn’t care less about anything romantic and had the emotional subtlety of a brick muttered under his breath one afternoon, “He asked me if I thought he was ‘intellectually engaging.’ I told him no. He still looked hopeful.”

You tried to ignore it. Or at least pretend to. You told yourself it was just friendly banter, just harmless curiosity, just Lewis being Lewis. But it was getting harder to keep the smile off your face, harder to pretend your heart didn’t flutter just a little every time he found a new reason to ask you something, to linger a little longer, to learn about the things you cared about even if it meant diving into medical journals and wellness blogs just to have something to talk about with you.

Because Lewis? He wasn’t just interested in your expertise. He was interested in you. In the way your eyes lit up when you talked about recovery science, in the way you always had a calm answer even when the garage was chaos, in the way you remembered the little things. And he was finding every sweet, subtle, slightly ridiculous way to show it. Not with grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but with quiet curiosity, with thoughtful questions, with the kind of attention that made you feel seen not just as a professional, but as a person.

And honestly? You were starting to love every second of it.

It’s two hours before qualifying at Silverstone and the paddock is alive with the electric hum of anticipation. The air is thick with the scent of rubber and adrenaline, the rhythmic clatter of tools echoing through the garages as mechanics fine-tune setups with surgical precision. Engineers huddle over laptops, murmuring in rapid-fire technical jargon, while drivers move like shadows focused, silent, locked into their own mental simulations.

You’re tucked away in the medical bay, halfway through reorganising your kit for the third time that morning. It’s a ritual, really checking bandages, restocking ice packs, calibrating your portable scanner anything to keep your hands busy and your mind sharp. You’re just reaching for a roll of kinesiology tape when your phone buzzes with a message that makes you freeze mid-motion.“Lewis Hamilton is reporting a possible sprained ankle. Claims he stepped wrong out of the simulator.”

You blink at the screen, eyebrows lifting in surprise. Lewis Hamilton. Sprained ankle. Simulator mishap. You don’t even hesitate. Years of training kick in like muscle memory, and within seconds, your medical bag is slung over your shoulder, your brain already running through assessments, differential diagnoses, and worst-case scenarios.

You weave through the maze of team trailers and personnel, dodging carts and crew members with practiced ease. The door to his driver’s room is slightly ajar, and you push it open with the kind of professional urgency reserved for actual emergencies only to be met with a scene so unexpected, you nearly trip over your own feet.

Lewis was seated upright on the oversized, cloud soft couch in the driver’s lounge, his legs stretched out in front of him like a lazy cat soaking up sunshine. His fireproof race suit hung open to his waist, the sleeves pooled around his hips in crumpled folds, revealing a sleek black compression shirt that clung to his torso like a second skin.

The dim lighting caught on the sheen of his slightly tousled braids that looked as though they’d been styled by chaos and charm in equal measure. His shoulders were relaxed, posture casual and yet there was something almost mischievously intentional in the way he sat, like he was trying very hard not to look like he was trying very hard.

And then there was that grin.

That crooked, sheepish, boy next-door kind of smile that curled up one corner of his mouth and made your internal diagnostic system spike off the charts. If heart monitors could blush, yours would be beet red.

“Hey,” he offered with a breezy calm that did not match the fact he had summoned you under the pretence of a possibly sprained ankle no urgency, no drama, just the tone of someone casually ordering coffee from a barista and not, say, faking a medical emergency.

You stepped inside, letting the door click softly shut behind you, narrowing your eyes as you set your bag down with quiet precision. “I heard you hurt your ankle,” you said, every syllable laced in calm, clinical suspicion.

He nodded with solemn, theatrical gravity, lifting one leg a few inches off the floor with exaggerated care, as if every movement was a Herculean effort. “Yeah…might’ve done something to it,” he replied, voice low and dramatically earnest like a Shakespearean prince suffering noble injury.

Without missing a beat, you crouched in front of him, all business and purpose, your hands already moving with instinctive precision. “Which one?” you asked, scanning his expression like a lie detector.

There was a very telling pause.

“Uh…left?” he tried, voice suddenly unsure as if even his foot wasn’t convinced.

