#and i celebrate my love with her and without her

[loafysainz]

KICKING MY MAN OUT WHILE IM CHANGING | F1 DRIVER EDITION

F1 Driver x Fem!reader

lil bit 18+

insp by tiktok video (I forgot to save the vid 😭)

● Carlos Sainz

It was a slow Sunday morning in Madrid, the kind where the sunlight spilled gently through the curtains and the scent of coffee drifted through the apartment like a warm hug. You had a lunch reservation in just under an hour with both your families, his parents, your parents, a table too long for a normal day, but just right for a semi-formal “yes we’re married and still very much in love” celebration.

You were in the bedroom, standing in front of the wardrobe in a robe, biting your lip as you tried to choose between the two dresses laid out on the bed. Carlos was sitting behind you on the edge of the mattress, shirtless, hair still damp from his shower, scrolling on his phone, occasionally glancing up to shamelessly ogle you.

He wasn't even pretending to be subtle about it.

“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes, you creep,” you teased, looking at him through the mirror.

He didn’t even deny it. “I’m admiring my wife,” he said nonchalantly, eyes locked on yours, smirk tugging at his lips.

You turned with a half-playful glare, pointing a manicured finger at the door. “Out. I need to change.”

Carlos blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m changing. Go.”

“But I’ve seen you naked like... a million times,” he said, setting his phone down and raising an eyebrow. “You literally sat on my lap naked this morning...”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “Different energy. This is the ‘trying to look hot in front of your mother’ kind of change. I need silence. Focus.”

Carlos groaned dramatically and fell back on the bed like you’d just broken his heart. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Carlos,” you warned, trying not to laugh. “Go.”

“I just want to sit here and support you emotionally while you change clothes.”

“You want to see my butt.”

“…Can’t it be both?”

You rolled your eyes, walking over and tugging his arm to get him up. He made himself extra heavy on purpose, flopping like a child resisting bedtime.

“Don’t make me call your mom and tell her you’re being a menace.”

He sat up with a gasp, clutching his chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You’re evil,” he said with a grin. “Sexy and evil.”

“Out,” you said again, opening the door for him.

Carlos stood, towering over you just a little, and leaned in close like he was going to kiss you—but instead, he kissed the tip of your nose. “You’re really kicking me out?” he asked, lower lip slightly out in an exaggerated pout.

“I’ll call you back in when I’m done.”

“Can I peek?”

“No.”

He walked toward the hallway, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. “I’m just saying... if I hear a thump, I will come running in. What if you trip and fall? Or your zipper gets stuck and you need my strong husband arms?”

You laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Carlos paused in the doorway, smirking as he said, “You love me.”

You closed the door with a click. “Too much.”

He shouted through the door seconds later, “You know I’m standing here until you call me back, right?! I’m not going far. I’m gonna lean on this wall dramatically like I’m in a telenovela!”

You could hear him slide down the wall and sit outside the door with a little groan. “Mi amor... estoy perdido sin ti...” (My love....I am lost without you)

“Carlos, shut up!”

“I’ll shut up when you let me back in!”

___

● Lewis Hamilton

You stood by the closet in your robe, eyes darting between two dresses as you weighed the pros and cons in your head. Meanwhile, Lewis was comfortably sprawled across the bed, shirt half-buttoned, barefoot, casually scrolling on his phone and humming under his breath.

You glanced at him. “Baby… can you step out for a minute?”

Lewis blinked, then looked up from his phone slowly, lips parting. “Huh?”

“I need to change.”

He blinked again. “Change like… outfit change? In front of me? Your husband?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes. So... out.”

Lewis sat up, absolutely scandalized. “You’re kicking me out of our own bedroom? This is betrayal in its purest form.”

You laughed. “I just need like… five minutes to get dressed in peace.”

He placed a hand on his chest like you’d stabbed him. “You don’t want an audience? A little hype squad energy?”

“Absolutely not. You make it worse. You do that thing where you just stare and smirk.”

Lewis looked offended. “I do not smirk. I admire. That’s called love, darling.”

You walked over and tugged at his hand. “Come on, Sir Seven-Time World Champion, off you go.”

He got up dramatically, sighing the whole way like a Shakespearean prince banished from his kingdom. “This is so sad. I used to be allowed to see things.”

You laughed, pushing him gently toward the door. “Go sit on the couch. I’ll call you when I’m decent.”

At the threshold, he paused, turning back to flash you that signature Lewis grin. “Just so you know… I’ll be out here sulking. Alone. Cold. Emotionally bruised.

You raised an eyebrow.

He added in a mock-whimper, “...probably in need of cuddles later to recover.”

You rolled your eyes, closing the door in his face. Through it, you heard:

“You’re lucky I love you, woman!”

And then, quieter.

“Five minutes. Tops. Or I’m sneaking back in.”

___

● Lando Norris

Lando was sprawled on your shared bed like a starfish, head dangling upside down off the side, phone held above his face. He was wearing your pink silk robe because he said it was "comfy" and refused to give it back. The sleeves were way too short for him, and one side kept slipping off his shoulder, but he proudly claimed it was “his now” and walked around the house like he was in a fashion ad.

You held up your dress and glanced at him. “Lando, can you get out for a sec? I need to change.”

He didn’t even move. Not a twitch. “Why? I’ve literally seen every part of you. Including that one time you fell getting out of the shower and cried over a stubbed toe.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he continued like he was on stage. “I was traumatized, you know. You wailed like it was the end of the world. I still hear that scream in my dreams.”

“Lando.”

“But whyyy?” he whined like a sulky kid, flipping onto his stomach and hugging your pillow like it held the answers to the universe. “You’re my wife. Your boobs are basically my emotional support system. They calm me.”

You raised your voice a little. “Lando!”

He let out a guttural groan as if you’d just told him he was banned from racing forever. With the world’s most exaggerated sigh, he rolled onto the floor and lay flat on the carpet, dramatically clutching his heart like you’d just ripped it out.

“Wow,” he gasped. “First you steal my robe, now you steal my right to exist in my own bedroom. Is this what marriage is? Is this what I signed up for? Lies? Betrayal? Nudity I’m not allowed to witness?”

You were trying so hard not to laugh as he rolled over and stared at the ceiling like a broken man.

Then he started crawling toward the door like he was dying in a war movie, dragging himself an inch at a time. “Fine,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “I’ll just go suffer. Alone. Unloved. Cast aside like yesterday’s socks.”

He reached the doorframe and leaned his head against it as if it pained him to leave you behind.

“And cold,” he added, sniffling. “Because someone stole my silky warm robe.”

At the door, he peeked back over his shoulder with the saddest puppy eyes imaginable. “But if your dress has one of those slits, just know I’ll be trying to unzip it with my eyes all night.”

You tossed a scrunchie at him, which he caught with a smug little grin, clearly proud of himself.

And then he closed the door slowly, still clinging to the drama of the moment like an Oscar-worthy actor. As he disappeared into the hallway, his voice echoed theatrically:

“This is marriage abuse!”

Then after the pause:

“I hope you trip over your shoe. Just a little. Not like... hospital trip. Just... mild embarrassment.”

You laughed so hard, you had to sit down, still holding the dress, as Lando’s muffled voice kept drifting through the hallway walls like a very sassy ghost.

___

● Charles Leclerc

Charles was buttoning his crisp white shirt, humming something in French under his breath, when you stood with your gown in hand.

“Can you leave for a sec, love? I want to change.”

He paused mid-button. “Wait… leave? Why?”

“I just wanna change in peace.”

He tilted his head, confused. “But I always help you with your zipper. Or your heels. Or picking your earrings.”

You smiled. “I know. I just want to try the full reveal this time.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly lowered his hands from his buttons like you’d just told him you were moving to another continent.

“But…” he said, stepping closer, already forming a dramatic argument in his head, “what if you trip on the fabric and fall? What if the zipper gets stuck? What if you choose those earrings I don’t like—”

You raised an eyebrow, and he stopped, giving you a helpless little shrug like a boy being told to leave his favorite toy behind. “I’m just saying,” he mumbled, “it feels illegal to kick your fiancé out of the room. I am the fiancé. I come with backstage privileges.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, but his pout only deepened.

He tried again. “But I always see you first. I love seeing you first. I—I live for that moment when you do the twirl and say, ‘What do you think?’ and I stand there like an idiot with my jaw on the floor.”

��Exactly,” you teased. “Let’s give your jaw a reason to actually drop.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed dramatically, flopping back a little like his soul had just left his body. “Okay… but I don’t like the idea of someone else helping you. Is your sister here? Or is it that makeup artist who flirts too much?”

“Charles.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll wait outside. But just know… if the dress is too pretty, I might not let you leave the house.”

As he walked out, he lingered in the doorway like a sad little ghost, still watching you with narrowed eyes.

“You sure you don’t need me to zip it? Or buckle your shoes? Or emotionally support you through a wardrobe crisis?”

You giggled, shaking your head, and he finally exhaled in surrender.

Then, just as he stepped into the hallway, he glanced back over his shoulder, voice quieter, more serious this time. “Tu es à moi, d’accord? ”(You’re mine, okay?)

You laughed. “Always.”

He grinned softly, but before the door clicked shut, he peeked one last time and added, “Even if the dress makes you look like a goddess, you still belong to me. Surtout si tu ressembles à une déesse.” (Especially if you look like a goddess.)

And then came his final mutter from behind the door:

“Unfair. So unfair. My fiancée is too beautiful and now I’m banished like a criminal.”

___

● Max Verstappen

Max was fixing his watch by the window when you spoke.

“Max, can you go outside for a bit? I need to change.”

He turned slowly, staring at you like you’d just asked him to retire mid-season. Brows slightly furrowed, jaw tensing like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“What for?”

“I want to change privately.”

He blinked, stunned. “We share a bed every night. I’ve literally helped you wax your legs.”

You shot him a look. “That was one time and you screamed more than I did.”

He narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin. “Yeah, well, that was trauma. I wasn’t mentally prepared.”

You pointed toward the door. “Out, Max.”

He sighed, muttering in Dutch as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Whatever. But you’re being weird.”

As he dragged his feet toward the door, he paused dramatically in the doorway. “Don’t wear anything uncomfortable. I’m not carrying you when your heels start hurting.”

He stood there a second longer, glancing over his shoulder, voice dropping with that familiar edge he used when he was both annoyed and extremely curious. “You always kick me out when it’s the sexy dress. Unbelievable.”

And then quieter, under his breath, as if you couldn’t hear, but you definitely did: “Like I haven’t seen it all. I live for the sexy dress.”

You rolled your eyes.

But Max wasn't done. He leaned back into the room, gripping the doorframe with one hand, tilting his head with that cocky little smirk. “You know, I could close my eyes. Be a gentleman. Just sit quietly on the bed while you change. I won’t even peek. Promise.”

He was definitely going to peek.

“Max.”

“What? I’m offering compromise!”

You crossed your arms, unmoved.

He groaned. “You are so mean to me.”

Another dramatic step backward. “Imagine kicking out your own boyfriend, your big strong boyfriend, who just wants to help you zip up your dress and maybe kiss your shoulder once or twice—"

“Out, Max!”

He held his hands up in surrender but grinned like a devil. “Fine. But just know—if I hear even one click from a high heel, I’m kicking the door down.”

He opened the door halfway, then peeked back again, lower voice now rougher, playful. “Actually... if it is the sexy dress, I’m canceling our reservation. We’re staying in.”

“MAX.”

He finally stepped out, but not before adding, “This is emotional damage, by the way. Deep wounds. I hope you feel guilty.”

The door closed with a thud. But you could still hear him outside, loudly muttering in Dutch, followed by a sigh that sounded way too dramatic to be real.

___

● George Russell

George was standing by the mirror, sleeves rolled just past his forearms, tie undone, shirt still open at the collar. The kind of man who looked like a daydream without even trying. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at his reflection as you stepped in with your dress folded over your arm.

He turned instantly when he heard the soft rustle of fabric. Eyes dragging down, then back up to your face.

“What’s that?” he asked, already suspicious.

You smirked. “My dress. I’m changing.”

George tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable, voice velvet-smooth. “In here?”

“In our room?” you teased. “Yes. But… can you step out for a second?”

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

Then,

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “Did you just ask me to leave our bedroom so you can undress in peace?”

You nodded innocently.

George looked absolutely offended.

“Have you lost your mind?” he whispered dramatically, stepping forward like he was about to deliver a dramatic monologue. “I have personally unzipped every dress you’ve worn in the last twelve months. I’ve seen you wrapped in towels, tangled in sheets, standing half-naked demanding to know where your lip liner went.”

You shrugged, amused. “Yeah, well… I want to do a surprise reveal.”

“A surprise reveal,” he repeated like you’d just told him you were joining RedBull. “I live in a constant state of being emotionally unprepared for your beauty. There is no surprise. Every day is a bloody reveal.”

He stared at you a moment longer, jaw clenched, eyes dark. Then he let out a long, suffering sigh, tossing his phone on the bed like he was being banished from the palace.

“Fine,” he muttered, walking slowly toward the door. “I’ll just... go. Into exile. Like some forgotten prince. I hope your dress is worth the heartbreak.”

You rolled your eyes. “George.”

He turned around just before stepping out, his voice low and dangerous. “Just so you know,” he said, eyes locked on you, “if I’m not the one helping you zip it up… I will be the one unzipping it later. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

Your breath hitched, but you held your ground.

He lingered one more beat, then groaned under his breath like he physically couldn’t believe you were doing this to him.

As he opened the door, he tossed one last look over his shoulder. “You’ve seen me cry watching a dog food commercial, and you’re telling me I can’t watch you put on a dress?”

Then, more petulantly:

“I kissed you while you were wearing a face mask that smelled like seaweed, and you want privacy now?”

“Out,” you laughed.

He stepped into the hall, but not without drama. You heard his voice from the other side, full of dramatic agony:

“Your makeup brushes are judging me. Your Dyson airwrap just called me pathetic.”

Then, quieter.

“God help me if this dress has a slit.”

___

● Oscar Piastri

You held the hanger in one hand, your gown draped over your arm, and stared at your husband, who was currently lounging across the edge of your shared bed in nothing but sweatpants, scrolling his phone like he wasn’t the single most dangerous man in the room.

“Oscar,” you said slowly, cautiously. “Can you step out for a second?”

He didn’t even glance up. “Why?”

“I need to change.”

Now he looked up.

Deadpan. Sharp. Amused.

“We’re married,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, his tone far too casual. “I’ve seen you change. You’ve changed in front of me a hundred times. Hell, I’ve *undressed* you more times than I can count.”

“Yes. And every time, you turn into a menace.” You narrowed your eyes, gesturing toward the door. “So out.”

Oscar’s lips curled, like he knew exactly where this was going. He set his phone down on the nightstand and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze lazily trailing down your body, even though you were still in your robe.

“You mean to tell me…” he started, that teasing lilt in his voice, “…that if I sit right here, quietly, not even moving a muscle, you still want me to leave?”

You folded your arms. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “What if I turn around and cover my eyes?”

“You’ll peek.”

“Will not.”

“You always do.”

Oscar smiled slowly, like you’d just proved his point. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so hot, then.”

You threw a pillow at him. “Oscar.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, catching it easily, standing with a stretch that very unfairly showed off his toned torso. “But for the record, I’m protesting this. Morally. Emotionally. Physically.”

“I’m giving you thirty seconds.”

He walked toward you, stopping just inches from where you stood, gown still clutched in your hands. You could feel the heat from his skin, the way his eyes dropped for a millisecond to the hint of bare collarbone visible beneath your robe.

“And what if I decide not to leave?” he murmured, voice lower now, eyes darkening the way they always did when he was two seconds from chaos. “What if I sit back down and wait until that dress comes off instead?”

You stared at him, heat crawling up your neck. “Then you won’t see the dress at all. I’ll change in the bathroom and lock you out.”

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Cruel woman.”

You laughed, trying to push him away gently. “Out, Piastri.”

But he didn’t budge, instead, he dropped a kiss just under your ear, warm and slow, like he knew exactly how weak that spot was.

“You know I’m not just being wild for fun,” he murmured. “It’s this robe. It’s illegal. You in it? Criminal. You expecting me to be sane? Impossible.”

“I need to change, Osc.”

“Five more minutes,” he pleaded, lips brushing your jaw now. “Just five.”

You shoved him lightly. “You’ll turn five into twenty-five and we’ll be late.”

He sighed, dramatically again, pulling back with a cheeky grin. “Fine. But just know, the second that dress is on, I’m coming back in and you’re doing a full spin. Slowly. With commentary.”

You gave him a look. “Out.”

Oscar kissed your cheek, your nose, your forehead, and finally, with a groan of defeat, dragged himself toward the door like it physically pained him to leave.

As he stepped out, he turned, walking backward, grinning. “Just yell when you're ready. Or don’t. I’ll sense it. Instinct.”

You slammed the door in his face.

From outside, his muffled voice called, “Still hot, by the way!”

You smiled to yourself, heart full, face flushed, gown pressed to your chest like it might burn from the heat in your body. Married to Oscar Piastri, and he still looked at you like he’d never get enough.

And yeah, you’d need a full five minutes of peace.

Because when that door opened again… chaos was coming.

END

HELLOOOOOOOO I AM BACK YALLL. HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT. 🩷

[butyoudidthis4what]

Congratulations on the milestone!!! Happy to be one of a thousand lol

From the five word sentences "did you lie to me?" with Jack Abbot. For the vibes, maybe angsty with a happy ending?

Thank you so much friend, I am so happy and grateful to have you here with me! ♥️ Also I love your url so much 😂 Thank you for sending this in and I hope you enjoy!

Celebrate 1k with me by requesting a drabble! Read this post for prompts and characters! 🙂

If you'd like to be tagged in the 1k drabbles please read and interact with this post!

It's planned.

Jack Abbot x F Doctor!Reader

1.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: The tiniest reference to cheating with an italicized that but in the context of reader thinking how that's not where her mind would go to with Jack. Robby had to take one for the team here for this storyline. Very very soft and fluffy! The smallest dash of angst (like barely, especially for me). I was told it was giving Jack in the vignettes in Part 1 of NML vibes.

Summary: Robby talks too loud. A surprise is ruined.

AN: I genuinely have no idea where this came from it just kind of came out when I opened a doc for this prompt so I hope it's okay!

“Did you lie to me?” 

That was certainly not what Jack was expecting to come out of your mouth when he saw you walking up to him. Your tone isn’t accusatory as such, just questioning. Almost a hint of joking in there. Almost.  

He looks up at you, makes that eye contact he loves so you know he’s telling you the truth. “No.” He says it with a confidence that's reassuring. And you like that his reply wasn’t ‘about what?’ it was no. And Jack doesn’t need to ask about what because he doesn’t lie to you. Ever. About anything. 

Jack was right there at one of the charting stations as you looked up so you just walked straight to him to ask without even really thinking about the implications of what you’d overheard. You’re strong communicators. It’s why you work so well together as a couple and, yeah, as doctors. 

“I thought we didn’t have breakfast on Sunday because you were getting lunch with Robby before the game.” You shrug at him a little. 

You were going to run out and have a late breakfast with Jack before he left for the game but he’d told you that Robby asked if they could meet early for lunch. You didn’t have any problem with that of course. Sure, you were bummed a bit about not getting breakfast with Jack but it wasn’t the end of the world by any means. You’d have him all night. 

It’s not so much that you particularly care what it was Robby and Jack were doing before the Sunday afternoon baseball game they went to five days ago. You trust Jack. You know based on what Robby said that they were together. And even if they hadn’t been, that is not the first place your mind would go with Jack. It would go to him hiding a doctor’s appointment from you because something was seriously wrong with him and he was trying to protect you until he had more answers. But from what you overheard Robby telling Dana it doesn’t seem like they had lunch. They were together so it doesn’t really matter to some extent. You just want to know why he didn’t just tell you what they were really going to do. 