You gently cupped his left ankle, fingers tracing the joint with practiced delicacy. You checked for swelling, discolouration, unusual heat, anything out of place and found absolutely nothing. Not so much as a twinge. It was the textbook definition of perfectly healthy.

Then his right foot twitched.

You raised your gaze slowly, your expression sharpening to a level of unimpressed brilliance only reserved for fake injuries and suspicious snack bandits. “You mean your right?” you asked, voice dry and knowing.

Lewis visibly deflated, his bravado vanishing like air from a punctured tire. “...Yeah,” he admitted, a sheepish whine curling through his voice. “That one.”

You lowered his leg with exaggerated gentleness, then leaned back on your heels, crossing your arms with the slow precision of someone preparing for a verbal takeoff. “Lewis,” you said and it wasn’t angry it was pure, eloquent disappointment.

He cringed, his shoulders hunching like a scolded schoolboy. “I panicked,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

“You faked an injury,” you clarified, tone cool enough to frost the nearest water bottle.

“Not entirely!’” he interjected, raising a defensive finger as if appealing to some invisible jury. “I might’ve felt a slight tightness? Like…for half a second? Maybe less?”

You blinked, once. “So you summoned a certified medical professional,” you replied, “because your foot maybe felt tight for half a second?”

Lewis rubbed the back of his neck, his expression twisted into a blend of embarrassment and pleading. He looked like a teenager caught sneaking snacks before dinner, his fingers nervously plucking at the zipper of his suit. “I just wanted to talk to you without anyone around,” he muttered, each word reluctant and tangled with vulnerability. “You’re always working, always patching someone up, checking vitals, saving the day like you do and I didn’t want to interrupt. But I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out for weeks, and today I just panicked.”

You paused, caught off guard by the crack in his voice, the sincere fragility of the moment. “You faked a sprain to talk to me?” you asked, more astonished now than annoyed.

He nodded, eyes wide, expression earnest and just a little tragic. “I didn’t know what else to do. I kept rehearsing something, but it sounded ridiculous and I figured maybe if I limped a little, you’d slow down long enough to see me as more than just another name on your clipboard.”

You stared at him, watching how nervously his hands fidgeted and how his foot tapped against the floor like a percussionist trying to outrun regret. And then, despite your best efforts to remain stern, it happened.

You laughed.

The sound burst out of you like champagne uncorked, rich and unrestrained, the kind of laughter that melted tension like sunlight on ice. Lewis blinked, startled but then he laughed too, the two of you caught in a joyous loop that wrapped around the room like music.

“Okay, yeah,” he said between chuckles, grinning so wide it threatened to break records. “I deserved that. I just really didn’t know how to ask you without sounding like an idiot.”

Wiping tears from your eyes, still riding the wave of giggles, you managed, “So you thought pretending to be injured was the best solution?”

He shrugged, utterly unapologetic now. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You gave him a look that could both melt steel and seal a kiss. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But charming?” he asked hopefully, tilting his head like a golden retriever seeking validation.

You sighed, lips twitching into reluctant amusement. “Yes. And frustrating.”

“Frustrating enough to say no to dinner?” he ventured, eyes dancing.

You let the silence linger just long enough for dramatic effect, watching as he shifted in his seat like the cushion had become a suspense simulator. Then, finally, you stood slung your bag over your shoulder, and said with a teasing flourish:

“No. I’ll go to dinner with you.”

The expression that broke across his face could’ve powered every circuit at Silverstone and still leave enough joy to fuel a fireworks show. He pumped his fist into the air like he’d just clinched pole position, then visibly tried to downshift his excitement into something that resembled cool composure.

“YES! I mean…cool. Casual. Totally normal human reaction,” he stammered, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

You rolled your eyes, already heading for the door. “Just promise me that next time, if you want to talk, you won’t fake a sprain.”

“Deal,” he said, beaming. “Next time I’ll just pretend I swallowed a spark plug.”

You paused at the doorway, a fresh laugh blooming. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he called after you, his voice warm and teasing, “you did say yes.”

You glanced over your shoulder, heart fluttering like the checkered flag at the finish line of a perfect race. “I did,” you replied, your smile pure magic.