Jack stiffens, his jaw setting a little. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Yeah. And he and I had lunch. Why?” He and Robby had gotten lunch like he told you. They’d made a couple of stops before that he omitted but he couldn’t really tell you where they were going without giving it all away.

“I heard him tell Dana that before the game you guys went to a couple of jewelry stores…” It’s as you say it out loud and start to really think that it clicks. Jewelry stores. “Oh.” You don’t have a birthday coming up. There’s no anniversary, no other big thing to celebrate on the horizon. Or maybe there is. 

“Oh.” 

Jack confirms it. “I’m gonna kill him,” Jack breathes, shaking his head. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” It’s only then that he finally drops your gaze as he lets out a long sigh and runs a hand through his hair as he looks up at the ceiling for a second. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to ask Myrna to kill him for me.”

“Jack!” You whisper shout his name as you grab his hands, bouncing up on the balls of your feet a little as you beam at him. “Seriously? You want that with me?”

“Of course I want that with you. We’ve talked about it. And you’re it for me, Beautiful.” He pushes through his irritation at Robby to give you a real smile and pull you gently by your hands a little closer to him. “I can’t imagine the rest of my life without you next to me.” 

“Jack.” You draw his name out in a slightly higher pitch as you tilt your head at him for a second. You’re getting emotional. You love this man more than you could ever possibly know what to do with or express. “I love you.” 

“I love you more.” Jack almost never kisses you on the floor when you’re both on shift together, but he does right now, short and chaste and sweet, just long enough to really feel it.

You bite your lip and giggle at him as he pulls away. “You might as well ask now!”

Jack looks at you amused but it turns into amused incredulity when he realizes you’re serious. “No!” He shakes his head at you, letting out an incredulous laugh. “I am absolutely not proposing to you in this god forsaken place.”

“It would be sweet! Our friends are here!” You nod encouragingly. 

“No,” Jack laughs, “it wouldn’t. It would be… I’m not proposing to you in the middle of the Pitt. I’m not.”

You nod slowly, in thought. “We could go to the roof? Or just outside the ambo bay?”

“I’m not proposing to you anywhere within a two mile radius of this hospital.” He shakes his head as he says it, amused smile on his face. 

“So when we get home?” You raise your eyebrows at him and nod as you grin.

“No.” Jack shakes his head and lets go of your hands to move his to your shoulders, squeezing them gently. “It’s planned. You deserve a real proposal, one that’s ‘us-’”

“I mean, this place is pretty us,” you offer quietly with a little shrug and pull down of your lips.

Jack has to laugh. He loves you so much, his sweet, tenacious, problem-solving, intelligent, warm-hearted woman. “Beautiful.” He shakes his head at you. “It’s planned. The plan is still in place and is going to remain in place.”

“So I just have to wait in suspense for the day or night it finally comes?” you huff playfully. 

“Blame Robby.” Jack shrugs. “It was supposed to be a total surprise.”

“Okay but is it soon?” Jack loves the eager smile you wear as you ask.

“It’s sometime within the next five years, yes.” He smirks at you. 

“Jack!”

“Fine, it’s within the next two years,” he offers. 

You pout at him, give him the big puppy eyes and everything. 

Jack gives you a knowing smile and tilts his head. “Do you really think I, of all people, went out and got a ring knowing I was going to sit on it for a long time?” he whispers like he’s telling you a secret.

You tilt your head and raise your eyebrows in thought. It makes Jack chuckle. And then he sees Robby.

“Dr. Robinavitch!” Jack calls just loud enough for Robby and Dana to hear as they walk out of a patient room 25 or so feet away. Jack takes his hands off your shoulders as you both turn to face Robby and Dana. He waves his hand to get Robby to come over. Dana accompanies him, of course. “I’m gonna kill you,” Jack says when Robby gets loud enough to hear it at just below a normal volume.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Robby smirks at him. 

Jack playfully bumps his hip with yours to let you know that you should tell Robby. “Jewelry stores.” A huge smile breaks out over your face and you grab Jack’s hand and lace your fingers together before bringing it over your heart. Jack and Dana smile and laugh softly at your infectious enthusiasm and excitement.

Robby doesn’t smile. Instead, his eyes flick between you and Jack and he pales. “Oh fuck.”

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Worth The Risk

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: When you and your boss get stuck working late at the Embassy, a heated accident makes the two of you realize that maybe some things are worth the risk. Written for @zepskies 5K follower celebration!

Tropes: Little tiny bit of grumpy sunshine, Tiny bit of shy/awkward reader, Boss and Secretary Dynamic, Soft! Javier. Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.6K

Warnings: I'm labelling this one as 18+ (just in case)! Sexual situationish? Cursing, Super awkward situation, Make out session, References to sex (there's quite a bit), References to Javi being a tiny bit of a slut *said affectionately* (because we all love him for it), Loverboy! Javi, Accidental Handjob (I don't know what to call it)? Reader is kinda awkward, Reader has anxiety, Reader being a little bit self-deprecating? Reader has a bit of a developed backstory for the fic, Javier being a little bit self-deprecating? Javier might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I have never written for Javier before, so please, PLEASE be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

A/N: Alright Alex, happy 5k! This one rolled out of me due to the very, VERY inspirational gif that you sent me (still can't look at it for too long without stroking out 🤣). I'll have to return the favor someday 😈 But to everyone else, this one is really just something silly that was living rent free in my head so enjoy!

There is something magical about rain.

The gentle patter against a rooftop like a soothing melody, the racing droplets down a window that you can trace with your fingertips, the distant rumble of thunder over the mountains shaking through the lush green forests, the heady smell of rain that comes moments before a downpour, the flash of lightning that captures the world in shades of black and white- it makes the rest of the world melt away, isolates you to one single place to bask in the enchanting sounds and beauty of it all.

Anything can happen in a thunderstorm.

Of course there are some things that are not magical about rain.

The feeling of the cold droplets slipping below your collar and trickling down your spine, the squish of your soaked socks and shoes when you step into a puddle that was a little deeper than you thought it was, the flash of lightning above your head that is a little too close for comfort followed the deep crack of thunder…

Or when you’re fighting for your life with a stubborn umbrella in a heavy downpour that won’t do the one job it was literally made for and you end up looking like a drowned rat by the time you get to where you were going, and you’re too embarrassed to go in so you just turn to take the walk of shame home, and end up running into your “so sexy it should be a crime” boss.

Not speaking from personal experience or anything…

The raging thunderstorm that pummeled and shook the American Embassy was trying it's best to rival the storm that Noah survived, and was also unfortunately keeping you from your warm bed past midnight on a Tuesday.

An umbrella would have been worthless at this point given that the rain seemed to be coming up from the ground and because your ancient Nova had refused to start this morning and you'd walked to work, you were stuck.

But you didn't mind staying late for one reason:

Javier Peña

The level of crush you had on your boss was shameful, but you hadn't meant for this to happen, honest! He was just, so, so…

Javier sighs where he sits at his desk, leaning back to prop his feet up on the strong metal table top while the muscles of his right arm strain against the sleeve of his orange button up, making your throat constrict.

Sexy.

Which yes, maybe it was a bit of a cliché, a secretary falling in love with her boss that was way out of her league in every single way, but you were.

Sure Javier had a reputation with women. Goodness knows you had heard every single scandalous whisper about his numerous escapades and seen every sultry look from the women who passed by the office hoping to catch a glimpse of your boss hard at work. The same women who told you how lucky you were to work with Javier and how jealous they were of you.

They didn't need to be. You knew for a fact that Javier didn't see you as more than just his secretary.

How you ask? Because of the way he treated you.

You'd seen Javier charming someone back to his apartment- the moves, the smirk, the mischievous glint in his whiskey colored eyes when he knew he had someone on the hook, and the low rumble of his chuckle that made you lose all feeling in your legs. You'd seen the same song and dance at every Christmas, New Years, and whatever other holiday that you were celebrating at the Embassy party.

But around you, Javier was a different man.

Yes he still had the same charm, but he was softer. He genuinely would ask you how your day was going whenever he walked by, listened to you whisper whatever gossip you picked up at the water cooler on the fifth floor or in the break room and laughed with you, suggested places to order lunch from where he knew you would find something too, walked with you to your car when it was late, and whenever he went out with Steve he always brought something back for you, whether it be a nice cup of well-needed coffee or a Cocada from your favorite bakery down the street.

He was a good boss. Anyone would be lucky to work with him.

Plus you'd seen the kind of women he was interested in and you weren't one of them. You weren't confident or outgoing. Sure you'd speak to your boss, Steve, and a few people around the office when you had to, but you were not okay with just striking up a conversation or joining a group mid-sentence because that was like a suicide mission. Plus being as clumsy as you were, you'd probably take a few steps towards the group then eat it on the musty carpets.

And you certainly didn't dress like any of them- well, some of them dressed for their profession and that was okay, but you definitely couldn't imagine wearing anything like that around the office.

Your wardrobe consisted of oversized sweaters, long flowy skirts, and soft dresses that draped rather than squeezed your boobs into submission and didn't prop them up to say "hello." But you wanted to be comfy at work because you were there so many hours during the day and you didn't think that you'd be able to breathe if you wore anything tight when you sat down.

That wasn't to say that you didn't "try" when you were at work, just that your sense of style was more… reserved than the women you saw Javier gravitate towards.

So basically you were trying to not be attracted to your boss, and after three years all your crush had done was triple in size and follow you around like a smelly water buffalo.

Javier sighs again, drawing your gaze up from the stack of notes you were organizing into chronological order for him. His eyes skate over to you, a weary smile twitching at the end of his lips before his attention drops back to the folder perched in his lap.

Everyone else had gone home for the night, and usually by now Javier would have gone too, but he had a meeting with Ambassador Noonan in the morning and was trying to prepare.

Maybe he needs some coffee.

You think to yourself as you rise from your cluttered desk making your way to the small break room two rooms down the corridor, not noticing the way Javier's eyes follow you.

He had told you to go home earlier, told you that he had this handled, but you refused. Javier didn’t understand why you wouldn't go, but he was happy you didn't, because it meant that he got to be with you for just a few more hours than normal. Got to hear your soft sigh as your shuffled through papers, got to see the way your face got that cute scrunch when you were concentrating, and got to smell the bright mist of your citrus perfume whenever you walked by. The same perfume that he had to stop himself from trying to gulp down from the air like a man dying of thirst in the dessert, because the way you smelled was like a drug to him. It made him feel like an addict of the worst kind.

And then also made him feel like the scummiest guy on the planet because he was your boss and shouldn't be having any of those thoughts about you, but he couldn't help it. Not when since the first day he met you, Javier felt his dead heart start to beat again. Not when being in the same room with you was like standing too close to the sun, blinded and filled with so much heat he thought it would all come pouring out of him like molten lava.

Javier Peña had it bad. Steve often teased him about it and Javi shrugged him off, but Javier knew in his heart that there wasn't much he could do to change it.

Because he wanted more, but he knew that he shouldn't.

You busy yourself with the steps of making coffee. Measuring out the grounds, filling the pot with water, etc. And when you have two mugs filled to the brim with the elixir of life, you turn to go back to the office.

Unfortunately what you didn't know is that Javier came to see what you were doing, and at the exact moment you turn around with much more enthusiasm than someone should have at 12:39 on a Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, Javier enters the room.

You crash into him, pouring the entire contents of both mugs onto the front of his shirt and down his pants.

Javier makes a sound like a wounded animal.

Coming from someone who had been shot in the past, you now knew that taking scalding hot coffee seemed to be the same level of pain as a bullet wound.

"Shit!" You scream, placing the empty mugs on the counter before turning back to note the prominent stain all over Javier's lower stomach and the front of his blue jeans.

Before Javier can reach for the paper towels to clean himself, your hand comes down hard on the center of his chest, stress fueled anxiety giving you almost superhuman strength as you shove him backwards into one of the plastic chairs that sit idle around the pathetic table.

A startled yelp comes through Javier's lips as he stumbles back in surprise, landing unceremoniously in a chair, stunned. You don’t give him time to process the events that happened in the last three seconds, before you're dropping to your knees in front of him, paper towel roll in hand, scrubbing furiously at his lap.

"Oh fuck, Mr. Peña I am so SO sorry!" You babble, working your hands back and forth on the front of his pants, leaning over him. "I didn’t know that you were coming in here and I wanted to make us some coffee because I know that you've been working so hard tonight and-"

Javier groans low under his breath. "It's okay I-" He tries to push you away, but you continue to dab and wipe at the coffee that has soaked through his jeans.

"It's not okay! You could have second or third degree burns." You stare up at him wide eyed.

One of his hands is fisted on his knee, the other gripping the plastic edge of the table like a lifeline, his jaw clenched tight as you work your hands over him.

"I'm fine-" He says through gritted teeth, brown eyes flashing with something that looks a lot like pain.

Maybe we should go to the hospital!

"No, you're not here-" You prop yourself up, placing your hands on Javier's muscular thighs, your face level with his crotch, and blow.

Javier's body constricts, his knuckles turning white from grabbing the table.

"Is that better?" You look up at him again, eyes wide and hopeful, anxiety and embarrassment flooding the synapses in your brain. You were so worried of Javier being in pain, of him being hurt, that you weren't considering the opposite.

Because Javier Peña is trying not to come in his pants like a damn teenager.

He lets out a strangled sound, but doesn't answer, so you try again, blowing over his crotch and hoping that it soothes the scalded flesh.

“You have to stop-“ Javier says in a breathy whisper, face contorting in something that looks like pain. His dark hair is scrunched and wild, sweat beading along his forehead, and his eyes squeezed shut as if he can’t look at you.

Can you sue someone for spilling coffee on you?

“Don’t worry I think I can get it all off!” You say, beginning to frantically dab at his pants again.

Javier was in hell… but fuck it felt a lot like heaven.

He was trying his best not to focus on what you were doing. His mind flitting from photos of M-19 personnel massacred by Pablo Escobar, photos of plane crash victims, memories of drug busts, to other images of whatever else could take his mind off of what was happening in his lap, but nothing was working.

Not when you were kneeling in front of him, eyes wide with fear and worry for him, wearing one of those handmade oversized sweaters that Javier thought made you look unbelievably cute, soft hands rubbing, dabbing, and squeezing him, your cool breath rushing through his coffee soaked pants, and with you apologizing over and over in that sweet voice of yours.

The same one that Javi tried not to think about in the dead of night when all was quiet and he was alone, when another voice inside his head (that sounded remarkably like Steve) told him not to start something with his secretary-

But Javi couldn't help it.

You were unlike anyone he'd met in his entire life. You were soft, kind, generous, with a smile that always made something deep inside Javi break whenever you looked at him. The same smile that he sought after a day without end, because it was the only thing that made him feel like what he was doing meant something after years of him sinking deeper into the mire.

The moment that you started working for him, Javier found himself excited to come to work and that was something that warranted a whole fleet of flying pigs.

You shouldn't be working here, let alone living here. Whenever you didn't show up to work or were a few minutes late Javier's mind went right to the worst, that something had happened to you. That someone had done something and he was too late, because Colombia chewed up and spat out the kind of person you were.

It was why he couldn't bear the thought of you walking alone to your car after work, and why he seemed to be in the same neighborhood on the weekends when you made your way to the market down the street from your apartment to go grocery shopping. It was also why he was trying his best to keep his distance from you, because someone like you had no business being with someone like him.

"Fuck." Javi half moans, because he can’t keep it in.

You look up at him,  still frantically wiping the front of his pants with a coffee stained paper towel. Javier isn't looking at you, his head is tilted upwards at the ceiling and his eyes are squeezed shut, sweat beading along his hairline, breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Shit, Javi I'm so, so sorry. I know it hurts. I'm going to go get some ice." You try to rise from the ground, but Javier's hand comes down on your shoulder to stop you.

"Please don't." His teeth are gritted together.

"But you're hurt. You could have a burn or-"

"I don't."

"How do you know?"

"Cariño-" Javier chuckles, his eyes blink open, turning a honeyed whiskey in the light. "I stopped thinking about that the second you dropped to your knees and started cleaning me up. It doesn’t hurt. And if you keep doing what you’re doing we’re going to have a bigger problem.”

“What do you mea-“

It still doesn't dawn on you what he's talking about or why he would stop thinking about hot coffee burning him until your gaze lowers again to his lap.

Anything you’re about to say evaporates from the tip of your tongue.

In your eagerness and embarrassment, you'd forgotten exactly what it would have felt like for him when you scrubbed, dabbed, and blew on the front of his pants for the past two minutes.

Oh. My. Damn.

You think to yourself as you see the outline of Javier's large erection straining against the zipper of his coffee stained jeans.

How does he- nope nope not thinking about that right now.

By now your face is so warm with embarrassment you're sure that if someone were to crack an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds. The heat rivals the eruption of mount Vesuvius, rivals the surface of the sun if someone ran a train full of gasoline into it. There is no coming back from this, no rock big enough to hide under, no cave dark and deep enough to cover your shame.

You lean back on your heels, dropping your face into your hands. "I am so sorry-" The word had lost all meaning given how many times you'd said it within the last five minutes, but given the situation, you had no idea what to say.

To say you were mortified was an understatement. You were so embarrassed that you wanted the faded musty maroon carpet to come up and swallow you whole, so embarrassed that you wanted to go outside, open your mouth, and see if you could drown in the heavy downpour.

I'm never going to be able to show my face here again. I'm going to have to quit my job and change my name. And without a job I'll never have enough money to pay my rent or feed my cat, and if I can't feed my cat he's going to eat my face while I'm sleeping and-

Javier coughs out a laugh, the same one that usually made you feel like you'd swallowed sunshine, but not now. Especially not now not when you could call your own time of death.

You could imagine the gravestone:

Here lies so and so died, when she accidentally gave her boss a handjob.

You could also imagine the ridiculous rumors that would stem from this moment. The things that everyone would say about you the second they found out about this.

You can’t move, can’t even breathe.

The longer you sit there the worse you feel. Embarrassment, shame, and anxiety prickles along your skin, jumping and crackling through every nerve ending, making tears burn in your eyes. You wanted to curl up into a little ball under your desk and rot.

It was the single most embarrassing moment of your life and you knew that there would be no other event that would ever top it.

Javier slides out of his chair to kneel in front of you, whispering your name, but you can't look at him, can't do anything.

The thought of running outside into the thunderstorm crosses your mind, but you’d worn heels today and you didn’t think you’d get far running. And it would have been even more embarrassing if you slipped and busted your nose open on the marble floor in the lobby, because you knew that Javier would insist on driving you to the hospital and you didn’t want to sit through that car ride if your life depended on it.

He says your name again, this time gently pulling your hands from your face.  “Why are you crying?” Worry flickers behind his golden gaze, thumbs brushing over the soft skin of your wrists.

“Because I’m embarrassed. I mean I touched you- touched it- I-“

My great grandchildren will still feel my shame. It will haunt them from beyond my grave. They won’t know a moment of peace!

“If anyone should be embarrassed it’s me.” Javier chuckles.

“I don’t think you still have enough of a sense of shame for that Mr. Peña.” You sniffle out a laugh.

It was true. You knew his reputation, had heard the rumor mill a hundred times over, not to mention you had fielded a number of angry phone calls directed at your boss all of whom you’d told them that Javier wasn’t there, while he stood there and made frantic gestures with his hands.

“Oh back to Mr. Peña I see.” He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. Javier's touch trails sparks against your skin, making your throat tight.

“Huh?" You blink in confusion.