Just as you’re about to leave heart still fluttering from the ridiculousness of the past ten minutes and the fact that you’ve somehow agreed to dinner with Lewis Hamilton of all people you hear it.

From outside the door.

A sudden eruption of voices, loud and gleeful, like a pack of overexcited teenagers who’ve just won a bet they weren’t supposed to make.

“LET’S GO!” George Russell’s voice booms through the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone slapping the wall in celebration.

“PAY UP!” Charles Leclerc yells, triumphant. “HE DID IT! I TOLD YOU HE WOULD!”

“HE SAID LEFT!” Lando Norris adds between fits of uncontrollable laughter. “WHY DID HE SAY LEFT?! That was the worst bluff I’ve ever seen!”

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide and slowly turn back toward Lewis, who is now biting his lip to keep from laughing his shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement.

You groan, dragging both hands down your face in utter disbelief. “They’ve been out there this entire time?”

Lewis doesn’t even try to deny it. He leans back against the couch, arms stretched out like he’s just won a game show, and says cheerfully, “Yep. They were part of the plan.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You coordinated this?”

He nods, looking far too pleased with himself. “George was on distraction duty. Charles was on morale support. Lando was supposed to keep quiet but, well…you’ve met Lando.”

Outside, you hear the unmistakable sound of someone doing a victory dance probably George and Charles shouting something about “double or nothing” while Lando wheezes like he’s just run a marathon.

“I cannot believe I agreed to this,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to the universe.

Lewis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still smiling like an absolute menace. “Too late. Doctor’s orders.”

You narrow your eyes. “I am the doctor.”

He grins wider. “Exactly. And you prescribed dinner.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet somehow irresistible,” he says, winking.

Outside, someone knocks on the door three quick taps followed by George’s voice “Can we come in now or are you two still making heart eyes?”

“GEORGE,” Lewis shouts, half-laughing, half-mortified.

You sigh dramatically, already heading for the door. “I’m going to need a real sprain after this.”

“Don’t worry,” Lewis calls after you. “I’ll fake one for you anytime.”

You pause, glance back, and smirk. “Next time, try remembering which foot.”

From outside, Lando yells, “YEAH, BRO, LEFT?! REALLY?!”

Lewis groans and flops back onto the couch, burying his face in a pillow. “I panicked, okay?!”

The mornings at the circuit are symphonies of chaos and caffeine. Engines rumble in the background like a heartbeat, mechanics shout cryptic codes over the roar of tools and team radios crackle with urgency.

But you cut through it all with elegant precision clipboard clutched under one arm, stethoscope tucked neatly against your collar as if born to navigate this whirlwind with calm authority. Your ponytail sways with intent, and your expression carries a kind of no-nonsense serenity that could halt even the most adrenaline-fuelled driver mid-track tantrum.

Lewis has, by this point, become your unofficial mascot or rather, your affectionate nuisance. He appears daily in your orbit with the kind of glorious unseriousness that only he can pull off. One day, it’s a mysterious bruise that suspiciously resembles shoe polish.

The next, he’s lamenting “existential dizziness,” brought on by the emotional toll of watching tire changes. Once, he sighed dramatically against the telemetry machine and declared it inflicted “psychological trauma.”

You don’t blink. “Lewis,” you mutter without looking up from your chart, “You’re not dying. You’re just tragically under caffeinated.”

Yet despite the dismissals and your expertly timed eye-rolls, you always reach for his wrist, checking his pulse with fingers that betray just enough affection to keep him coming back. And he melts under your touch, grinning like he’s rigged the universe perfectly.

When he’s not inventing ailments, he floats around your space like a gentle satellite offering cheek kisses when you lean over your notes, sneaking you protein bars when you skip lunch, and placing oddly shaped wildflowers beside your tablet without a word. You catch him watching you often, gaze soft, openly admiring like you’re both discovery and dream. Once, as you adjusted bandages on a rowdy driver, you raised an eyebrow and teased, “Do I need to run a vision test on you?”

He responded instantly, no shame in his voice just awe. “It’s your focus face like thunder with a PhD. Very intimidating. Extremely attractive.”

Then, inevitably, fate calls his bluff.

It happens on a sun-drenched morning packed with race-day tension. Lewis, ever the dramatist, tries to pantomime the severity of a “strained ankle” to the pit crew. With theatrical flair, he trips over a stray coil of wires and goes down in a fantastically graceless heap.

You’re at his side in seconds knees kissing asphalt, medical kit flung open knowing it wasn’t fake this time. Your heart performs strange aerial tricks inside your chest as you brush dirt from his temple and peer down with barely contained concern (and maybe a smirk). “Congratulations,” you mutter, already skimming over the injury, “You’ve gone full method actor. Should I call the Academy?”

He groans, smiling despite the pain. “I think I broke my charm.”

You roll your eyes and examine the swelling with practiced care. He looks up at you, eyes warm and mischievous, and says, “Can I get a kiss to make it better?”

You scoff, but the laugh that slips through is warm and reluctant. “You are absurd.”

“But adorable,” he adds hopefully.

“Only just,” you reply as you tape up his ankle with your steady hands.

Then he reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with the kind of sincerity you usually see in post-crash debriefings. “You’re really taking care of me now.”

Your expression softens. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek gentle, lingering, impossibly fond. “You’re lucky I like your face,” you whisper, half-serious, half-surrendered.

As the engines roar back to life around you, the chaos resumes but the two of you remain tucked inside your own quiet bubble. One injured flirt, one reluctant romantic, stitched together by stolen glances and the rhythm of something beautiful and brewing.

Later, as the paddock settles into hush at golden hour, the world exhales around you. Mechanics lounge in folding chairs, laughing over beer cans and half-eaten sandwiches. The track basks in apricot light and the air carries the familiar scent of engine heat, rubber and the floral hint of lavender from your shampoo, lingering like a signature.

You sit on the edge of the pit wall, legs swinging rhythmically, your heartbeat finally steady. Your vest is still fastened slightly crooked now and your hair has come loose in wispy strands. Fatigue shadows your features, but your eyes still blaze with clarity, the kind that commands trust without words. To Lewis, that look beats champagne showers and checkered flags. It’s you, real and radiant.

Then he appears, limping slightly but refusing dramatics. He carries two milkshakes carefully one strawberry with a hint of cinnamon (your favourite, which he remembered) and one vanilla, overfilled with whipped cream, his self-proclaimed “emotional support milkshake.”

He stops in front of you and offers the strawberry shake like it means more than dessert like it’s a confession. Your fingers brush as you take it, and he sits beside you, close but careful, letting the silence speak.

Around you, socket wrenches clang and birds trace cursive trails across the sky. Lewis clears his throat, voice quieter than usual, nerves blooming in his chest. “So,” he says, “would it be completely off-brand if I asked you out again without a fake limp, a fake concussion, or anything involving tactical dramatics?”

You turn slowly, halfway through a sip of strawberry milkshake, eyebrows raised. Your lips curve into a smirk, but your eyes shimmer with something else like you’ve waited for this moment long enough. “Only slightly suspicious,” you tease. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “Just a guy with a bruised ankle and a massive crush on the brilliant woman with a focus face that could stop a Formula 1 car mid-lap.”

You let a laugh bubble through your chest and maybe, just maybe, you don't stop him this time.

“Let’s do this properly,” Lewis continues, his voice rich with sincerity now. “Since you agreed, I have the perfect date in mind. Not a candlelit dinner, not a fancy restaurant that folds its napkins like tiny swans. Something simple. Something real. I was thinking stargazing. You, me, a blanket tossed in the back of the car, parked at the edge of the lake just behind the circuit. No walkie talkies, no telemetry screens. Just snacks and silence and sky.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you take another sip of your milkshake, letting your gaze drift toward the horizon where the last streaks of light curl against the earth, painting everything around you in hues of gold and plum. In that pause, something shifts something quiet and definitive.

Then, slowly and gently, you lean forward, your lips finding his cheek in a kiss so soft it feels more like a promise than a gesture. You linger there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, warm breath brushing against his skin, before whispering, “Only if you promise not to pretend you’ve sprained your heart halfway through.”

He laughs, the sound spilling out in boyish wonder, and the grin that follows is all honesty and delight. “Deal,” he says, as his vanilla shake tips slightly in his hands. “Although that might actually be a real diagnosis. At least around you.”