“A minute ago you called me Javi.”

"I did?”

It was hard to think when he was still holding one of your wrists in his warm calloused hands. The same hands worn rough from years of holding a gun, and the ones that had only ever treated you with kindness in the three years that you'd worked for him.

"I don't think I've ever heard you call me anything other than 'Mr. Peña' since you got hired." He raises an eyebrow, signature smirk in place.

"Oh well- that's because I- um. You're my boss and I- I ."

I don’t want to get used to calling you anything else because then I won’t be able to stop.

"I like it when you call me Javi." His fingers trace across your chin, making your cheeks heat.

Any semblance of shame or embarrassment that you felt was quickly fading away with his touch. It was the most that he'd ever touched you, except for the few accidental brushes of your fingertips whenever you handed him things, or whenever he somehow was grocery shopping at the same market and he would gently place his hand on the small of your back to lead you through the crowded stalls.

You never understood why he shopped there too. It was thirty minutes in the opposite direction of where he lived.

This isn't happening. This is just a daydream I'm having and-

“But I don’t like it when you cry.” Javier’s mouth pulls down into a frown. “I promise it’s okay-“

“I’m sorry-” You wipe at your eyes with the back of your free hand.

You couldn't seem to stop saying it. But again you honestly didn't know what else to say. Sorry seemed to cover a multitude of sins. Not to mention the way that Javier was touching you and looking at you right now, and the energy that seemed to pulse and thrum through the air was making your head a little fuzzy.

Before you can say or do anything more, Javier leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You were just trying to help.”

Your hand falls automatically to the front of Javier's orange button up, gasping softly in surprise. He freezes, eyes wide as if he can’t believe that he did it either.

And he can't. Javier didn't meant to, but he can't stand to see you cry. Not when each time you did, it was like the sun was hidden behind the clouds and not when it was like a piece of himself was dying. And he didn't think that you should be embarrassed about this, because you were honestly just trying to help him.

The odd energy pulses again, threading through the air between the two of you, as neither one pulls away. His dark gaze is on you, hesitant, as if he's waiting for something you can't see. Some subtle que or tick that only he knows.

The spicy smell of Javier's aftershave floods into your nose, familiar in the best way, and the feeling of the warmth of his body only inches away makes your brain short circuit.

For the first time in the three years that you'd worked for Javier, you don't feel like his awkward secretary, because the way that he's looking at you… it makes you feel like more.

Javier leans forward just a hair, your hand still resting on his shirt, and brushes his lips against yours, eyes open, gauging your reaction. A sigh works it's way through your parted lips as you sink into the kiss, the hand you have resting on his shirt curling enough to feel the subtle shift of his muscles move and it's exactly what Javier needed.

His lips fall against yours with fervor, hands skating down the fabric of your sweater and finding your hips with ease, before he pulls you into his lap, not breaking the kiss.

It's unlike anything you could have imagined, more than any fantasy you could have made up in your head. The feeling of his supple lips, the tickle of his mustache, the warmth that surges up, up, up in a fluid wave through your body, the taste of the peppermint and stale coffee-

It’s addictive, maddening, hypnotic.

He groans into your mouth, the sound not unlike what he made moments ago, his hands subtly pushing up the edge of your sweater to find the heated skin of your waist fueling the spark that burns through your body. Goosebumps trace along your flesh with a heavy hand, the white hot fire that comes with the feeling of his skin on yours traveling from the base of your throat to the pit of your stomach.

“Javi-“ You breathe his name on a gasp, earning a groan from the man beneath you as he pulls you harder against him, moving his lips down the column of your throat into the shadow of your jaw whispering things in Spanish that you can’t understand. Your hands move up the expanse of his chest and find refuge in his hair, the dark locks falling beneath your fingertips, soft and curled slightly on the ends. Your name comes out of his mouth in a throaty whisper, rumbling up through where your chest is pressed against his.

You'd never heard anyone say it like that before, almost reverent, cherished, like you're his. As if after all this time you've always been his and it's always led to this moment. And it makes something inside break open and flood into the cavity of your chest.

Then all at once he stops, pulling back from you, pupils dilated slightly, looking at you in a daze, his chest rising and falling in rapid gasps.

“We shouldn’t- I shouldn’t.” His voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.

The embarrassment is back tenfold, because now that you’d felt him under you, felt the urgency of his touch against your body, his lips soft against your mouth you don’t know how the hell you’re going to do anything else whenever you see him.

“I'm sorry-“ You mutter before you can stop it, and try to move back off of him, misunderstanding what he means.

Javier kisses you again, holding you firmly on his lap, eyes darker than you'd ever seen them.

“Please stop apologizing.” He murmurs against your lips. “I meant that I don’t want it to happen like this. I at least want to take you out to dinner first. You're-" Javier swallows. "You deserve that."

You blink in surprise. It wasn't that you thought Javier wasn't a gentleman, it was that you weren't expecting him to say something like that. Not when there was no one left in the entire embassy and he didn't have to stop...

But with this pause, reality came roaring back in.

He's my boss. What would other people say?

“Are you sure that’s not a bad idea?” Your fingers gently move through the strands of hair at the back of his head, which makes Javier sigh and lean into your touch.

“It’s the worst idea. Been trying to not ask you out for three years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Javier chuckles

“It is a bad idea.” You bite the inside of your cheek.

It was. Beyond bad. Practically forbidden. Not to mention you knew for a fact that Javier would probably think you were just too weird and awkward to care about a follow up date and then it would ruin the relationship the two of you had.

But you wanted to say yes. That's an understatement, you wanted to scream yes from the mountaintops and perform a rendition of "The Hills Are Alive" with Julie Andrews.

"Terrible, cariño." Javier smirks a little wider, the grip he has on your waist tightening with a promise that flashes in his dark eyes.

“Maybe not coffee.” You say hesitantly.

"Yeah, that'd probably be safer.” Javier admits. “Though I think if I took you out for a drink there’s always the possibility you could spill your martini and stab me with an olive skewer.”

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment.

"But it's worth the risk." He murmurs leaning his forehead against yours.

"Some things always are." You echo with a soft smile, listening to the rumble of thunder shaking the brick, mortar, and glass of the embassy. The rest of the world melting away and leaving you just with Javi for a few precious moments when all hell rages outside the white washed walls and musty carpets.

Anything can happen in a thunderstorm, you just never imagined something like this.

A/N: Again Alex congratulations on the 5k and giving me such an inspirational gif for your challenge! It was fun for him, and of course to watch some Narcos again 🥰

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! The comments really keep me going!

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@angrydragon90 @jollyhunter @kmc1989

[cinnamon7girl7]

"OPERATION: PLEASE JUST GET BACK TOGETHER ALREADY!"

♡ — Author's note: Hey! I just realized I hit 100 followers yesterday, so to celebrate, here’s this fic! Hope you guys like it. Also, huge thanks for all the love on my last two stories! Anyway, let’s get to it!

It had been exactly thirty-eight days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes since you and Satoru had stopped talking. Not that anyone had been counting… well, actually, Panda had been keeping track in a notebook he hid under his bed. He said it was for scientific purposes. No one believed him.

The fight had become legendary at school. Not because there had been yelling or broken things—though there were rumors that a door had mysteriously disintegrated in the west wing after a “casual” conversation between the two of you—but because of the silence. The kind of silence that chilled the air, that made even the loudest people lower their voices when they saw you both walk down the same hallway.

Panda had taken the trouble to note down every minute, every day, every gesture, every sigh since the breakup. He had an entire notebook—stickers and doodles included—where he recorded what he called OPERATION: JUST GET BACK TOGETHER, PLEASE!

Yuji, for his part, kept a prediction chart. “Today they’ll make up,” he’d write every Monday. And every Sunday, he’d write with disappointment: “False positive.”

Nobara just rolled her eyes. Though deep down, she suffered like everyone else. Because since that fight, classes had been full of tension.

Toge had stopped sitting between you two. And that was serious, considering he never said a word and still seemed uncomfortable.

Megumi, who at first tried to stay composed, ended up requesting a team change.

— I can’t concentrate if they’re like this —he said seriously. But everyone knew it hurt him to see you both like that.

The breakup wasn’t a secret.

Nor a scandal.

But what hurt was the silence.

That awkward silence during missions. During training. During breaks. Even during battles.

That’s why, when the joint class was announced, everyone knew it was going to be chaos.

It was a tradition: every so often, students from all years gathered for a day of training and sparring. Partner battles, with observers and commentary from their teachers. A perfect occasion to show progress. Or to release bottled-up tension.

First, Yuji and Nobara fought against Yuta and Maki. It was a technical tie. Though Nobara insisted she’d won on style points.

Then it was Inumaki and Panda’s turn against Mai and Momo. Another tie. A fierce match, full of curses, strategies, and shouts that left everyone confused.

Even Miwa and Kamo fought each other. Another tie. They were starting to suspect it was intentional.

And then… you two.

— Now, the final match —announced Kento Nanami, checking his watch with resignation—. May the heavens have mercy on us.

You stepped onto the field without saying a word. Your cursed energy was dense, electric, like a black storm restrained inside your veins. The ancestral fire glowed in the palms of your hands like living embers, expectant, pulsing. Satoru wasn’t even smiling. His hands were in his pockets, but his energy was fluctuating in a dangerous, almost feral way.

For a few seconds, no one moved.

And then it began.

The field lit up with flashes of blue and black. Your fire roared with every movement, dancing between your fingers and leaving scorched marks on the ground. He dodged each attack with irritating precision, appearing behind you, dismantling your offense with an ease that only made you angrier. But you also knew his style. His rhythm. His gaze. And you were matching him.

The clash was brutal.

Cursed energy explosions shook the edges of the field. The other students stopped talking, breathing, moving. The intensity was such that even Yaga, from the control room, looked ready to intervene.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, everyone knew this wasn’t just a training fight.

It was a conversation that hadn’t been had. A bottled-up complaint. A confession that hurt. An “I miss you” disguised as curses and black fire.

Panda made a note in his notebook:

Day 38. First physical contact. Spontaneous combustion risk: high.

The class ended with a fake tie, because someone (probably Nanami) decided that if it wasn’t declared a tie, there wouldn’t be anything left of the school.

You left without looking back. Satoru didn’t follow you either.

And that’s when the students decided to meet in secret.

In the common room, Panda put up a sign written with colorful markers:

“URGENT MEETING: RECONCILIATION MISSION. Code name: Operation PLEASE GET BACK TOGETHER!”

— Are we seriously getting involved in this? —asked Yuta, scratching the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.

— It’s not getting involved, it’s saving ourselves from the most awkward atmosphere in the world —said Nobara, plopping down forcefully.

— Exactly! Do you have any idea what it’s like to pretend you don’t notice how they look at each other when they think no one’s watching? My neck hurts from turning the other way so much! —Yuji complained, letting himself fall onto the couch.

— Besides, when they were together, they were unbearable but adorable —added Momo—. And now they’re just unbearable.

— I liked it when Satoru called her “sweetheart” right in the middle of class and forgot there were other people around —Miwa commented, smiling nostalgically.

— I liked when they argued over who was better in combat and ended up laughing like idiots —added Yuji.

— I just want to sleep peacefully again. Last night I dreamed they were arguing inside my head —said Panda, covering his eyes.

Megumi, who had been silent all that time, sighed.

— They’re not going to talk on their own —he finally said—. Not until something forces them to.

— And what do you suggest? Lock them in a room until they talk? —asked Momo, raising an eyebrow.

— No… something more elegant. Like… a surprise meeting —Nobara smiled mischievously—. A fake date.

— No. A trap date —Yuji corrected, getting excited.

— An emotional ambush —proposed Yuta, already pulling ideas from Pinterest.

— We could make them think it’s a meeting with the principal —suggested Miwa—. So when they get to the place, they find lights, food, soft music…

— And cheesy notes everywhere —added Momo.

— And old photos of the two of them on the big screen! —Panda shouted.

— NO!! —everyone said at the same time.

— But a dinner, yes —said Megumi, very seriously—. A nice place. With enough space to make them feel forced to talk.

—And what’s the name of the operation? —Yuji asked.

—Operation: PLEASE GET BACK TOGETHER! —everyone shouted, raising their hands in the air like they had just won a battle.

The preparations started immediately.

Meanwhile, you walked down the hallway toward your room, shoulders tense, feeling that familiar pressure in your chest every time you remembered the way Satoru had looked at you today. Not with resentment. Nor with anger. But with something that hurt more:

With unspoken love.

And the worst part was that you felt it too.

But the wound was still there.

And pride…

Pride always found a way to stay.

Since the plan was approved unanimously (shouts included), the common room turned into a kind of war headquarters… only with stickers, colorful notes, and hot chocolate everywhere.

Panda self-appointed himself as the “Supreme Reconciliation Coordinator” and started directing everything with his notebook in hand. He even used a panda-shaped pen that no one knew where it came from.

Day 39. The subjects still haven’t killed or kissed each other. Probability of reconciliation: 38.7%. —he noted dramatically while everyone ignored him.

Yuji, for his part, took the decoration of the place very seriously. He wanted everything to be perfect, so he used his most advanced “clear zone” techniques. Literally. He started pushing tables and chairs around like he was about to fight.

—Clear this corner! That’s where the romantic table will go! I need a warm, soft light angle, but it has to hit her right when she looks into his eyes! —he shouted while the others just looked at him weirdly.

Nobara created a system of little notes with indirect messages that they would “casually” leave near you and Satoru to plant the seed of romantic drama.

—“Sometimes, the one who makes you the angriest is the one you miss the most”… —she read aloud, laughing at her own cheesiness—. I’m going to put this in his pocket without him noticing.

Megumi, arms crossed and with a “I can’t believe I’m involved in this” face, ended up helping with logistics, though not without protesting.

—This is childish… —he murmured, carefully placing the LED candles—. But if it works, maybe I’ll get my peace of mind back.

Miwa and Momo took care of the photos, putting together a slideshow with smooth transitions and instrumental music so emotional it made Yuta cry while they tested it.

—It’s just… they were so happy… —Yuta sobbed—. How could they break up like this?

Maki, on the other hand, brought a huge speaker to control the ambient music.

—Don’t even think about playing reggaeton right now. This is reconciliation, not a year-end party.

When everyone finished setting up the room, Nobara stopped in the center and raised an eyebrow.

—Okay. Let’s review the plan.

Panda climbed onto a chair, pulled out his notebook, and started reading as if giving a presentation to the Sorcery Council.

—Subject A (you) will be lured with an excuse about a meeting called for “administrative matters” with the director. Subject B (Satoru) will be tricked into a supposed emergency meeting with Yuki, who will lead him to the chosen place. Both will arrive separately. There will be strategic notes along their paths. And when they enter… —he paused for dramatic effect— BOOM! Emotional ambush. Romantic decoration. Sad music. Dinner. Eye contact. Happy ending.

Yuji applauded enthusiastically.

—I’m so nervous! It’s like planning a secret wedding!

Megumi sighed heavily.

—Just make sure not to set the place on fire with the candles.

—That’s part of the risk —Panda answered solemnly.

Momo went around handing out colorful bracelets that said “COME BACK ALREADY.”

—To boost morale —she said—. I also made stickers. Look at this one, it says “100% Reconciliation Team.”

Miwa stuck a list on the wall that read “Forbidden phrases during the night”:

“What if it doesn’t work?” “Better if we’re alone.” “Have you gotten over me yet?” “I think we should break up!” (Insert sad videos) “Remember when we were happy?”

Everyone promised to follow the rules.

The final test was emotional.

They played the last video: a slow sequence of you two fighting during training, then laughing, then you using your technique while Satoru watched you proudly. A slow-motion scene where he takes your hand to help you up from the floor… and then you pushing him while laughing.

Everyone fell silent.

Nobara spoke softly.

—They’re going to get back together. I don’t know how… but they will.

That night, while you were coming back from training, you caught a glimpse of a folded note out of the corner of your eye. You picked it up. The handwriting was familiar. One of those notes Nobara left like fate:

There are things that burn without consuming everything. But you… you are my fire.

Your heart jumped. And you didn’t know it, but on the other side of the school, Satoru also found a note in his pocket:

She still burns for you. It just needs a spark.

The chosen spot was an old multipurpose room on the third floor of the main building, one that used to be for ceremonies but now served as storage for nameless objects. It had tall windows, good ventilation, and most importantly, it was close to the offices where Satoru supposedly had an urgent meeting with Yuki, and where you had also been summoned for “administrative matters” with the director. Everything fit. Everything was suspiciously convenient.

—This is going to be perfect —said Nobara, pushing a box full of garlands toward the door of the room—. I’ve seen weddings that were planned with less than this.

—Technically, it is an emotional wedding —murmured Yuji as he unrolled a strip of warm, delicate lights.

—What the hell is an emotional wedding? —asked Maki, crossing her arms.

—A desperate attempt to reconnect two broken hearts while fair lights make it look like a romantic movie scene —summarized Miwa, who was hanging white curtains with hand-painted stars.

—And honestly, I love it —she added with a smile.

Meanwhile, Panda was sitting in a corner with his notebook open, seriously writing down every step of the preparation.

“Day 40: The trap is set. The atmosphere smells like reconciliation… or disaster.”

Yuta showed up with a Bluetooth speaker and a carefully curated playlist.

—Ready! Only songs that scream “I still love you but I’m too stubborn to say it.”

—Did you include “Back to December”? —asked Momo from a ladder, hanging banners that read “Please talk.”

—Of course! That one and “When I Was Your Man” in case someone decides to run away again —Yuji replied seriously.

—What about the notes? —asked Megumi, looking at Nobara suspiciously.

She smiled like she’d just committed a crime.

—One hundred notes. One hundred cheesy phrases, painfully obvious hints, and two or three emotional threats if they keep ignoring each other. I’ll hide them all over the room.

—What kind of threats? —Yuta asked, worried.

—Like: “If you don’t talk today, we’ll project your embarrassing photos at the next teacher’s meeting.” Or “Yuji found your playlist of sad songs, and he won’t hesitate to play it on the cafeteria speakers.”

—Fine —Megumi sighed, as if accepting that this was the least chaotic thing to expect from the group.

Maki came up with the idea to place a round table in the center, with a white tablecloth and fake candles—because no one wanted the school to accidentally catch fire in the middle of the reconciliation. On it, they put two plates, two glasses, a bottle of grape juice as if it were expensive wine, and in the center, a small sign that said:

“The director will arrive shortly. Meanwhile… talk.”

—Isn’t that too obvious? —asked Yuta.

—It’s intentionally obvious —Momo replied—. If they don’t get it like that, there’s no hope.

By then, the room already looked like a mix between a romantic dinner, a school event, and an emergency intervention. Warm lights hung from the ceiling, paths made of fake petals (thanks to the mass attack on a decoration store) stretched out, and there was even a screen in one corner ready to project a sunset background.

—“Clear zone?” —Yuji asked, as if he were in the middle of a tactical operation.

—Confirmed —Panda answered from the hallway—. Satoru is on his way with Yuki. He told her he needed to talk to the principal about a possible transfer.

—Is she aware? —Megumi asked.

—Yuki was the first to say, “Oh, just get back together already, you stubborn fools” —Nobara replied—. She gave us the room, the permits… and even brought snacks.

—What a queen —Miwa murmured, smoothing the tablecloth with almost maternal power.

The little notes were already hidden: in the glasses, under the chairs, among the petals. Some said, “Toge misses you, and he only says ‘rice with tuna.’”

Others said, “You love him. He loves you. What are you waiting for, a sign from heaven?”

There was one written by Megumi —who said he wouldn’t do it but did it anyway— that said, “I’m not good at this, but… I was happier when you two were.”

The atmosphere was warm. Emotional. Slightly ridiculous.

But if anyone at that school knew one thing, it was that you two needed this push.

—And now… all that’s left is to wait —Maki said, sitting at the back of the room.

—Wait and pray —Yuta added nervously.

—Pray to whom? —Yuji asked.

—Whoever. As long as it works —Panda replied.

Because, at that moment, the trap was set. The dinner served. The perfect lighting.

And the tension… thick enough to cut with a dessert spoon.

The clock showed five twenty-four in the afternoon as you crossed the hallway connecting the north wing to the empty classrooms. In theory, you were on your way to an “urgent meeting” called by Principal Yaga, who had sent a confusing message that morning:

“Room 3-B. 5:30 PM. Just you. Don’t be late.”

Yaga was never that formal. But since the message included the words “high structural risk if you don’t come,” you didn’t want to find out whether it was an exaggeration or not.

You walked cautiously, your brow furrowed and your heart beating a little faster than usual. The school was too quiet. Too… empty. Even the crickets had decided not to participate that afternoon.

When you reached room 3-B, you opened the door and froze.

Soft lights hung from the ceiling, like artificial fireflies floating in a still night. There were handmade garlands, some crooked, others covered in suspiciously pink glitter. On the wall, a screen silently projected old photos of missions, training sessions, and impromptu parties where you and Satoru laughed as if the world didn’t weigh on you.

And in the center of the room: a table with two chairs facing each other, wine glasses, plates, napkins folded like rabbits… and a large, poorly cut sign taped to the wall that said:

“Operation: PLEASE COME BACK ALREADY!”

You stood still, as if your brain had shut off.

—What… is this?

There was no answer. Only the soft hum of a speaker in the corner of the classroom, starting to play a gentle playlist of piano covers… of love songs. And to make things worse, you recognized Satoru’s favorite song.

You turned halfway to leave, but just then, the door opened again.

Satoru Gojo entered with a confused expression, looking at the message on his phone. He was wearing rolled-up sleeves, his hair still a bit damp — he had surely rushed out of whatever he was doing — and his eyes hidden behind his glasses.

—Yuki told me the principal wanted to see me urgently… —he muttered as he looked up.

His words died in the air.

His eyes found yours.

And for the first time in thirty-eight days, seven hours, and — according to Panda — twenty-eight minutes, you were face to face, alone, in silence.

You both looked around. Then at each other.

—Is this a joke? —you asked at the same time he said:

—This is a trap.

You stayed there, standing still, not moving. As if one more word would break what little was left standing.

Satoru was the first to walk toward the center. He approached slowly, scanning the decorations with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile on his lips.

—Is that… Nobara’s glitter? —he asked, pointing at a poorly cut decorative star.

—Yeah —you replied, crossing your arms—. And that looks like Yuji’s handwriting. Look at the word “come back,” it has a heart on the “a.”

Satoru chuckled quietly. Not mockingly. Something that almost sounded like… affection.

—They set us up with an emotional ambush —he said, looking at the table.

—With lethal glitter included —you added, unable to stop the corner of your mouth from trembling, as if a smile threatened to appear without permission.

There was a silence. A different one. Not awkward. Just… full.

Satoru rolled up his sleeves as he looked at the sign resignedly.

—Will you sit? —he asked, in a neutral tone.

—Will you?

—Only if you go first.

—Then no —you said, raising an eyebrow, although your tone had lost its edge.

Satoru rolled his eyes, pulled out a chair with one hand, and plopped down heavily.

—Anything to get out of here. I’m sure if we don’t follow these gremlins’ plan, next time they’ll drug us and lock us in an elevator.

That made you laugh. Softly, briefly… but it was a real laugh. The first in a long time.

You sat down across from him, crossing your arms over your chest. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You just looked at each other until Satoru sighed.

—Do you remember the last time we were face to face without wanting to rip each other’s heads off?

—Yeah. It was at that onsen in Kyoto. We fought about who picked the worst yukata.

—It was terrible. Green with pineapples. What kind of taste is that?

—It was funny!

—It was an aesthetic crime!

And there, without anyone looking for it, another laugh came. Soft. Natural.

But when silence fell again, it was more serious. More tense.

Satoru lowered his gaze. His fingers played with the rabbit-shaped napkin.

—I didn’t want us to end like this —he finally said—. But you didn’t do anything to prevent it either.

Your heart pounded.

—And you hurt me, Satoru.

—I know.

—And you never apologized.

—Because I thought you were better off without me.

You froze.

—Better… without you?

—Yeah. Always so strong, so determined. I thought I was the unnecessary chaos in your life. That if I left, at least everything would be in order.

You looked at him for a long time.

—Satoru… I don’t want order. Not if you’re not here.

He raised his eyes.

And that was when everything that had been hanging between you finally started to fall.

But you wouldn’t say it just yet.

Because the important words, the ones that hurt and heal, needed their own space.

And maybe, just maybe, they also needed a second dinner.

Satoru leaned back in the chair, one hand on the table and the other absentmindedly playing with a napkin. His voice, usually so confident and teasing, now sounded low, almost vulnerable.

—Don’t think this is easy for me —he said—. I never thought I’d have to pretend I don’t care about you when, in reality, you’re everywhere in my head.

You bit your lip. That simple comment spilled something inside you that you didn’t want to show. Pride was still there, but it was becoming lighter, less sharp.

—And you think it doesn’t hurt me? —you asked, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, avoiding his gaze—. It hurts more than any fight, any argument. Because I love you, Satoru. Even though I no longer know how to say it without it sounding like weakness.

He sighed, and for a moment, his gaze softened. It was a brief instant, but enough for you to feel you weren’t alone in that room.

—So, what do we do? —he asked with a hint of irony—. Because sitting through a trap dinner doesn’t really seem like our kind of plan.

—Well… maybe it’s the start of something different —you replied, unable to keep a small smile from appearing—. Maybe it’s the first step to stop hurting each other.

Satoru stayed silent, weighing your words. Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible smirk, he said:

—Then, let’s make this trap worth it. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.

—I won’t —you admitted, and you felt that this time, you were really talking to him and not a ghost of what you were.

The conversation went on, and although you didn’t solve everything, it was the first time in a long while you spoke without raising your voices, without grudges burning.

Meanwhile, just across the hallway, several pairs of eyes watched attentively from the shadows.

Megumi, hands in pockets, murmured:

—Not bad for a trap date.

Nobara leaned against the wall, crossing her arms.

—Too slow for my taste, but at least they’re talking.

Yuji, leaning on the window, smiled with satisfaction.

—That’s what matters.

And Panda, taking notes in his notebook, added with a playful smile:

Day 40. First verbal approach since the apocalypse.

The mission continued, but for the first time, it seemed the plan had real chances.

—Are they… smiling? —Miwa whispered, barely able to breathe, her eyes so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

—It can’t be… —Yuji pressed his forehead against the enchanted glass that separated them from the scene—. They’re smiling!! Are you seeing this, Megumi? They’re smiiiiiling!!

—Get down, idiot, you’re going to fog up the glass —Megumi growled, nudging him with his elbow without taking his eyes off the scene, watching with surgical precision.

—He just touched her hand! HE TOUCHED HER HAND!! —Panda shouted from the corner, wildly pointing with a red laser pointer that had no real purpose, but gave the moment an ultra-secret mission vibe.

—Since when do you have that? —Maki asked, raising an eyebrow, barely turning her head without stopping to look through the crack.

—Since Operation: COME BACK, PLEASE! began —Panda replied solemnly, not taking his eyes off the scene—. It was necessary for the visual strategy.

Nobara, leaning against a magical toolbox, held a folder filled with notes, scribbles, graphs, and diagrams that only made sense to her. She was jotting down quickly, tightly, as if writing an emotional thesis.

—Light physical contact. Shared smiles. Prolonged gazes. We’re in the “passive-aggressive nostalgic pre-flirt” phase. The next step is nervous laughter or an involuntary compliment. Maximum: two minutes.

—Are you really recording this in real phases? —Momo asked, arching an eyebrow as she read over Nobara’s shoulder.

—This isn’t nonsense, Momo. This is empirical-based emotional science —Nobara said seriously, like giving an academic lecture—. If this works, it can be applied to other dysfunctional couples in school. I’m already developing a replicable model.

—Is this your research project? —Yuta asked, half-shocked.

—Of course! If this turns into confirmed love, the hypothesis is validated!

From their strategic position—crouched behind a pile of chairs, covered furniture, and training boxes—the whole group looked like an elite unit. According to Yuji, the messy stacking helped “disguise their cursed aura” so Gojo wouldn’t detect them with his sensory perception.

Spoiler: it didn’t help at all, but they looked adorable believing it did.

—Ok… ok, wait… —Yuta whispered, lowering the makeshift binoculars made of cardboard tubes and tape—. Is she laughing? Is she laughing with him?

—It’s happening! —Miwa whispered excitedly, clutching Momo’s arm—. IT’S HAPPENING!!

—Calm down —Megumi said, the only one with some sanity, although even he had white knuckles from gripping his notebook so tightly—. The final gesture is still missing.

—What would that be? —Yuji asked, with a pure excitement like a child watching a movie for the first time.

—Someone saying “I missed you”… or something like that —Nobara replied gravely—. Or looking at each other for more than five seconds without speaking. That always signals the inevitable emotional collapse.

—Or a “I can’t stop thinking about you” —Miwa added, sighing.

—Or a “forgive me for not saying it before” —Yuta contributed, with a sad sparkle in his eyes that Maki didn’t miss.

—Or a hug —Panda said, already holding a little flag that read “They’re back!!!”, ready to wave if that happened.

On the other side, in the decorated room, you and Satoru kept talking. Your bodies a little more relaxed, shoulders less tense. The fake candles flickered with an unexpected warmth, as if wanting to protect you from the noise of the world. The decoration, which at first had seemed absurd, now began to feel like a time capsule.

Like a little bubble made by someone who wanted to see you smile again.

—Did you know that sign saying “I would choose you a thousand times again” looks like your handwriting? —Satoru asked, tilting his head and resting his elbow on the table, with that crooked smile he always used to tease you.

You bit your lip, unable to help it.

—Did you know that photo of our first fight no one had… except you?

There was a brief silence. But not an uncomfortable one. One of those silences that say more than any sentence could fill.

And then it happened: you looked at each other. No words. No forcing anything.

Five seconds. Or maybe more.

And on the other side of the pile of chairs…

—THERE IT IS! —Yuji shouted in a strangled whisper—. Five seconds of eye contact! It’s the inevitable emotional collapse!!

—WE HAVE A POSITIVE SIGNAL!!! —Panda yelled, waving his little flag—. LOVE GROUND ZERO!!

—This is better than watching Yuta play guitar in the rain —Miwa murmured, thrilled to her soul.

—Shh! Shh! Something else is happening! —Momo alerted.

Everyone pressed even closer to the glass. Holding their breath.

Your fingers, trembling and delicate, barely stretched out and brushed Satoru’s over the table. It wasn’t a planned gesture. Just instinctive. You just… needed to touch him.

And he didn’t pull away.

Not even blinked.

He just responded with the same softness.

—I missed you —you said, barely a whisper.

And the group collapsed.

Literally.

Panda fell backward with a groan. Yuji covered his face with his hands, holding back a scream. Miwa broke into sobs that made Momo cover her mouth. And Nobara… Nobara covered her eyes with her hands and said:

—They’ve just reached the final phase. Mutual emotional recognition. This… this is historic. If I die tonight, it will be with a full heart.

Megumi just lowered his notebook a bit and smiled.

—Objective in progress. But not finished yet.

—What do you mean not finished? —Yuji asked desperately—. They touched hands!! They said they missed each other!!

—The most important thing is missing —Megumi replied calmly—. That they talk. For real. That they say everything they didn’t say that day. Not just “I missed you.” They need to truly hear each other.

—What if they don’t? —Miwa whispered, worried, with tears already drying on her cheeks.

Nobara closed her folder with a determination so strong it almost seemed like a verdict.

—Then we will intervene again. The mission is not over yet. Not until they truly come back.

And so, among attentive glances, held-back tears, and handmade little flags, the most chaotic student team in the school watched over the possible reconciliation of two people who still didn’t know how much they needed each other.

Because, of course… no one deserves a happy ending more than those who still believe in second chances.

Satoru lowered his head slightly after your words. His fingers stayed beneath yours, still, as if he didn’t want to break that small contact that somehow seemed to hold everything that was still left between you. His smile was no longer mischievous or teasing. Now it was calm, almost vulnerable.

— I missed you too —he said, his voice low, genuine, without any pretense.

The phrase didn’t hit like a bomb, but like a warm rain after a long drought. The way he said it, without drama, without games, was exactly what you needed. What you had been waiting for so long.

— Then why didn’t you tell me before? —you asked, with a mixture of reproach and relief, as if hiding that wound no longer made sense.

Satoru took a moment. His blue eyes searched yours honestly. Not that confident sorcerer look, nor the charming teacher’s. This time it was just him, the boy who had made mistakes, who had kept silent out of fear, pride, and clumsiness.

— Because I didn’t know how to approach you without making it worse. Every time I tried to think of something to say, I realized it all sounded like excuses. And I didn’t want to give you excuses. I wanted to give you peace. But… it took me a long time to realize that silence hurt you more.

You swallowed hard. Clenched your hands in your lap.

— I also pulled away. I got angry. I thought that if I ignored you enough, you’d feel what I felt. But… it wasn’t fair. Not talking only hurt us both.

Satoru nodded slowly.

— We were good together —he murmured—. And I’m not saying that because everything was perfect… but because even when we fought, we knew how to find each other again. But this time was different. This time we got more lost than we expected.

— But not completely.

— No —he smiled sadly—. Not completely.

There was a silence, but this time it didn’t hurt. You dared to stretch out a little more and rested your fingers on his wrist, right over his pulse. Satoru closed his eyes for a moment, as if that gesture calmed him.

— Do you think we can… start over? —you asked—. Not like nothing happened. But like everything that happened helped us understand each other better.

He opened his eyes. And there was no doubt in them.

— Yes. I want to come back to you, with everything that means. The good, the hard, the real. But this time, without running away from what I feel. Or from you.

You nodded, smiling without realizing it. A soft, sincere smile that came from your chest.

— Then… let’s try —you said—. But with one condition.

— What?

— No hiding what we feel. Even if it’s scary.

— Deal.

His fingers moved slightly to intertwine with yours. It wasn’t a gesture loaded with romantic intention. It was intimate. Familiar. As if by doing it they sealed a silent pact between the two of you.

And just at that moment of genuine connection… something creaked behind the pile of chairs.

You both turned at the same time.

— Did you hear that?

— Yes. Definitely.

Another creak. A barely disguised “Ouch, Yuji, you stepped on my foot!” followed by a huff from Panda.

Satoru narrowed his eyes. He stood up slowly, without letting go of your hand, and silently walked toward the side of the decorated room. You followed him, completely silent.

— What are you doing? — you whispered.

— Confirming a suspicion — he replied seriously.

Then he crouched, barely moved one of the strategically stacked chairs…

And the whole group was exposed, piled up like a cartoon: Yuji on top of Megumi, Miwa crying on Momo’s shoulder, Panda stuck under a tablecloth, Nobara with an open folder, and Maki elbowing Yuta trying to escape.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

And then, chaos.

— RUN!! — Yuji shouted, darting off as if someone had activated a cursed technique on his back.

— IT WAS FOR A GOOD CAUSE!! — Panda shouted, tripping over Miwa, who was yelling: “DON’T TAKE ME, I HAVE A FAMILY!”

Satoru crossed his arms with a smile on his lips.

— Really? An undercover mission?

Nobara stood up, shaking off her clothes with dignity.

— It was for the emotional peace of the school. No one could stand the tension between you two anymore.

— We had to intervene! — Yuji said from behind a desk.

— Does that explain the binoculars? — you asked, crossing your arms while looking at an improvised telescope made with paper tubes.

— That’s tactical gear — Yuta said in a professional tone.

— And the folder with emotional phases? — Satoru asked, raising an eyebrow.

— Scientific research — Nobara replied without hesitation —. And it worked, by the way.

You let out a laugh. You couldn’t help it. You covered your face with your hands, laughing with your whole body while Satoru shook his head but also laughed.

— You’re ridiculous — you said between laughs.

— But ridiculous with results! — Miwa shouted.

— Can we leave already before they decide to get married right in front of us or something? — Megumi asked, pushing Yuji down the hall.

Satoru looked at you sideways, tilting his head.

— Get married?

— DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM! — the whole group shouted in unison.

You laughed harder. And so did he.

And that’s how the first phase of Operation: COME BACK, PLEASE! ended, with chaos worthy of an advanced sorcery class… and a renewed promise to start over. Together.

Epilogue: “Operation: PLEASE DON’T RELAPSE!”

Two days after the absolute chaos in the decorated room, the founding members of the mission gathered again. This time in an empty classroom, with a whiteboard at the back and a large folder with red letters that read “Emotional Containment Plan — Advanced Level.”

Yuji was the first to arrive, bringing donuts as always. Nobara appeared next, carrying her folder, several colorful markers, and a serious look that said, “this is more important than an A-rank mission.” Maki entered with her arms crossed, skeptical but present. Panda slid onto a swivel chair. Miwa brought tissues “in case things get really intense again.” Momo floated in calmly, and Megumi… well, Megumi had been there for twenty minutes already, as always.

And just when everyone thought no one else was missing, Yuta entered quietly, with his shy smile and a thermos of tea. He sat between Miwa and Megumi, as if it were a diplomatic assembly.

—Alright —Nobara began, turning on a projector that nobody knew she had brought—. It’s time to prepare Phase 2. Because, like every good love story… there’s a chance of emotional relapse.

Yuji raised his hand with his mouth full.

—You mean… them fighting again?

—Like one of them doubting, pulling away, or starting to do the usual: ignoring their feelings —Nobara responded, marking on the board a diagram that read “Gojo Cycle of Affective Avoidance” and “The ‘I’m fine but clearly I’m not’ Syndrome” in the section corresponding to you.

—That sounds… dangerously accurate —muttered Yuta, nodding slowly.

—That’s why —Maki said— we need an emergency system.

Panda hit his fist against his open palm with determination.

—Protocol “Tactical Hug.”

—What’s that? —Miwa asked, confused.

—A forced reconciliation hug in case of signs of distancing! —he explained, as if it were the brightest idea in the world.

—So, locking them in a room until they talk —Momo translated neutrally.

—Exactly —Nobara confirmed, writing enthusiastically—. Emotional Containment Room. I already have code names for when we activate the protocol.

—Like what? —Megumi asked, half interested.

—“Code I Missed You,” “Mission Contact Each Other Now,” or if things get serious, “Operation Cry But Talk” —Nobara read from her list.

—Isn’t that a bit excessive? —Miwa asked nervously laughing.

—Excessive was the emotional silence we carried for weeks —Nobara replied solemnly—. This is prevention.

Yuta raised his hand gently.

—I… have another idea.

Everyone looked at him. Yuta opened his backpack and pulled out a small box.

—I prepared a list of activities that can keep them connected. They’re discreet, meaningful, and can help them spend time together without pressure.

—Activities? —Yuji repeated.

—Board games, anonymous notes sent through the common room mailbox, undercover missions together… —he listed, pulling out illustrated cards with instructions—. I also made them a collaborative playlist.

Nobara looked at him, visibly excited.

—Yuta… you’re an emotional angel.

Yuta looked down, embarrassed.

—I just thought… if there’s a next time, maybe they’ll need a softer push.

Megumi nodded.

—I think that’s a good balance. We’ll have it as Alternative Protocol “Gentle Push.”

Maki stood up, arms crossed.

—What if all that fails?