And as the final rays of sun dip below the horizon and the race day melts into twilight, two melting milkshakes sit between you perfectly sweet, slightly messy, and just like the moment. A quiet victory. A real beginning.

The lake beyond the racing circuit glimmers beneath a velvet tapestry of stars, its surface curling gently beneath whispering gusts and the occasional echo of distant wildlife. The world feels hushed, like the universe itself is holding its breath, blessing the moment with serenity. Just beyond the paddock, tucked into a quiet corner where the tire smoke and roar of engines can’t reach, Lewis parks his car a safe haven wrapped in soft shadows and quiet warmth.

The rear doors swing open, revealing a cocoon-like setup he’s pieced together with unexpected care - a thick fleece blanket layered generously across the floor, cushions swiped from the lounge and team trailer, their scents still tinged with adrenaline, coffee and race-day chaos. A string of warm fairy lights frames the car’s ceiling like lazy fireflies, flickering against the dark as though blinking in awe at the two of you nestled beneath them.

A thermos of cocoa steams between you, dotted with tiny marshmallows that melt into frothy stars. An almost-empty box of chocolate biscuits leans precariously near the edge half-devoured in a quiet sugar frenzy you’ll never admit to the team. Above you, the sky stretches wide and endless, constellations scattered like whispered promises waiting to be shared.

You curl beside him, your head tucked gently against Lewis’s shoulder, legs loosely entwined with his as if gravity insists you belong together. His arm drapes around you in the kind of hold that says: you’re safe, you’re seen, you’re his. Your fingers rest lightly against his ribs, where the soft rhythm of his breathing offers a lullaby only your heart seems to understand. You’re wrapped in him not just physically, but in the quiet reverence of someone whose presence has become home.

Lewis tilts his head back to the stars, his expression bathed in awe and affection, like every pinpoint of light is conspiring to write your story in the sky. His thumb brushes slow circles across the bare skin of your arm, soothing and intimate, as though tracing every beat of your shared silence.

“I read somewhere,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-warm, “that when you stare at stars long enough, your body naturally slows down. Like it just gets that you’re supposed to rest here, not race.”

You crack a sleepy smile. “You read?”

“I skim romantically,” he quips, lips curling into a soft grin before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering longer this time. “Mostly things that sound poetic and make me look deeper than I am.”

You chuckle together the kind of laughter shared only by those who’ve memorised each other’s cadence.

Then, he shifts slowly, purposefully until he can look at you fully. His gaze softens until it looks nearly liquid with emotion, stars catching in his eyes like they’ve dropped from the heavens just for him. His fingers cradle your jaw with the kind of reverence that makes your breath hitch, thumbs tracing your skin with aching gentleness.

“I want to do this properly,” he whispers, voice barely louder than the starlight. “I need you to know I’ve fallen for you. Hard. Like, helplessly and inconveniently. Ridiculously hard. It's like every race I’ve ever run led me to this moment.”

Before you can summon words before your lips can shape syllables or your heart can catch up with the unfolding gravity Lewis leans in. And the universe, as if struck by sheer intimacy, simply pauses. The wind quiets its rustle through the trees, crickets hush their chorus, and stars blink with wonder, draping the lake in celestial reverence. Even the leftover hum of engine echoes seems to drift off to sleep.

His lips meet yours with the softness of a first snowfall tentative, deliberate, reverent. It’s not just a kiss, but an invocation. Like the first line of a love sonnet after months of simmering verses in shared glances and brushes of fingers. His lips tremble slightly with the weight of all he hasn’t said and the boldness of finally saying it without words. It’s a featherlight meeting, full of permission asked and devotion offered.

Your breath catches mid-gasp, heart leaping to meet him with electric urgency only possible when longing finally receives its answer. Your fingers, shaking with tenderness, slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself because floating suddenly feels like a real concern. Your body responds instinctively like it’s always known him, even before words, before races, before rules.