—Phase 2.5: Direct intervention —Panda said.

—With photos of how happy they used to be —Miwa added, showing a collage on her tablet.

—And karaoke —Yuji said—. Nobody can stay mad after singing ‘Let it Go’ with Panda.

—What does that have to do with anything? —Megumi asked, already half regretting coming.

—EVERYTHING! —Yuji and Panda answered in unison.

Nobara raised her hand authoritatively.

—Then it’s approved:

1) Emotional Containment Room. 2) Yuta’s Activity Protocol. 3) Photos, karaoke, and gentle emotional pressure.

—What should we call this new phase? —Momo asked, while Maki rolled her eyes.

Yuji raised his hand.

—“Operation: PLEASE DON’T RELAPSE!”

Everyone looked at him… and nodded.

—Approved —they said.

And as the sun filtered through the classroom windows, the group closed that meeting knowing that if you and Satoru ever stumbled again, they would be there. Again. As accomplices, as friends… as the most dramatically efficient team in the entire school of sorcery.

Because if there was one thing they had learned through all this, it was that love sometimes needs help to find its way.

And they were willing to be that help. Always.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 16

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.3k+

Note: fucking hell YN is a bit melodramatic hey?? damn crazy. someone should do something about it.

xxx

The flat is nearly done. Well, nearly is the operative word. You can’t exactly turn a blank canvas into a masterpiece in just one week — not when you’re battling a mountain of flatpack boxes and wrestling with furniture that arrives with more screws than instructions. But I gave it a red-hot go. The sofa’s in place (mostly assembled), the kitchen’s unpacked enough to cook something edible, and the bed actually holds me without collapsing. The boxes are mostly unpacked, though there are still a few corners that feel bare — empty enough to remind me this place is still a work in progress. But honestly? I kind of like that. It gives the space room to breathe. Room to grow.

Speaking of growing, I’m currently drowning in cardboard. The sheer volume of it could probably form its own ecosystem. It’s all shoved into my bedroom right now, stacked like the starter pack of a hoarder’s anonymous meeting. It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos, and I’m strangely proud of it.

Despite the mess, the fridge is stocked with fresh food — no more sad instant noodles for me. And tucked in the corner is a bottle of wine I’ve been saving for a moment just like this. Tonight, that moment finally arrives.

I’m hosting a goddamn housewarming.

A bunch of my friends from The Van are coming over. Here. To my new flat. The place I’ve poured sweat, frustration, and a hell of a lot of laughter into. It feels like a milestone, even if the space isn’t quite finished. Because this — this is my fresh start. And tonight, I get to celebrate that with the people who know me best.

The nerves buzz beneath my skin — the kind that comes from knowing I’m about to open the door to more than just a flat. I’m opening up a part of my life that’s still a little raw, a little uncertain. But mostly, it’s mine.

And god, I’m ready for it.

Will’s been on my mind a lot lately. The space between us feels bigger than this whole flat, and I’m still trying to figure out how to bridge it. But tonight, I’ve thrown myself into every little detail—the perfect candle, the best tablecloth, making sure everything’s just right.

I want him to meet my people, to see this side of me, to taste my cooking—not just grab a quick bite on the run. It feels like a chance to remind him what we could have, if only that distance would close.

He said he probably wouldn’t make it for dinner, caught up with some deadline, but that he’d come by afterward. Knowing Will, I’m still holding out hope for a surprise.

Ruth shows up early, as she always does. I think she likes the idea of getting her hands into something, and she’s always ready to help. So we’re tackling the dinner together. Best friend type shit.

It’s a simple menu — pasta, salad, garlic bread. The basics, can't fuck it up, but Ruth’s made sure we’re not cutting any corners. There’s fresh basil for the pasta sauce, real garlic, not the stuff from a tube, and a block of parmesan for grating. No pre-grated cheese. We’re going for it.

“Okay, we’ve got the pasta and the bread covered,” Ruth says, setting down the garlic butter with a satisfied look. “But have you seen any tongs around here? I don’t see any.”

I blink at her, then look down at the kitchen drawers. “Tongs? Damn I haven't bought tongs yet have I?”

Ruth gives me a deadpan look. “You’re making garlic bread. How are you going to get it out of the oven without tongs?”

I roll my eyes, but she’s right. I’ve clearly missed some basic kitchen essentials in my shopping spree. “Fuck. Tongs,” I mutter. “Let me guess — I didn't buy cling wrap either, right?”

Ruth grins and hands me the fresh basil while pulling out a cutting board. At least I remembered that. She starts to look in my drawers, telling me all the things I've missed. Classic.

“You still need cling wrap, tongs, maybe a ladle... You know, the essentials. The adult things.” She pauses. “And I see you’re still rocking mismatched mugs. Gotta work on that.”

“Right,” I say, glancing at the array of mismatched mugs stacked in a corner. I haven’t quite gotten around to replacing the ugly ones. “Thanks for pointing that out.” I grin at her.

Ruth shrugs and pours some wine into a glass for both of us. “Hey, it’s part of the charm. You’ll get there eventually.”

She heads off to the living room to look at my makeshift bookshelves. I honestly had no idea I owned that many books. I had a box my mum parcelled over to me a few months ago and just never opened it. 

I scramble to put together a shopping list. I grab my phone and make a note: Tongs. Cling wrap. Ladle. Proper mugs.

By the time Ruth’s back in the kitchen, I’m just about to check the oven. She grins, holding up the wine bottle. “You ready for your first official dinner party in this place?”

I laugh, and the nervous energy I’ve been carrying all week suddenly feels a bit more manageable. “Sure. Just don’t judge me when it’s basically a glorified pasta night.”

Ruth shakes her head, clearly amused. “It’s going to be amazing. Don’t stress.”

As the others start trickling in, I’m already half-drunk off the wine, and the kitchen smells like garlic bread and fresh pasta sauce. I’m more than ready for the evening.

I want this — the warmth, the laughter, the feeling that everything is starting to slot into place. The place is starting to feel like a home.

First in is Matt, looking slightly more cheerful than usual. Then Naomi, Sam, and of course, Leon. The last one to walk through the door is Oscar, with his tattooed sleeves and that unreadable smile that always makes me a little nervous. I've learnt his name since the night out. He’s holding a six-pack of beers, a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Even though the flat’s buzzing with activity, I can’t stop glancing at my phone, hoping for a message from Will. He said he’d come by, but so far, nothing. I try to shake off the nerves, but it’s there, just under the surface.

I give Ruth a quick look, and she grins back at me like this is the moment. I’m pulling it off.

“You made it, weirdo,” I say to Leon as I hand him a drink. He grins back, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he says with a wink.

“Perfect. You’re just in time for the pasta," I say. "Let me know if it's too burnt. And if you need tongs or ladles, don’t hesitate to ask.”

There’s a round of laughter. The good kind. The kind where you’re not pretending to be someone you’re not. Everyone settles in, the energy rising to meet the occasion, and it feels like the beginning of something — like this could be a regular thing.

Matt immediately makes himself comfortable at the kitchen island, I tell him he should complement my brand new stools and he does. Sam and Naomi are on the couch, Oscar’s standing by the window looking out, his beer in hand, but still very much a part of the group.

I lean over to Ruth, still plating food, and whisper, “This is good. This is really good.”

“See?” she grins, nudging me with her shoulder. “You’re doing fine. You just needed a bit of support, that’s all.”

And just like that, the tension I’ve been carrying all week starts to slip away. Even if things with Will feel like they’re shifting in some unsaid way, even if George is still somewhere in the back of my mind, right now, I’m here. Right here. In my new flat, with my new friends, and the room is full of laughter and light and the smell of pasta sauce.

It’s not perfect, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t have to be.

xxx

The night goes on with too many drinks, too much pasta, and a whole lot of laughter. Ruth ends up taking over the playlist, making us listen to all kinds of weird indie songs I’ve never heard of. The vibe is relaxed, comfortable — almost like this is something we’ve all been doing for years.

The conversation flows in waves, picking up new threads as we all bounce between topics. But I can’t shake the quiet tug in the back of my mind. Will hasn’t texted in a while, and every time someone mentions “plans for the weekend,” I catch myself glancing at my phone, wondering if he’s about to text me something — anything.

He said he’d swing by. I remember him saying it so casually, like he had a hundred other things to do, like he wasn’t as excited as I was to finally introduce him to this weird, wonderful group of people. He said probably after dinner.

But now is after. Well past the time he was supposed to show up, and still no sign of him.

The flat feels warm, filled with laughter and the clink of glasses. The food’s been devoured, and we’re well into the inevitable post-dinner chaos — too many empty wine bottles on the table, a bunch of half-finished drinks, and everyone drifting into different conversations.

Oscar, fiddling with the tablecloth, turns to me. His voice drops low, quiet but deliberate. “You enjoying it here?” he asks, eyes steady and kind.

His question hangs in the air longer than expected, heavier than the easy chatter around us. There’s something about the way he says it — like a small thing, but with enough weight to make me feel seen. I try not to overthink it.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a slow sip of wine to steady my hands. “It’s good. I’m finally getting settled.”

Naomi catches my eye and grins, always the one to break any tension. “You live alone! How fantastically adult of you!” She laughs, then leans forward, raising her glass like she’s about to make a toast. “So, surely you’re hosting pre’s all the time now?”

I laugh too, grateful for the distraction. Hosting parties still feels a little out of reach — like I’m playing a part rather than living it. “How fantastically adult of me!” I echo, but my words feel hollow, fading too fast. I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Yeah, I guess. I’m still figuring out how to organise the kitchen without tripping over pots and pans.”

Naomi’s grin widens, clearly enjoying the tease. “I bet you could totally host though. You’ve got the place, the vibe… And I’m sure Will would help with all the heavy lifting.”

I force a laugh, trying to hide the flutter of nerves that hits my chest. “Alright, alright, you guys are all obsessed with Will now,” I say, but there’s an edge to my voice I can’t quite mask. “Seriously though, I’ve only been here a week. Let’s not get carried away with the hosting talk.”

Oscar’s quiet gaze meets mine again, and his voice softens, almost thoughtful. “You enjoying it though? Living on your own, I mean?”

I hesitate, the question suddenly too big for the easy smile I want to give. “Yeah… it’s weird. But good weird, you know?” I try for lightness, but there’s a flicker of doubt I can’t shake.

He nods slowly, eyes warm. “It’s a big change. But it suits you, I think.”

His words hit in a way I didn’t expect — simple, but somehow more real than anything else said tonight. My heart skips.

Before I can say more, Ruth leans in with that spark in her eyes I’ve come to trust. “So, when can we meet Will, huh?”

I blink, caught off guard, but the smile still breaks across my face. “Oh, he should be coming soon!” I say—maybe a bit too eager—but it doesn’t matter. I’m excited, though now there’s a knot of worry twisting in my stomach.

Oscar raises an eyebrow, a subtle softness in his expression, like he’s watching a story unfold but isn’t sure where it’s going yet.

Naomi grins at me, all bright eyes and enthusiasm. “Well, we’re all excited to meet him!”

For the first time in a while, it feels like everything’s just right. I’m still figuring things out, but right now — in this warm, noisy, wine-soaked chaos of friends and laughter — it feels good.

Now, if only Will would show up.

xxx

He didn’t show. No text, no call, no nothing.

This is the casual bit, I suppose. He doesn’t want to meet my friends. Doesn’t need to. Not really. It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s all fine.

But even as I say that, it feels less fine than I want it to. It’s the way the night should’ve ended — with Will here, laughing, a glass of wine in hand, mixing into the chaos of the crew that’s been my lifeline since moving here. Instead, it ends with a quiet empty spot in the corner, where he should have been.

Everyone filters out slowly, footsteps soft on the floor as they gather their things. We’re doing that thing where we’ve all hugged and said goodbye, but somehow there’s still more to say before the night truly ends.

“See you Tuesday!” Naomi calls out cheerfully, her voice still light, but somehow, too loud against the silence that’s filling the flat.

I’m wiping down the last of my counter when Leon, already halfway to the door, tosses me a comment over his shoulder. “I’ve got an old bookshelf I’ve been thinking of selling,” he says casually, pausing in the doorway. “If you’re looking for one, let me know. It’s not much, but it’ll hold some books.”

I’m surprised, but it’s exactly the kind of thing I’ve been hunting for. “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I say, smiling a little. “I could always use another shelf. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.”

He grins, gives me a quick salute, and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me standing there for a second, processing how it feels like everyone is offering something these days. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m still settling in, or maybe it’s just them — these people who don’t mind extending little bits of themselves. Maybe it’s not so bad, this whole "being part of something" idea.

Oscar, standing near the door, finishes gathering his coat and keys, then turns to me with a calm smile. “By the way,” he says, his tone always steady, “I've got a social netball game next week. We're down a player. You should come along. Text me if you’re interested.”

I blink for a second, caught off guard by how casually he says it. Netball? Me? My heart races slightly at the idea of joining something new, but at the same time, the idea of being included, of having another regular to show up to, feels oddly comforting.

I laugh softly, shrugging. “Yeah, alright. I’ll text you.”

He nods. “Good. It’ll be fun. Everyone’s a bit rubbish, but we make it work.” His tone softens as he walks out. "And if you need any help with the flat, don’t hesitate, yeah? That’s what we’re here for.”

“Thanks, Oscar!,” I reply cheerily, watching him disappear out the door.

It’s strange, how suddenly, these people I barely knew a couple of months ago have started to feel like… home. Not that everything’s perfect, or figured out, but the little things, the offers, the casual kindness — they build something I can’t ignore.

They're so good at the casual kindness that none of them mention it. Not the fact that Will didn’t show, not the fact that they didn’t meet the guy I’ve been talking about for the past two months. It’s like the whole thing doesn’t even exist. The same casual tone is there when they leave, like it’s just another night of drinking and laughing. Not even a passing mention of him.

I stand by the door, waving them off, giving them the usual goodbyes, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m already retreating inside my head, processing the quiet absence of the night. And even though they’re gone, the quiet lingers. It settles in the corners of my flat, heavy in the air.

I start getting ready for bed, moving through the motions like I’ve done a thousand times before. But tonight, the evening feels heavier, somehow. The fun, the warmth of it all, has melted into something… off. The laughter still echoes in my ears, but it’s already fading.

Seeing everyone was nice. It warmed me up a bit. But Will’s no-show weighs on my shoulders, pulling everything back into question.

He’s been so weird. That’s the thing, right? He’s been so weird lately. Pulling back physically. Not calling, not texting the way he used to. The conversations have been shorter, the energy a little colder. It’s like there’s a wall I can’t get past.

What is it with everyone being weird? First George and now Will?

And maybe that's it. Maybe I’m the one who’s being weird. Maybe I'm the one overthinking it all. Or maybe Will really has just decided I’m not worth it anymore. Whatever it is, I can't shake the feeling that something’s off, and I don't know how to fix it.

And I’m being paranoid, I'm sure of it. I’m reading too much into it. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if he’s already decided I’m not worth it. Maybe he’s figured out that I’m not the kind of person you want to stick around for. Maybe I am just a distraction, a filler until something better comes along. I climb into bed, pulling the covers over me, but it feels too empty. It's become a rare thing to not sleep next to him. Or it became a rare thing, it's been more common again this last week.

I can still feel the weight of the night, the quiet hum of unspoken things between Will and me, filling up the space. I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to get lost in my own thoughts.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that it’s fine, that maybe it’s probably nothing... it’s hard to believe.

I want to be angry at him. I really do. But the thing is, I can’t summon it anymore. That’s the part that kills me. We’ve already done our time of angry, and now… now I’m just left with this thick, suffocating sadness.

I told him. I told him that night, the first time we crossed that line, that I wasn’t ready for anything serious. And he said he wasn’t either. No big deal. It was supposed to be a fun thing, right? Nothing to complicate. But this — this silence, this absence — it doesn’t feel fun anymore.

He helped me move. He helped me move for Christ’s sake. He even roleplayed coming home with me in the IKEA showroom, like we were already living that life. How was I supposed to brush that off like it was some weird joke?

And then there’s Monaco. Monaco. That brand trip invitation had my stomach doing flip-flops. Why would he invite me if he wasn’t looking for something? He even knows I can’t just drop everything and take a week off work, especially after the move. So why make it feel like it was an option?

I cling to the hope that he’s just letting me down gently. That he’s realised we’re not going to work out long term, and he’s sparing me the awkwardness of some big breakup speech. Maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow, make it easier, to not put me in a situation where I feel like I have to argue or beg him to stay.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Shift in bed, feeling the silence in the room press against me. I try to shake it off, tell myself it’s fine, that I’ll just talk to him when I see him next. It’s all I can do — try to bury the disappointment and hope it doesn’t bubble up when I finally see his face again. But I know, deep down, this isn’t going to go away until I confront it.

What hurts the most isn’t the waiting. It’s the not knowing. Because the truth is, if I knew where we stood, even if it was bad, even if it was over, I could deal with it. But instead, I’m just here, with all this space between us, with nothing but his absence to fill it.

And that? That’s the part I can't fix.

xxx

Its been a week.

Will hasn’t spoken to me all week.

It feels like a punch in the gut, but I can’t help the feeling that something’s shifted. The longest we’ve gone without talking since we met, and there’s nothing — no text, no call, no plans to meet up.

When we met — that stupid party I didn’t even want to go to — he texted me that same night. And then we just… didn’t stop.

It started as relentless. Snarky. Annoying. Like we were both trying to win something, though I’m still not sure what. For weeks — no, months — it was constant. A daily back-and-forth of sarcasm, one-liners, and deeply unnecessary hot takes. The kind of energy that should’ve fizzled out fast. But it didn’t.

It softened, eventually. Less sharp edges, more… rhythm. But it never really stopped. The most we’ve ever gone without messaging was about 25 hours — and even that was because he was on a plane and I was half-dead with a cold.

And now?

After he invited me on a holiday.

After he helped me move flat, kissed me like I was worth living for, learned my pizza order, and figured out exactly what makes me tick?

Now, it’s quiet.

And I don’t know what to do with the silence.

Fucking hell, even a “u up?” text would satisfy this craving I’ve got for him right now. As ridiculous as it sounds, the idea of him texting me — even just to say something stupid or half-hearted — would be enough to quiet the pit of frustration that’s been growing in my stomach all week. Goddamn, I’d even take a “I hate you” as a response to my question of "Where have you gone?".

At least then I’d know.'

At least I wouldn’t be left here wondering. Wondering if I messed something up or if it was him or if I’m just being too sensitive. It’d hurt, sure, but the silence? That’s worse. The quiet stretches out longer and longer, and with it, all my stupid, paranoid thoughts start creeping in. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I took the wrong step. Maybe I’m just too much, and that’s why he hasn’t even bothered to reach out.

But no, I don’t even get that. I get nothing. The space between us is thick with unanswered questions.

If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure why I care this much. It’s just a thing, right? Just a guy. We weren’t anything serious. I said it myself: I wasn’t ready for anything serious. But that doesn’t stop the feeling. The one that twists in my chest every time I check my phone and see it’s still empty.

I try to shake it off. I mean, it’s not like I need him to validate me, right? I’m fine. I’ve got my own life now.

But it’s funny how much a single text can feel like it could break the tension in my chest. Even if it’s not the answer I want, it would be something.

Instead, I’m left with the silence, which, honestly, might just be worse than any shitty message he could send.

Still, I keep telling myself it's fine, that he’s probably busy. It’s just a bit of space. Just a bit of time to breathe. But the truth is, I’ve spent the entire week in this weird limbo, where I’m pretending I don’t care, pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.

Still, I try to keep myself busy. I’ve got my new flat, right? It’s not just empty space, it’s mine. And the more I sink into it, the more it starts to feel like a home.

The new flat vibe is pretty damn good, I’ll admit. It’s like the universe is handing me a chance to do something with my life, to build it the way I want to. No more shared walls, no more roommates, no more worrying about someone else’s mess. This is my space. It feels cool, like I’m finally grown up. Like I’m not just floating through life anymore, I’m steering the ship. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m crouched on the floor, rearranging bookshelves for the fifth time.

Should I arrange them in order of colour or by authors surname?

I’ve thrown myself into interior design, and honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how into it I’ve gotten. I’m that person now — scrolling through Pinterest boards and flipping through magazines like I’ve got my life together. Who even buys magazines anymore? Me, apparently. Maybe it’s the thrill of having a blank canvas, or maybe it’s just me convincing myself I’m doing something productive while I wait for Will to acknowledge me again.

It’s not just the flat. Somehow, I’ve picked up three new hobbies in the last week. Because of course I have. Why not? I’ve got the space for them now, and apparently the energy too. I’ve started baking — simple stuff, like cookies, but it feels like a tiny victory each time the oven beeps. Then there’s painting. Like, actual painting, with brushes and canvas. It’s therapeutic in a way I didn’t expect. And, just to really round it out, I’ve joined an online book club. Because I have a ton of time to read now, right?

I think I’m doing all of this because I’m trying to fill the space, to prove I’m okay. That I can do this alone, that I can be enough. Because right now, all this newness is really just a distraction from the quiet. The kind of quiet that grows when the person you’ve been waiting for stops showing up.

But at least I’ve got these things, right? New hobbies, a new flat. It’s like I’m learning how to be by surrounding myself with things that fill the silence. I’ve got three types of flour in the pantry, a canvas that’s half-painted in the corner, and a Pinterest board that’s at least 50% living room inspiration. At least it’s something.

I just wish I could shake the feeling that it’s all a little... empty.

Like no matter how many hobbies I pick up or how many magazines I flick through, I’m still just waiting. For Will to text, for him to show up, for him to decide whether or not he wants to be in my life.

Maybe I just want to feel like I’m worth something. Worth his attention. Because right now, all this newness in my life — the flat, the hobbies, the Pinterest boards and the cake experiments — it’s just stuff. It’s all just stuff I’m using to fill up the quiet, to fill up the space where Will’s presence should be.

And then there’s work. God, work. It's is just awful. It’s like every day I’m dragging myself through quicksand, and the more I think about it, the more I want to scream. I moved across the world for this job, and right now, I can’t even remember why I thought that was a good idea. I was so excited back then — new city, new job, new life — but now? Now it’s just a slog.

The people at work are fine, the work itself is fine, but everything just feels so... meh. I felt Will pulling away all last week — the messages slowing, the distance growing in the silences between us. And I just let him, I guess. It’s like he’d already checked out, and I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in.

It’s like I’ve slipped into autopilot. I go in, work on my silly little programs, then come home to stare at the same four walls of my flat, wondering if I’m just wasting time.

The real kicker is when I think back to last week — that week with Will, building furniture, figuring out the best spot for the couch — it makes coming back here feel that much harder. How was it so easy with him? We were in sync. We didn’t have to try; just living together for a few days felt... right.

But now? Now it feels like that was a different life, a different version of me. One who wasn’t dragging herself through a job she feels nothing for. One who had the energy to care about something deeper than painting.

I want that feeling back. That rhythm. But every time I sit at my desk or stare at my inbox, the thought won’t leave me: Why did I come here? And more importantly — where is he?

Work was supposed to be the thing that would make it all worth it — the move, the change, the upheaval. But instead, it’s just another reason to feel stuck.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s easier to blame the job than to admit that maybe I’m just goddamn lonely. It always comes back to that doesn’t it?

Every. Fucking. Time.

I'm sick of going on about it.

I felt so cool when I got this job. So proud of myself. Like I was finally getting what I deserved. A real, grown-up job in a new city. In London, It was the dream, right? I had this whole story about how I’d made it.

They headhunted me. Me! Some young woman from halfway across the world, with no more than a decent CV and a wild idea that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. The company paid for my flights, gave me a sizable bonus — which, honestly, I only just used to furnish my flat. I always thought that money was the start of something big. I was going to fill my new space with things that meant something, that screamed me.

We can ignore the part where it took me eight months to find a flat.

But I don’t talk about it much. I kept it to myself, like a little secret that I didn’t want to admit, even to myself. This whole “new life” thing, I mean. It sounded so easy, so clean when I first thought about it. Move abroad, get a job, settle in. And yet, here I am, restyling my bookshelf again, and trying to piece together what was supposed to be this amazing new chapter.

And George! I couldn’t believe I got to live in the same city as George again. The mate who was there when everything felt like it was falling apart, the one who somehow kept me grounded and floating at the same time. After all this time apart, suddenly, we were both here, sharing the same streets, the same city.

And Look how that turned out.

Okay, I’m being overly cynical now. I say that about George, but it’s better now. At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect — how to slip back into the old rhythm. But after the move out conversation, in the garage, everything felt lighter with him. And then he  sent me a meme out of the blue, and I felt this weird little buzz in my chest. Like we were gonna pick up right where we left off, no awkwardness, just that familiar ease. It felt good.

It is good.

He seems less intense now, less… complicated. Or maybe I’ve just learned to roll with his quirks. Either way, we’re back to sending each other memes and laughing over all the dumb stuff we used to get up to. It feels easy again, and that’s a fucking relief.

And we’ve got that dinner I promised him coming up! After all this time, it’s finally happening. Don't ask why it took two weeks, I’m honestly just excited to catch up, to hang out with him like we used to. No pressure, no weirdness. Just two friends who’ve found their way back to each other. I say that. I still lived with him when it was weird. We didn’t exactly leave each other. But honestly, I can’t stop smiling just thinking about it. Feels like the good old days.

I drag my fingers through my hair and try to focus on that instead of the Will situation. And it works. Mostly.

My head’s too full of questions about Will, too full of the aching uncertainty of what’s really going on with us. I could blame work for all of this, but that wouldn’t make anything easier. It pulses on the back of my brain light a headache that no amount of paracetamol can cure

It buzzes beneath the noise of everything else, stubborn and unwelcome, refusing to let me forget.

xxx

Dinner with George is... easy. Comfortable. I can’t remember the last time I was this relaxed with him. We’re at a nice Italian place near his flat. It's nothing fancy, just cozy. The kind of place where you feel like you’re in the middle of a casual night out, not some rom-com scene.

It’s weird, seeing George not at the flat. He’s always been just... there, popping in and out without any big plans. The whole time we've known each other it's been like that, even living across the UK we used to just, pop in. But now, we have to plan to see each other, carve out time like it’s something that needs scheduling. We’re grown-ups now, I guess. It feels different.

I tell him that, how strange it feels to have to make plans, to check calendars, to figure out when we can actually hang out. It’s all a bit too real. Like, we’ve entered that stage of adulthood where everything is a bit more... intentional.

He shrugs, almost like he’s not bothered by it, but there’s something in his smile that makes me think maybe he gets it. “I’ll give you your key back,” he says, his voice light. “It’s all good to just drop by whenever, yeah?”

It should feel like a relief, and in a way, it is — a reminder that some things don’t have to change. That maybe we can still be friends, like we always have been. No pressure, no awkwardness, just that easy, familiar connection.

I try not to dwell on how different it feels now. The crush is long gone... mostly. There’s a comfort in knowing we’re still friends, even if it feels different now. Even if it feels more like a chapter that’s winding down than one that’s still building. But we’re still here, still part of each other’s lives, just in a new way. And honestly? That’s something worth holding onto.

We’re talking about everything and nothing now, the move, Arthur's new gross habits, Monaco. The whole trip is sounds a bit surreal.

I still think about Will's invite, and I’m still not sure why. I can't go, obviously—work, timing, all that—but it’s the kind of thing I’m sure would been fun if I could go. I tell George this, all casually, just another thing in passing.

So then he asks, “How are things with Will?” The question hangs there for a second, like it’s some innocent check-in, but I can already hear the curiosity in his voice.

I shrug, taking a bite of my pasta before I answer. “Yeah, not really happening anymore. I told you it wasn’t serious,” I say it like it’s no big deal, because, honestly, it’s not. It’s just another thing that didn’t work out. Another almost.

I'm fucking lying to myself, obviously.

I’m sure he can see it on my face. Maybe he can’t, though. Maybe I’m better at hiding it than I think. Either way, I push the thought aside, pretending that I’m not bothered. But it lingers, heavy, as I stab at the pasta with my fork.

George’s expression softens. He leans back and nods slowly. “That’s shit, you know? Even when you don’t expect it to go anywhere, it still hurts when someone pulls away.”

There’s a pause as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I guess sometimes people don’t always know how to handle things. Or maybe they just don’t know what they want.”

He gives a small, understanding smile, the kind that says he’s been there before, even if the words aren’t perfect. “But hey, you’re not alone in this. And you deserve someone who’s all in — not half here, not half gone.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Yeah, well, it was never gonna be serious anyway.”

But honestly? I thought we were getting somewhere—felt like maybe this time it was real. Guess I was just fooling myself.

George nods, taking a slow sip of wine, eyes still watching me like he actually cares. “Yeah. But sometimes the ‘never serious’ things still sting.”

And just like that, it feels a little easier—not because the situation’s changed, but because someone seems to get it. Even if it’s just George, being George.

The rest of the dinner is just... normal. The kind of night where I’m not thinking about the past, or the future, or anything that’s been hanging over my head. It feels so good to have him back, in this easy, uncomplicated way. We talk about the usual stuff, laugh at the same jokes, and for once, it feels like things are just right. For now, I’m okay with that.

That's me lying to myself again.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[sammyslittlenymphet]

⋆𖦹° Sam Winchester x spoiled brat!Reader ⋆𖦹°

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who always gets showered with the most exquisite gifts on her birthday from Sam.

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who spends hours doing her makeup and hair every time she goes out with her boyfriend for a date.

୨୧ Sam always lets her test out the shades of her lip glosses on him. After all, his girl can't just do with any gloss and always needs the perfect colour for every occasion !!

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who loves watching when Sam babies her and cook just for her, even though he isn't usually one to cook for anyone else.

୨୧ Of course Sam paints her nails on the rare instances she can't get a manicure. Even the thought of her doing it heself is just insane. (Plus he's even getting quite good at it with each time).

୨୧ When Sam couldn't stop taking pretty polaroids of her after she surprised him in the sweet little lingeries he bought her that day. She sneaked in some pictures of him too in there.

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who always has to reapply and/or fix her gloss anytime it seems to be fading. (Even if it's during a case in the sheriff's house like that one time).

୨୧ When she couldn't resist taking a picture of her handsome boyfriend with his big biceps bulging as he carried your all shopping bags effortlessly.

୨୧ Just a picture she took of Sam playing with the lacey tops of her favourite pretty little knee-highs. He just loves the feeling of lace against her soft skin.

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who gets a bouquet of her favourite pink roses from Sam almost every week without even having to ask.

୨୧ spoiled brat!Reader who can never get ready on time. Even before leaving to investigate a case with the boys.

୨୧ The time when her and Sam celebrated ( a little too wildly) after a successful case with a champagne and she thanked and repayed him like a good girl for the little shopping trip he took her on beforehand.

Attention! Reader is referred to in third person. Author's Message : Well I had a lot of fun with this !! If you'd like to be tagged or added to the taglist for my future boards as well please don't hesitate to let me know below or in my inbox. comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts below in the comments and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts or requests (literally I would really really love requests or asks) :3. hope you like it !! Divider by : @enchanthings

[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 10

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You disappeared weeks ago, vanishing off the grid and from his life like a ghost. While giving you space has been torture, Bucky has somehow been able to manage it. When you’re finally reunited, the tension might be enough to break you both.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: PTSD, Mention of nightmares, Swearing, Trauma, Implied Sex, Mention of pregnancy (just a brief misunderstanding), Alcohol consumption, Bucky is down bad, Pining, So much pining, Angst, Reader is Tony Stark's kid but a fully grown adult (we are in charge of the timelines), Tension, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author’s Note: We've finally reached FATWS territory! I figured, to celebrate, I would try out a little dual POV so we can get inside of Bucky’s head. And hoo boy, call this man a tree because Bucky Barnes sure can pine. As always, thank you guys so much for all of your love for this fic! Feedback is always super appreciated!

-

Bucky Barnes sits across from his therapist, and he lies about having nightmares. Again.

He thinks he might be able to handle them better if he hadn’t become so used to you. You, always right there when he jolted awake, soft and warm and comforting, reminding him who he is. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. He’s Bucky. He’s loved. And not just by anyone, but by you.

The first time you woke him from a nightmare was years ago, in Romania, but he still remembers it like it was just last night. When he would otherwise have shot upward and sat in the dark for hours, trying to pull himself back to reality, he was instead met with a warm hand on his arm. Gentle. Kind.

And then he’d looked up, shocked and feeling like some kind of wounded animal. At that point, he basically had been.

Your eyes, in that moment, were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. They reflected the moonlight spilling in through the window, shining with concern and understanding in a way that made him ache.

“Hey, Bucky.” You’d said. And you’d used his name. Not Soldat. Not Winter Soldier. He was Bucky, and you were looking at him with such steadiness and kindness that he wondered how he could have ever doubted who he was. His name sounded so good coming from your lips that he nearly asked you to say it again.

“You wanna talk about it?” You’d asked. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering.

He shook his head, unable to fathom the idea of ruining this perfect moment with such darkness.

You nodded, understanding, and he never wanted you to stop looking at him. There was no disgust. No fear. Hell, there wasn’t even pity. For the first time in decades, he didn’t feel like a machine. He felt like a person. Like a man.

You didn’t know it, but from that moment on, if you had climbed up to the roof of the building and asked him to jump, he would have done it with a smile on his face.

Now, with you gone, he sleeps on the floor again, unable to stand lying on a bed without you in it.

And when he wakes, the nightmare continues in a different form, because he wakes to emptiness. Absence.

Dr. Raynor is saying something, and his ears finally lock onto her words when he realizes that she’s talking about you.

“You’ve been doing worse. The nightmares have clearly been worse. You haven’t brought her up in our last five sessions. So, James, I’m going to ask again. And answer me honestly.”

He nearly groans with irritation, already knowing where this is going.

“Where is your wife?”

Bucky hesitates before he answers, the words struggling to find their way past his lips.

“…I don’t know.”

-

“I mean, I just don’t know what I’m doing, Alan.” You pace the room, so restless you might just start wringing your hands. “It’s not that I don’t love him. God, I do. I still do. So, so much, you know? But then he died, kind of, right in front of me. He disintegrated. And then my dad died, and Nat died, and then Steve died. And I was supposed to be part of Stark Industries and help Pepper run it but I can’t do that. I just can’t. I don’t know what I’m doing. I barely knew what I was doing before. I don’t have the- hey! Are you even listening to me? Isn’t the point of this whole thing to try to get me to talk?!”

The officer on the other end of the interrogation table looks like you just tased him awake. You glare. He stutters, nervous, and he looks young and scrawny enough that you’re pretty sure he must be brand-spanking-new to this job.

“You, uh, have the right to remain silent-“ he starts, and you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“You already did that part. Come on, man.” You sigh, run a hand through your hair, and drop your shoulders in defeat. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. You were arrested countless times when you were younger, mostly for stealing parts or making and selling some kind of illegal tech. You’ve never rambled about your problems to an officer in an interrogation room. You’ve always had a little more swagger than that.

Then again, you haven’t had a lot of human interaction in the past few weeks.

“Look, dude. I get it. You’re new. Just tell me when Sam is gonna get here so I can get out of this room. Not that you’re not great company, but I’ve got a lecture waiting for me that I’d like to just get over with.”

“S-Sam?” The kid asks, looking down at the paperwork in front of him.

“Yeah, Sam Wilson. Government employee and all that. Hero Avenger. Kind of a prick, but in a lovable way. I told you guys to call him when you took me in.”

The kid goes pale, re-reading the name on the paper. “I, um… we called next of kin. It’s usually protocol to-“

“I don’t have a next of kin.” You snap, automatic. You swear you used to be more patient. A little nicer. But you don’t exactly love the reminder that you’re an orphan now with no family. Yeah, there’s Pepper and Morgan, but Pepper isn’t your biological family and Morgan is five years old. You can’t imagine either of their names would be on that sheet.

“Well, not in the…biological sense, but when it comes to that we call the…”

“Oh Alan,” you say, already knowing where this is going. “you didn’t.”

“The…spouse.” He says it like a wince. You stare at him in what might just be a good impression of the spouse in question.

He just keeps going, but he doesn’t have to. You can already feel the featherlight touch of a familiar gaze on your back. “Your, uh…husband? Mr. Barnes?”

“Alan,” you say again, “I thought we were friends, man.”

“I don’t…uh. I don’t know you.” He says helplessly, but you’re already ignoring him and turning around.

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe and looking right at you.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Your heart does a somersault at the mere sight of him. Leather jacket and gloves, burning blue eyes. Fuck, you missed him. You missed him every minute of every day.

You clear your throat, bravado leaving you like a balloon deflating under his gaze.

“Hey, honey.” You say, trying for casual but just sounding painfully awkward.

He’s doing the staring thing. You can feel poor Alan shrink down in his seat like the two of you just opened fire on each other right there in the interrogation room.

“Would you look less angry if I told you this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been arrested for?”

“No.” He says, simply, low voice sounding very loud in the small room. You missed his voice. You feel an embarrassingly overwhelming urge to run into his arms like this is some sort of cheesy movie. You know he would hold you if you did. His arms would wrap around you immediately, pull you close, and you would hear him murmur that he loves you into your hair, in that deep and wonderful voice you haven’t heard in too long.

You don’t move. You can’t.

You just leave with him, fixing Alan with a glare on the way out of the room that has him cringing back in his seat even more.

-

You look terrible. 

He’s seen you try to function on no sleep before, when the bags under your eyes darken and you get grumpy in the way he’s always found so oddly charming. He can usually fix it, whether it’s gently asking you to come home or physically carrying you out of your lab in what you’ve dubbed his ‘King King impression’. He even stopped one of your furious, hyperactive rants once with a simple smile and a kiss to your nose. Your arms had fallen back to your sides, no longer gesturing frantically, and you had stopped pacing to just thunk your head onto his shoulder.

Now, his fingers twitch at his side to do the same thing. He wants to fix it now. Like he used to. Like you used to let him.

But you left. You disappeared. You pulled back, and you’re finally right beside him but he’s terrified that if he tries to reach out to you, you might vanish again.

The bags under your eyes are deeper than he’s ever seen them. You’ve lost weight, like you haven’t been thinking to eat.

The urge to protect you, to fix it, runs through him like a chill down his spine.

Despite it all, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s still surprised by that sometimes, how he can look at you after all this time and be absolutely floored by the fact that you, of all people, can love him. You found him in Romania, that broken war machine holed up and hiding from the world, and you brought back everything he was before. You brought back Bucky, without even trying. Not even that, but you made him a better version of himself. You still do, every day. Even when you’re not there, he can feel your presence like a phantom limb. The past few weeks, he’s caught himself talking to you like you might be behind him, only to turn around to find an empty kitchen. Empty bedroom. Emptiness.

Now that you’re here, even just walking silently beside him, he feels like a part of himself has been reattached. Like he’s finally whole again.

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“You’ve been using my tech.”

Of course you would know. He never expected anything less. Even so, he feels a thrum of happiness and relief shoot through him at the revelation that you’ve been keeping tabs on him, even while you were hidden away God knows where.