And then he kisses you again deeper, firmer, more certain his mouth slanting over yours with a mix of passion and joy, like he’s discovering how you taste and finding it sweeter than he ever dreamed. Your breaths tangle, shallow and quick, and everything between you blurs: time, space, stars, reality. Your body arches beneath his in welcome, in trust, in shared delight. Your hand runs down the line of his spine, resting at the small of his back, gripping gently as warmth blooms like wildfire through your chest.

Lewis shifts carefully, easing his weight above you in a way that feels protective and full of care. His chest presses against yours, heartbeats aligning like an intimate duet. The fleece blanket beneath you shifts slightly, but neither of you care. The tangling of limbs feels poetic, not messy his thigh brushing yours, his knee tucked along the curve of your hip, one of your legs curling naturally around his like your body has memorised his every line.

Your kisses grow layered, textured by laughter and longing. Sweet at first, then breathless, then melting into something deeper playful nips followed by tender apologies whispered against flushed skin. He murmurs something low and adoring, words lost to your ears but felt in every corner of your soul. You giggle into his kiss, and he laughs softly against your lips, the sound rumbling between you like a shared secret.

It’s bliss.

Until -

“OW OH MY OW - bloody HELL!”

He yelps, the symphony of your shared tenderness abruptly replaced by chaotic screeching and the physical comedy of Olympic proportions. His injured ankle, which had smugly behaved until that exact second, buckles beneath him like it’s on a personal mission to sabotage romance. His body shoots upright in a flurry of limbs and regret, elbow colliding with the thermos, nearly launching hot cocoa into the stratosphere as he crumples beside you in a heap that screams Shakespeare, but make it clumsy.

You lie stunned for one beat and then, quite literally, lose your mind.

Laughing. Screaming with laughter. Full bodied, wheezing, tears streaming down your face as you curl into yourself with glee. “Oh my GOD,” you manage between gasps. “You absolute buffoon! Are you TRYING to turn this into a parody?”

Lewis groans dramatically, clutching his ankle like a knight fallen in battle. “I ruined it,” he whines, voice muffled under his arm. “I had lines! I had timing!”

“Sweetheart,” you say, breathless and nearly incoherent from laughter, “you didn’t ruin a thing you upgraded it. This moment has become a rom-com masterpiece. I swear, somewhere in the stars, Nora Ephron just gave you a standing ovation.”

You roll toward him, still giggling, and poke him gently in the ribs. “Peak drama. I’m talking red carpet, tearful acceptance speech, Best Lead in ‘A Kiss Gone Wrong but So Right.’”

He peeks at you from beneath his arm, eyes pouty and full of theatrical woe. “I wanted fireworks.”

You crawl closer and plant a soft kiss on his pout. “You got them ankle edition.”

He lets out a long sigh, then mumbles, “Still worth it.”

You wrap your fingers around his ankle with practiced care, professionalism returning just enough to keep things from spiralling into medical chaos. You pad it with a cushion, snug the blanket around it again, and kiss him slower this time. Tender. Full of forgiveness, amusement, and love.

“I’m still saying yes, by the way,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Even if you’re clinically terrible at staying injury-free during romantic milestones.”

Lewis opens one eye. “Really?”

You nod, your smile radiant. “Truly. You’re mine now. Limp and all.”

He tugs you back into his arms, cocooning you both in the blanket like a love burrito, his chin resting atop your head as you nestle against his chest. Your laughter softens to contented sighs, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his shirt while his thumb strokes your shoulder.

As the stars blink on above you in knowing approval, and the lake exhales a sigh of serenity that matches the one shared between two tangled souls, it becomes clear this isn’t just a night of laughter and ankle-induced chaos. It’s a moment diagnosed with something deeper something gentle, a little messy, and utterly life-changing.

You, the doctor who’s prescribed remedies to bodies and boundaries for years, now find yourself wrapped around the one person who defies every clinical rule and still heals you in ways science never could. And he, the driver whose life has been measured in lap times and podium finishes, has finally found the quiet kind of victory one defined not by trophies, but by a shared blanket and lips brushed like promises under constellations.

Wrapped in cocoa and confessions, tangled in fleece and foolish grins, you’ve scribbled your love story into the stars with laughter, with longing, and yes, with one tragic but iconic yelp.

The diagnosis? Prescribed by the heart.

And the treatment plan? More nights like this.

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