“I have.” He says, glancing over to you. Casually, like he has a thousand times before, his hand moves to your waist, and he guides you so that you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. That’s another thing that still surprises him - that, whenever he touches you, he feels something like a little bolt of electricity shoot through him. As you grumble something about him being old fashioned, he has to stop himself from reaching out just to touch you again. “I’ve been crossing names off of my list.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

Memories of knocking a man out cold, of using your device to whip a car around a parking garage, run through his mind faster than a blink. You’re trying for a casual conversation. Avoiding the elephant in the room. If it keeps you here, he can try too.

“You know. Nothing illegal, no one gets hurt.”

“Liar.” You say it affectionately, and his heart skips a beat. What would you do, if he pulled you into that alley over there and kissed you until you were breathless, like he’s been thinking about doing since he saw you in that interrogation room? Would you melt against him, pull him closer? Would you come home with him, and let him show you just how much he’s missed you?

He has to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from doing it. He thinks you might sense his thoughts, too. Whether it’s from the heightened instincts the serum gave you or just the fact that you just know him well enough to read his mind, he doesn’t know. Your cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and you look away. And then he’s really fighting not to do it.

“Bold words from someone I just picked up from jail.” He says, grateful that his voice doesn’t sound as strained as he feels.

Your eyes narrow, and you fix him with a glare that just might intimidate anyone else. He has to bite back his smile.

“I thought that company might be part of a smuggling ring, okay? I just needed to confirm if I was right.”

“Were you?”

“…No. But they did have a much better security system than I expected them to.”

“You need to sleep, doll.”

“I sleep fine.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m sleeping like a damn baby.”

He can’t do it anymore. He can’t do the casual quips. The light jokes. Not when you’re so clearly hurting and refusing to let him help you. His metal arm wraps around your waist, and in one swift movement that lifts you easily off of your feet, he does pull you into the alley.

-

Your body has been humming with energy since the second his eyes fell on you at the precinct. This is not helping.

He’s so close. His blue eyes burn as they look down into yours. You feel that energy crackling between you like an electric current beneath your skin.

“Stop. Stop this.” His voice is low. Firm. Raw with emotion and concern. His face is so close that you can feel his breath against your lips when he speaks. Pine and leather and gunpowder overwhelm your senses and you think you might get weak in the knees like some sort of old-timey damsel. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not taking care of yourself. You left.” You feel his arm twitch around your middle, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you even closer. His voice is more quiet when he speaks again, vulnerability creeping into his tone. “Why did you leave?”

You don’t know what to say. How to say it. He’s too close to think clearly.

“I-“

You sense it first. Your head whips to the side, and you blink the fog away as a familiar voice calls out to you.

“You two. Barneses! Make this man stop throwing his trash into my cans!”

Bucky lets you go, and you have to hold back an embarrassing whimper at the loss of contact.

“We’re not done here.” He says, before turning to diffuse the situation.

-

As Bucky speaks to the man with the trash, Yori focuses his attention on you.

“Haven’t seen you for lunch in a long time.” His tone is accusatory.

“I’ve been…working.”

“You don’t look good. You look tired.”

“Thanks, Yori.”

“You need food.”

You bite back a groan. “I’m fine. I don’t need food.”

“He needs food, then.” Yori says, firmly, gesturing to Bucky. “I need food. I’m hungry. Take the old men to dinner.”

You look at Bucky, who seems to have finished his interaction with Trash Guy. You’re about to lie, make up an excuse and scurry back to your lab to try to lose yourself in another project and forget all about today. But…

Fuck. Bucky. His eyes. They’re open, hopeful, looking at you like he would burn the city to the ground if it meant you would just get a meal with him and your sweet old neighbor like you used to.

“Okay, fine. Dinner. Then I have to get back.” You say with a sigh, already beginning to make your way towards the restaurant near your apartment building.

You sense Bucky’s smile behind you.

-

-

“No one lived past ninety.” Yori says, pushing a newspaper into yours and Bucky’s faces to show you the obituaries.

As much as you’re still trying to bolt out the door, this feels…normal. Nice. Familiar. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, leaning into Bucky in the crowded little restaurant, ordering the same thing at the counter that you always do, cracking jokes with the two of them about their shared ‘grumpy old man’ personality.

“So young. Such a shame.” Bucky says around a mouthful of food, and you snort with laughter that you can’t manage to hold back.

“I think you look great for your old age, Sarge. Not a day over eighty.” You tell him, and he looks at you with amusement sparkling in his gaze.

You look away, unable to meet that look. There’s so much love there. Not just from him, but bubbling up in your own heart like it might overflow and drown you.

“Lots of tension between you two, tonight.” Yori says, blunt as ever. “And I haven’t seen you in a while.” He looks at you with prying eyes. “Are you pregnant?”

You choke on your water.

Hard enough, in fact, that Bucky shoots to his feet and puts his hand on your back, like he’s preparing to give you the fucking Heimlich.

You try to wave him off, eyes watering, but he doesn’t move. Protective as ever.

“You are, aren’t you?” Yori says, enthusiastically patting your shoulder. “Congratulations. It’s about time. You two are crazy. A little one might calm you down.” He looks at you, and you’re too busy trying to catch your breath to cut him off. “Makes sense why you look like you haven’t slept in so long, too. Babies take a lot out of you. I remember when my wife-“

“Three orders of sake, please.” You half shout over the counter, voice sounding a little too high pitched to be anything less than embarrassing. You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, that gentle touch of his gaze feeling like a full-on tug in his direction, and you finally turn to face him.

“Nope. Not pregnant.” You say, unable to look him in the eye as you turn back to grab the drinks.

When you hand Yori his shot, he looks disappointed.

When you turn to hand Bucky his, you could swear that he does too.

And that look makes you take your shot a whole lot faster. Makes you order more.

And then more.

Yori eventually goes home, patting both of you on the back and making a comment about marital relations that you choose to ignore, and then it’s just you and Bucky.

He sits beside you, silently, patiently. You feel the alcohol begin to cloud your mind. You order another round.

-

You’re drunk.

He feels like a complete jackass for letting you get drunk. For watching it happen. For matching you, shot for shot, and being so distracted by the fact that you’re here sitting in front of him again that he completely forgot that, unlike him, you can get drunk.

But every time you ordered another sake, eyes challenging as you handed one to him, he took it with you. Because you were talking to him again. Not about anything serious, not explaining exactly where you’ve been or why you left like you did, but just talking. Like you used to. You tell him about your plans for a new robot, about a weird looking pigeon you saw on the sidewalk the other day, about a smoothie place that sells what you swear is the absolute worst smoothie in New York.

He feels bad for not listening more intently, but he’s too enraptured by you. By the way you gesture with your hands as you speak, by the animation in your eyes. Shit, he even missed the cadence of your voice. He wants to bottle this moment and hold it close to his chest. To look at you for hours.

No, what he wants is to take you home, back to your shared apartment, and trace every inch of your body with his hands and his lips and his teeth until you promise to never disappear again-

“And that’s why I think I should just keep doing crystal meth, you know? It wasn’t so bad when I tried it, and it helps me get a lot of work done.”

He blinks, your words whipping him out of his thoughts, and stares at you now with wide eyes.

“I knew it.” You say proudly, grinning. “You’re not listening. You’re doing the thinking-staring thing, not the listening-staring thing.”

You’re clearly expecting him to smile. He doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the longing he feels must be reflected in his expression because the proud grin falls from your lips and you turn away, clearing your throat and taking another shot. You reach over and take his too, and the moment slips through his fingers.

-

When you step outside, you stumble. You didn’t realize how much you drank until you actually stood up, and you suddenly find yourself trying to blink the dizziness from your vision as the cool air hits your face.

“Shit.” You grumble, frustrated by your sudden lack of clarity, before you feel an arm wrap around your waist.

“C’mon, doll.” You hear, and you instinctively relax. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. Home sounds nice. You don’t really have the words to explain to him that home is the man standing beside you, helping to guide you down the street back to the apartment.

“M’tired.” You finally admit as he opens the door to the building. Despite what you’ve been saying, you really haven’t been sleeping.

“I know.” His voice is so gentle. So warm.

You almost trip on the first step, and in less than a second you’re being lifted into the air. Bucky lifts you with one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and you don’t have the wherewithal to argue. Your own arm slides around his neck, holding yourself close to him as he ascends the few floors to the apartment you haven’t entered in weeks.

He sets you down once you reach your room, and you let him help you into a pair of his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts before you collapse into bed.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you register that the bed doesn’t feel like it’s been slept in.

But then you feel a familiar weight slide onto the mattress beside you, and a vibranium arm reaches out to tuck you under the covers.

You roll over, twisting your head on the pillow to look at him. And he’s looking right back at you with those lovely blue eyes.

Home.

-

Bucky would do anything, break anything, kill anything in the world to kiss you right now.

But he can see the haziness in your eyes. The exhaustion. And you’re finally back. You’re home, and you’re looking at him in that way you have that makes him feel so unbelievably warm. It took so long for him to believe he might, just maybe, deserve that look.

“You’re doing the staring thing.” You murmur, sleepy and just a little bit slurred.

He can’t help it. His hand reaches up to cradle your cheek. He’s gentle. Careful. That distant part of him is still terrified that he might break you. He spent so long fighting, killing, causing pain. And you are just too precious to hurt.

You turn your face into his hand. Kiss his palm. But it’s what you whisper next that makes his heart ache.

“I love the way you look at me.”

He has to grit his teeth to keep tears from pricking at his eyes. He gives in, then, just a little, moving his hand from your face and wrapping it around you to pull you closer. He tucks you into his chest, and the feeling of your sigh - like you’re relieved by it - makes him hold you tighter.

“You and me.” He whispers into your hair, the words a quiet plea as he listens to your breathing, cherishing every moment he gets to hold you close to him again.

“You and me.” You whisper back.

He falls asleep to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

He doesn’t dream.

And, when he wakes, you’re gone again.

Previous Chapter

Taglist: @vicmc624, @saucysasha2035, @iyskgd, @intothesoul, @capswife, @otterlycanadian, @phoenix666stuff

[jjwolves]

Could I request reader getting series Ena a gift? Maybe a cute plushie or a little accessory like a bracelet or something? I think she deserves to have nice things. 🥺

EQUIP

What: 5 Part ENA X Reader Imagine Where You Get Her a Gift for Her Birthday

Who: ENA from ENA (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1400 Words, ~7 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: None

ENA was chattering while you two walked on the dust beach, holding hands as the flaming shadow waters receded out of respect for the visitation of earnest love. Either that, or they just weren't hungry right now after swallowing up a flaming ship on the horizon. Without a flaming ship to give light, it quickly became night, of course. Even through the chaos, you're enraptured by ENA's rambling. You get the feeling that she doesn't have the opportunity to speak on personal things very much, so you're happy to be her willingly captive audience as she performs some sort of seaweed-inspired dance number. "I must admit, in recent times I've been feeling that I'm much wiser than I was previously. Naturally, I'm excited for my next Wisening as well! I'm curious about what new conspiracies my mind shall develop." Your mind uncaps its handy context highlighter and draws a streak across this part of the conversation. You lightheartedly ask ENA when her next Wisening will be. Her expression takes on something like curiosity. Maybe nobody has asked her before. "An interesting question indeed. Hmm... It will be occurring in approximately forty pulses of the cosmic chip. Yes, indeed, only forty pulses until we reach the anniversary of my formation, the g-g-g--WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!" ENA spun behind you and emerged at your other side, clutching your arm for comfort now that she had gone blue. "I wish it never happened! Never never never!"

Feeling a surge of pity for her, you awkwardly pat her blocky head. Then, an idea springs forth! You ask if there's any traditions or, like, specific celebrations associated with Wisening. ENA sniffles. "Some people are given stuff, but... Nobody's ever gotten me nothing... I don't even know how old I am because of it! I don't got any trinkets to count and go 'that's how old I am'!" ENA sobs and her voice starts to take on a hysterical, shrill quality. "You're probably in love with an old, withered hag and I'm too STUPID to warn you!" This calls for a big hug, naturally. Your girlthing squirms around halfheartedly as her static tears buzz against your skin. "Nooo, don't! You're hugging a gross dusty relic! My tears are going to turn you into a prune!" You ignore her frantic self-loathing and ask if she wanted to start counting. "Start counting what?" You want to help her count her years, naturally. You want to get her a gift. ENA seems to banish her limpness with the fizzling sound of a glitch and returns your hug with a warm embrace of her own. "I am grateful, but... It's not entirely necessary. I simply enjoy your company as is." You tell her, slightly teasing, that she doesn't sound very convincing. She sounds a bit disingenuous to you, actually. Parting from you, ENA fixes you with her signature 'poker smile'. She could be thinking anything when she wears that expression. "... I am being very genuous." A pause. Her eyes narrow at you. "This is just what my voice sounds like."

Truthfully, it doesn't matter what she says; you've already set your mind to it. She's getting a gift because she deserves it. There is no escape. The only problem is that it's near impossible to discern what she'd even want for a birthday present in the first place. You decide to put some feelers out, try to prod anything resembling an opinion or useful hint out of her. You idly ask her about her feelings on hair stuff, like ribbons and scrunchies and things like that. "An interesting query. They can be quite fashionable, can they not? Although--" A sound like screen tearing. "My stupid hair isn't made right! It'd just clip through!" Okay, well, if hair stuff isn't an option... Maybe clothes are more her speed. Although, you've never seen her wear anything different. She stutters and reboots with a cheerful "bing!" before she responds. "Truth be told, I've never given tactiles much thought. I've always cloaked myself in the scholarly garb you see before you." As she gives her opinion, she emphatically stretches out her suspenders, which begin flickering violently. You don't think she's supposed to do that. When they snap back with a loud crack, one of ENA's arms is flung into the horizon as the other gets forcibly clipped into her torso. She turns black and white from shock. You better help her unlodge that... And fetch the other.

Eventually, you decide that clothes would probably be a good gift for ENA. If she's being honest, then she's been wearing the same beige uniform for however long she's existed. It'd be a good step in the right direction to give her some other styles to choose from. It's just hard! If ENA has been wearing that since she was created or emerged or whatever, then you weren't sure if that was even fashion that she chose so much as allowed. This is getting more and more complicated. You prod a little bit more, careful not to overplay your hand. You ask her what colors she likes. "What colors I like? Well, well, well..." As ENA ponders, she distractedly walks up a bookcase. You don't think she even noticed. "Call it drab, generic or positively monochromatic, but I quite like gray, white and black. And brown!" You say that you thought she would have picked yellow and blue, because of... You know. ENA turns her smile upside-down for this and sniffles. "Try looking at such gaudy shades all the time and tell me you'd like them!" Her self-loathing is quickly eliminated by your informing her that, one, you do, and two, you do (once again). She looks down at her shoes. "It's weird how nice you're being to me... I think I like it." She stands on her tippy-toes to give you a teary-eyed peck on the forehead, which is funny, too, because she's at a 90 degree angle with the ground right now. Either way, you're refueled with the mindset needed to complete operation blue-yellow birthday.

Well, it takes a few days to get everything together. You have to go look for new clothes for her, which means you need to leave a note on your door letting ENA know that you're out. Otherwise, she'll probably just climb in through a window. During the days that you're out, you need to crudely draw pictures of your polygonal girlfriend and then remove the lines on her face because the moth-headed tailors refuse to make things for ENAs (you don't understand and you never will). You think she'll like them, though. Afterwards, you spend every day asking ENA if it's her Wisening yet or not. "Not yet. Please have patience; Wisening takes time. Ask again tomorrow, I'm sure I'll know by then." One day, you're correct. "Congratulations! Yes, it is Wisening today." You ask her if she's received a gift from anyone this time around. "Ha! No. No, I don't think that will be happening any time soon, I'm afraid." Is she sure? You hand her a box with blue and yellow ribbons on it. ENA's eyes widen in surprise; she looks almost worried to touch it, like it'll sprout wings and fly away (wouldn't be the first time). Shocked silent, she takes it from you and delicately undoes the ribbons, pulling out and gazing wide-eyed at the clothes that you commissioned with fine detail. "You remembered my favorite colors, too..." You can't tell which voice is speaking; her head spins too often to keep track. Somehow, she shifts between clothes instantly and teleports the last ones she wore into a folded pile. First a gray vest, then a white sweater, then beige overalls, then a striped button-up. It's hard to keep track of her outfits--almost as hard as it is to keep track of which her is wearing them. She flickers to monochrome, yellow, blue, devilish, not and back again with each outfit. You can't even guess what this is--it's like she's trying on outfits for every different part of her. When she's done, it seems she's settled on the overalls for now and elected to crush you in a bone-crunching hug (with enhanced range due to her detached arms). "Thank you... so much. I'm going to accessorize endlessly with this gift." ENA parts from you and kisses you sweetly. "Know, forever, that this be true, love: you've made my Wisening well worth living. Joy, forever! And may it be well dressed as I." And now you're spinning. You hope you made up for all of those gifts she never received. You like to think you did.

[freyafrida]

rilla of ingleside, chapter ten

same, girl

Also happy Canada Day, I guess we're celebrating with the white feather chapter 🥹 The initial contrast between Jem and Walter (Jem trying to be cheerful despite the mud, Walter being emo despite being safe at university) is...not very flattering to Walter on its face? That said, idk, while I do think Walter has a streak of selfishness in being moody and letting everyone know it...it's hard to find yourself on the wrong side of popular opinion (even getting dogpiled on the Internet is unpleasant, let alone feeling isolated from basically your entire town and family over a world war, multiplied by how much emotional investment people had in believing enlistment was good and right). Even if you're sure you're right, it's still a lonely place to be -- and Walter's not sure he's right, while Jem is. (i mean, u are right walter, but he doesn't know that.) I feel for him, is my point, and the smugness of people sending him white feathers is hard to read about in hindsight. It's...interesting, for lack of the better word, if the book is trying to make a point -- shaming Walter with a white feather is bad, but enlisting is good, and the Blythe boys do enlist. The book generally draws a line at actively shaming men who don't enlist, rather directing its ire at pacifists and people who criticize soldiers without having any sons at the front. That said, there is a sense as well that it's specifically wrong that everyone criticizes Walter, because he's actually The Bravest of All deep down, idk if it would take that tack with someone who was an actual conscientious objector.

“ And Una’s! Una is really a little brick, isn’t she? There’s a wonderful fineness and firmness under all that shy, wistful, girlishness of her. She hasn’t your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there’s something in her letters—I don’t know what—that makes me feel at least while I’m reading them, that I could even go to the front.”

My girl!!! \o/ I will ignore how she's apparently, like, unintentionally driving Walter to enlist because I know that's meant to be a compliment. That said, I am intrigued as ever as to what her letters are making him feel. Courage? Confidence? Or, given that he later refers to wanting to defend girls like Rilla and Una, is she making him feel as though he ought to defend her...? I love that Una is apparently firmer and bolder in writing than her tea rose-esque surface makes her seem, but I want to knoooow what she said that makes Walter think so. I love them 😭 Also, given how fast and loose the book is with who any of the kids are friends with, or what they're up to, it does feel meaningful ~*~to me~*~ that Walter's friendship with Una is singled out here -- we don't hear about how he's getting along with Faith, Nan, or Di at college, or even if he has any other friends there (his only non-Meredith friend is Ken I think??).

“there was her new knitting bag to finish—it would be the handsomest bag in the Junior Society—handsomer even than Irene Howard’s”

I need to know what this bag looks like, if only because my brain keeps mixing "knitting bag" into "knitted bag", and I had a friend who knitted herself a purse once and it was very brightly striped (not in a bad way! just like, it was very of a particular time period) and that's all I can picture here, and I feel like that can't be what Rilla's talking about lmao.

Ah, and Rilla and her hat. I love the flash of insight into her and Anne's mother-daughter relationship -- I feel like it makes sense for Anne to try and instill some financial responsibility in Rilla, given that she apparently blew the majority of her allowance on the hat. On the other hand, I don't love that Rilla immediately "hates" the hat and that's like her comeuppance for being frivolous in wartime. (Sidebar: hilarious implication that the kids don't know the whole slate-over-head story.)

“Then Irene told me the meanest, most contemptible thing that some one had said about Walter. I won’t write it down—I can’t. Of course, she said it made her furious to hear it and all that—but there was no need for her to tell me such a thing even if she did hear it. She simply did it to hurt me.”

Oh, and Irene and the slur against Walter is also in this chapter! So much is happening! Esp. considering the main event of last chapter was Doc running around with his head in a salmon tin. I knew a girl like Irene in high school (separate from the other girl from high school who reminded me of Irene, lol), and tbh also in college. I didn't learn my lesson for a while there, mostly because I enjoyed hearing the gossip too much until it backfired on me 😬 Oops.

Anyway, the mysterious slur, a key part of Walter Discourse 😂 I'm intrigued not only as to what it is but who Irene heard it from -- she apparently hears it from "Mrs. George Burr", which makes me think it can't be that shocking, because it seems unlikely that any of the adults in Irene's circle (e.g. not a rough family like the Conovers) would repeat an actual curse word or allude to sexuality in a relatively young girl's hearing. (Unless Mrs. George Burr is also fairly young, in which case I can believe the younger men/women are way less straitlaced in how they talk.) Assuming it was just a disparaging remark (the traditional definition of "slur", without the connotation that it's a specifically taboo insult), it could be anything, although Rilla also calls it a "falsehood". Apart from possibly being about cowardice/effeminacy, thinking of other Dark Themes that have come up in LMM books...maybe a suggestion Walter couldn't/wouldn't have defended his family, esp. his sisters, from a German invasion? (Walter himself alludes to rape during the invasion of Belgium.) Suggestion that Walter is intentionally letting other men, including his brother, die in his place? Suggestion that Walter is suicidal and he would be better off dead than Not Being A Man? Idk, again, I feel like it can't be that wild given a married woman said it, but it also seems serious since the book is otherwise pretty open about shaming people for cowardice, criticizing Mr. Pryor, etc. (I also wonder, given that Rilla hates "everybody responsible for Walter's unhappiness", if it really wasn't Too Terrible To Be Named and she is just being extremely defensive over her brother.)

Rilla feeling disillusioned over the loss of Irene's friendship is so real, such a hard part of growing up.

“I explained patiently that children have to cry so many minutes per day in order to expand their lungs. Morgan says so.”

I bet Rilla says "Morgan says so" all the time and it's become a running thing in the Blythe household. Also, Rilla calling Jims "that exasperating child" bc he enjoys being bounced always kills me. I love that Jims smiles for her in the end (achieved without bouncing!) and that Rilla still thinks of Mrs. Anderson and wishes she could've seen it. ILU Rilla ❤️

“Monday has become quite famous. A reporter of the Enterprise came out from town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of his faithful vigil. It was published in the Enterprise and copied all over Canada.”

lbr, what doesn't the Enterprise report on (although Monday's vigil is a legit human interest story, fair enough)

glossary:

Readying Rilla bits:

Shirley originally builds Dog Monday's kennel, instead of Gilbert having Joe Mead do it. Why didn't we get Shirley building the kennel, it's so sweet (and I mean, Shirley has way more presence/relevance to this book than Joe Mead anyway) 😭 Also I'm gonna overthink it and wonder why it wasn't Shirley -- is he supposed to not be interested in building things? (I feel like this does not jive with the common fandom view of Shirley being similar to Gilbert's father, who was a farmer, so that would be interesting if he was meant to not be into manual labor.) OH WAIT i just remembered that if Walter's at Redmond, then Shirley is meant to be at Queen's, so he wouldn't be around to build it. Simply continuity there I guess.

Interesting cut bit where Rilla says she hates everyone responsible for Walter's unhappiness -- it originally says "She hated the Kaiser." Interesting to cross that out when the Kaiser is an object of much vitriol from the other characters.

Cut line that Anne and Susan "made much" of Jims (lol, clearly they're not too busy to fuss over him, no matter how much Gilbert wanted to make Rilla believe otherwise!).

Gertrude originally mentions specifically waking up at three AM fretting over Germany winning, and there's a line from her (then moved to Anne, then taken out entirely) saying that "three o'clock is an abominable hour", lol. Anne also says that she always sees Germany victorious at that time.

[butyoudidthis4what]

I cannot believe there are a thousand of you out there who want to follow me and read my stuff! It is truly incredible to me and I can't express how much your support is appreciated and how thankful I am for it. I would be nothing without you guys, and I know how valuable everyone's time is and how scarce free time can be, so I'm so grateful and appreciative for you spending a little bit of your time reading my things and interacting with me! ♥️

To celebrate, and help me with a little bit of writer's block that I think is hitting because my brain just needs a little break from long heavy emotional writing I would love for you guys to send in some drabble requests for me to write! More info below the cut!

How long will the drabbles be? Your guess is as good as mine! 😂 They might be a few sentences, 500 words, 1000 words, more than 1000 words. The prompt might end up turning into a whole fic if the idea strikes me hard.

Send me an ask (anon or not) with the character you would like and a prompt from one of these lists: drabble prompts, five word sentences prompts, smut prompts, jealousy prompts, fluffy prompts, hurt/comfort prompts from now until July 6 (I might close earlier depending on how many I get). Also feel free to send in a director's cut ask or an author ask.

For the drabbles and five word sentences prompts feel free to include the kind of vibe you'd like it to take on if it's not obvious (e.g., serious, happy, angry, jealous, sad, defeated, etc.).

Please make sure you either include the prompt in the ask or include the name of the prompt list with the number! I'm going to keep it to one prompt per ask for right now (but might open it to two) and one character per ask!

I will write for Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, and Andrew Pope Cody!

Please have patience with me while I work through them! My writing brain works weird so some things take longer than others. It's likely I won't get to every ask immediately/within the week, but I promise none will be deleted so that I can get to them in the future and that I won't forget about them! (If you already have a longer fic ask in my inbox I promise it's on my list of things to write and I'm still thinking over exactly what I want to do with the ask and have not forgotten!).

Thank you all again so much!! Consensual forehead kisses for all of you!! ♥️

I did not proofread this post as per usual so please ignore any typos. Gifs made very quickly and very shittily by me. Graphic made using canva. HUGE SHOUTOUT TO @loveyhoneydovey for spending a ton of her free time helping me get that god forsaken graphic into a tumblr acceptable format.

[annie-creates]

I choose my loyalties

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x reader

Genre: fluff with a bit of angst

Words: 2400

Note: A lovely story written for the @empyreanevents Garrick week prompt Loyalty. I love this one and might write one more for the free day. Let me know what you think.

Masterlist

Loving you was easy. In fact, it was the most simple thing Garrick Tavis has ever done. It started what felt like ages ago, but actually was only three years, back in your shared second year at Basgiath. His best friend Xaden was still as broody as ever but you, you brought an exciting breeze of fresh air he didn’t quite notice the year before. It actually started at the sparring mat.

“You better not pick up fights you can not finish, sweetheart,” he teased you after you asked him for a training match.

“I can finish you anytime, don’t even need my fists for that,” you fired back.

Falling into a rhythm with you was so easy Garrick didn’t even notice how invested he was and how intertwined his life became with yours at first. You studied together, trained together, spent free Sundays over lunch talking about your hobbies and interests. Only after Xaden gave him a stern talking to about how dangerous it is to get involved with someone who isn’t marked did he realize how much of his life did you take up now. But he didn’t mind. He actually liked having you around.

You made it official as something more after almost a year, with a kiss on the flight field under the spring moonlight. Squad battles were just a week away so you decided it would be best to train some maneuvers together, trying to shake each other off your dragons. The two beasts stood looming over you like an arch of excited growling, both spurring you on to finally take the step you were equally excited and scared about.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Garrick whispered, looking into your starlit eyes before connecting his lips with yours. “You better make it out safe.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” you swear. “I’ll be careful, so you better be too.”

Both of you made it through squad battles and war games almost without a scratch that year and the few free weeks after that you enjoyed celebrating in each other’s company. You kissed under the shade of trees in the fields and talked long into the night in your bed, sharing stories and fantasies of the life before and the life ahead. Garrick told you about his parents and you shared exciting news your family wrote to you in letters.

Your third year was harder though. Not only were you now burdened with harsher training and tasks, you were occasionally sent out for outposts to support their defenses. You had to go for weeks not seeing each other at times, and when you finally had the chance to, it seemed like Xaden always needed Garrick for something. And what was worse, once he didn’t get through to Garrick to make him leave you, he apparently recruited their other marked friends who joined the quadrant now to hate you too.

Any time you even just set with your boyfriend at breakfast or exchanged glances at passing, you always spotted at least one of Xaden’s puppets glaring at you. You didn’t mind too much, sure, they were Garrick’s friends, so it bothered you a bit, but he always assured you that they’re just unfriendly to anyone and they’ll warm up to you eventually. But eventually didn’t come even almost a year later when Xaden was dating Violet, the literal unmarked daughter of General Sorrengail, and they weirdly accepted her into their circle, even protected and trained her, while you were still on the black list.

“Don’t worry about them, who cares what they think,” Garrick comforted you the night Imogen gave you an ugly black eye in sparring just for looking her way for too long.

“They are your closest friends,” you hide your face in his shoulder. “Don’t you care what they think?”

“Not about you,” he doubled down as he caressed your hair. “They don’t know you like I do.”

You didn’t mind his secret trips with Xaden you weren’t supposed to know about. You didn’t bet an eye when he sneaked into the room in the early hours of the morning in full gear, didn’t question when he didn’t show up for dinner or missed a date here or there. He was a busy man, trying to help the marked kids survive their first year. You didn’t pay too much attention to Xaden and his group and in exchange he didn’t pay a lot of attention to you. You did however feel uncomfortable when the war games came around, and Garrick was supposed to leave with Xaden for his headquarters at Athebyne while you were going in the opposite direction with your squad.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, alright? Just like last year,” Garrick comforted you at the flight field.

“I don’t know Garr, I don’t want you to go that far,” you shook your head, feeling a little embarrassed for whining. “I want to go with you.”

“You’ll be safer at Keldavi. It’s just a week, and then all of this is going to be over,” he kisses you goodbye. “Meet you here in a week.”

The smile on your face that mirrors his fades away as Imogen smirks at you from the distance, taking your boyfriend over his shoulders and pressing close to him. You weren’t blind to her advances at your boyfriend, they just angered you more, but he didn’t even notice her. He always brushed your complaining aside because he never had eyes for anyone but you. But a lot can happen in a week.

The war games were cruel, hard, but doable. Your days were long and even at night you could never fully rest because another wing’s attack could come at any time. You doubted you’d be able to take your mind off things even if you tried to though, not until you saw Garrick again, alive and in one piece.

Which did not happen like he promised. You kept waiting in the flight field, and the whole day after, but no matter how vigilantly you watched the horizon Chradh’s brown wings were nowhere to be seen. When Panchek read his name off the death roll the next morning, you broke. Your eyes watered with tears and your best friend had to keep you standing. You couldn’t believe he was gone. The love of your life, the strongest man you ever knew, fell in battle and you couldn’t even be there with him.

But then he showed up. Xaden’s whole headquarters squad showed up, littered with cuts and bruises but otherwise fine, except for missing two marked riders. The moment Garrick left the dais with his missive in hand he hugged your waist lifting you off the ground, burying his face in your hair. You took him around his shoulders, hiding your own head in the crook of his neck.

“I thought you were gone,” you cry muffled by his flight jacket. “Oh god I thought you were gone.”

“I’m so sorry love,” he whispers, exhaustion dripping from each word. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“What the hell happened out there?” You question, looking into his tired eyes.

“I… can’t really tell you,” he glanced to Xaden who was glaring at you but this time you didn’t care. “But I’m fine, I’m alive. I made it. We made it.”

“We made it,” you nod with a smile of relief.

“Where are you stationed?” he lets you go a little, one hand still wrapped around your waist.

“Montserrat. You?” You glance at your own sealed parchment.

“Samara. Guess they didn’t have much time to come up with something,” Garrick jokes.

“Guess not,” your heart sank at the thought of being separated again, which he noticed.

“Hey, it’s not that bad. We’ll have days off, we can visit each other,” he tries to lift your spirits.

You spent the next two days tangled together in bed, resting and occasionally going for some food. But even two days are too long for Xaden and he wants to get out of Basgiath as fast as possible. So Garrick naturally has to go with him. You were not happy saying goodbye so soon, but you could manage a few months apart, right? You’d exchange letters and visit, you’ll be fine.

For a while, you were great. The work at the outpost was hard and you fell into bed every night utterly exhausted. You got a letter from Garrick at least twice or three times a week, and you happily replied to each and every one. He had a lot of hard work too. The first time you got off after a month you spent the weekend at Samara, Xaden luckily gone to visit Violet at Basgiath. You couldn’t help but envy him for all the time he got off just because of a dragon mate bond.

After a while though you felt Garrick slipping away a little. He was less excited to see you, less interested in the things you had to say. After only three months you were lucky to get one letter a week and then he forgot you were coming to see him and left the outpost to do god knows what while you roamed his room alone. You couldn’t help but wonder if your relationship was actually this fragile, if the distance is what’s going to break you. Xaden and marked one’s squad couldn’t do it, but the separation actually might.

And then your outpost was raided with venin bodies and all hell broke loose. You were once again afraid for Garrick who was stationed miles away from you, until you found out he was part of Xaden’s rebellion and in on the plans from the start. You and a few of your squad mates left to go to Aretia, and you spent the whole flight contemplating what you’ll find there. Will Garrick even want to see you? Will he be preoccupied with someone else?

‘The strong one would never exchange you,’ your dragon assures you but you’re not so sure.

‘Maybe his priorities changed…’ You counter.

‘Nonsense. That man is absolutely smitten with you,’ but maybe after the years, the spell wore off.

When you arrived at Aretia the Bagiath students were already there, along with a few professors and a crowd of lieutenants from various outposts. The place was filled with chaos and buzzing with chatter. It took Garrick a few hours to find you, but once he spotted you, his hug was as strong as the first night you kissed or when you thought he died.

You tried to be open-minded, you really did. You believed what you were told and shown, you fell into the rhythm of the new rebellion. The danger of what would happen to you if you were captured as a traitor of Navarre and sentenced for treason hung over your head, but you ignored the feeling of displace. You felt yourself slipping form your place at Garrick’s side, finding yourself shifted down the list of priorities to the very bottom.

At first he didn’t notice your silence. You took to your new place without argue, didn’t say anything when he missed yet another dinner of didn’t come to bed at all at night. You still kissed him when he greeted you, even though he only pecked your cheek. You still waited for him to come home from a late-night patrol with a warm meal, even when he hardly ever ate it.

But Garrick wasn’t completely stupid. He noticed when you stopped protesting against his friends’ stupid remarks, when you quietly left the flight field when touching down first instead of waiting for him to join you. He started paying attention and found all the ways you removed yourself from aspects of his life to make it easier. And he hated it. That’s why he took you to watch the sunset from the highest tower, prying the reasons out of you.

“I don’t know why you’re still with me,” you admit. “I can’t compete with your friends and this place, it’s your home Garrick. I understand why you were keeping secrets but…”

“But you wish I trusted you with it,” he nods in understanding. “I wanted to, love, gods how much I wanted to tell you all about this. But Xaden was always against that, even Violet wouldn’t know if he didn’t have to take her here after war games.”

“Garrick it’s been three years, and he still hates me. He thinks you would be better of with someone of…” your kind you wanted to say, but it sounded so stupid. “Someone like Imogen, and maybe he’s right. She understands you, and your friends all like her.”

“I don’t care about any other woman, love,” Garrick states harshly. “I. Love. You. Noone else. I don’t care what anybody thinks, I’ll worship you like the fuckin queen you are.”

Before you can protest, your conversation is once again interrupted by Xaden with Bodhi and Imogen, all glaring daggers at you. They really couldn’t let you be for a single day, even for a few minutes with the man who held your whole life in his calloused hands.

“Garrick. We need to go,” Xaden states. “The drop can’t wait.”

“You guys can go without me,” your man shrugs.

“I told you to choose your loyalties,” The shadow wielder glares directly at you, and you feel his cold shadows coiling around your feet.

“Yes, and I choose my loyalty to my woman over all others,” Garrick thunders. “The three of you are enough to take care of the delivery. I need to spend some time with the sun of my life.”

“You can’t be serious?” Imogen argues incredulously.

“Oh I am absolutely serious. And you need to finally get it in that I belong nowhere but by the side of my girl,” he hugs your waist pressing you to his broad chest. “You better go or you’ll be late.”

With that he turns his back to them and you hear the three leave with grumbles of disagreement. They might give you even more shade after this, but you’ll gladly take it. Because Garrick stood by you, and he will always stand by you, no matter who he has to fight along the way. He’d wield all the wind in the air and cross the whole continent just to stand by you.

[our-alterous-experience]

btw guys, most of my recent love posts have been about my girlfriend/beloved-im-not-dating-who-we-sometimes-tell-others-we’re-dating. I have never been in an aro4aro relationship where i’m loved by them like this before and it’s so nice. I was really okay with dating allos and I still am but this is a unique understanding i am lucky to get the chance to have. And I never thought I would. so if you’re out there, and love feels years away, take care of yourself, understand yourself, and be mindful. If you take healthy steps and keep going on, you can find someone where you least expect it.

[sappi-papi]

sooo i heard it was eclair day today? ^_^

[alukaforyou]

im trying to draw a desktop bg for my new imac uhh 💀🔫

it verrrrry very vaguely reminds me of an old hanbok girl drawing i made

i should draw it like that, add the pink flowers because f it i love pink flowers?? and put a MOON in there too cuz i love da moon 😍🌙💖 like the theme of the pic can be "all the stuff im obsessed with" what the hell maybe creamy & crunchy should be there as well 💀 PEAK DESKTOP BG FOR ME 👍🏻 and we all kno i am all about hanboks in this shape from late joseon era 19c

the itty bitty crop top and the super high up skirt 👌🏻 but im getting into the looser boxy tops too from earlier like 16-17c?? artist cred for the illust

ooh waist skirt + loose top yeah its growing on me 😳 also i have this hanbok and im like in love with the bigger sleeves sooo 😭💖 IM IN MY BIG SLEEVES ERA

also the ladies from 16-18c with the. big wigs 😭 ouch neck. older kr dramas loooved to put royalty charas in these huge wigs omg i always thought it looked kind of unnatural with how neat and even it was 😭

no way ur relaxing at the palace home with that on ur head 😩 neck problems speedrun???? the only show i've seen this look good in was the saimdang drama it looks rly pretty and not over the top here v believable v natural 👍🏻

i feel like if i lived in kr my dream job would be a stylist for period dramas / movies or for when ppl do hanbok traditional wear for weddings / photos etc i literally can make this hairstyle irl plzz ㅠㅠ i am qualified looooooolll

[panharmonium]

Man, these past few days...so many thoughts. About my life then, my life now. What I missed. Thoughts about what I'll never have. And what I want to have.

[rubylarkspur22]

Do you ever listen to a song, and think "F***, this would be PERFECT for a character!"?

And then remember the exact context of the song, which is the exact opposite of what you're going for?

Because if the context wasn't Glinda mourning Elphaba while putting on a persona for the crowd, No One Mourns The Wicked would fit so well with Leilani in my original story for her! I can see the scene during that final chorus!