#and then blame himself again for her ghosting him???? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lvrclerc · 4 months ago

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✶ 15 YEARS IN THE MAKING

summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader

wc: 11.3k

cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea

note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on

soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model

OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”

His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”

His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”

“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”

Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.

Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.

Had been. Until almost a year ago.

And nobody knew except for him.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.”

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet.

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it.

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you.

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either.

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays.

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips.

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him.

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came.

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration.

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans.

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone.

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could.

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed.

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there.

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#ᯓ my writing.ᐟ #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #op81 x reader #op81 #mclaren #oscar piastri imagine #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #op81 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #op81 x you

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aleksatia · 4 months ago

Note

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

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corkinavoid · 1 year ago

Text

DPxDC Constantine Is Having Fae Problems

Not as in 'problems with the fae', but as in 'the Batfam don't understand shit about fae and it is somehow Constantine's problem'

"Thank you."

Whatever thoughts Constantine had before come to a screeching halt. He slowly turns around, praying he's misheard, but, unfortunately, no. He heard that right.

The black-haired kid - he looks like a kid, but, really, he is not, and he is not even human to begin with - is smiling at Nightwing, who just laughs and ruffles the boy's hair.

"Don't worry about it, it's nothing," the moronic eldest batkid says, like it's not a big deal, and Constantine just... can't. He is not dealing with this right now. He needs a drink.

And then it happens again. Not with the Nightwing, though. This time, it's Black Bat. Now, in all honesty, Constantine is not so sure about her being human either, what with her appearing out of goddamn aether and being silent as a ghost, but the point still stands. The new addition to Bat's menagerie of children, the fae boy, the changeling who insists he is Robin's brother, thanks her.

It's quick and easy, just like a human would say it, and Black Bat just nods back at him, but Constantine knows what it means. He knows the weight of fae gratitude.

The big question is, do the Bats know it?

He promises himself to address this issue later with the Big Bat himself. But every time he encounters the man, he just forgets to bring it up. Constantine strongly suspects it's not his bad memory at fault here, but a certain fae. Not that he is going to outright go and blame the damned creature, of course, Constantine values his life, mind, and consciousness. Also, he is very aware of the consequences of talking to the fae, unlike the furry brigade.

Alas, he can't forget something if he witnesses with his own eyes. So the next time he is in the Batcave, he makes it a point to wait until the same thing eventually happens. And, score for Constantine, it does.

"Thank you," the kid - again, not a kid, not a human, but whatever - tells Red Robin, and Constantine immediately snaps his head to him, pointing a finger at the smiling fae.

"I mean no disrespect, but what are you doing?"

The kid - Danny, as he insists to be called, although Constantine knows better than to call a fae by any name - tilts his head to the side. He looks confused, but there's a sly glint to his blue eyes. Oh, the fucker knows exactly what he means. He just doesn't want to admit to it.

"What do you mean?" It's not him, but Red Robin asking, and Constantine turns to look him in the eyes. Mask. Whatever.

"He is thanking-" a terrible thought crosses Constantine's mind, and he stares at Red Robin with horror, "Oh, don't tell me you were all thanking him and apologizing to him like he is a human being."

"I don't see how this is your business," Red Robin scolds, and his eyes narrow. Constantine can't see his actual eyes through the mask, but he knows the Bats well enough to know the kid looks as deadpan as he can.

"You can't do that!" He reaches down to the pocket where he keeps his cigarettes, but stops halfway. Right, no smoking in the Batcave. Wait, he never obeyed that rule! Constantine turns to glare at the fae boy. Danny appears as innocent as a newborn baby. Little bastard.

"Quit making a scene," comes another voice, and this one John recognizes, turning to look at little Robin. Now that he thinks about it, the demonic child claimed the fae as his brother, and he definitely should know how to talk to fae!

"Why didn't you tell them about the rules?!" He asks Robin, and the kid doesn't even bat an eye at him.

"You will not accuse me of incompetence in front of my brother," Robin huffs, not stepping closer and keeping one hand on his hip, "I did."

"You-"

"Okay, how about you calm down?" Danny interjects, and John is positive this is the first time he's heard the boy say anything other than 'thank you'. He turns to the fae, facing him, and, oh, Jesus, those are not human eyes. Or teeth. Or face. Holy fuck how do Bats live with this, it's like uncanny valley but hundreds times worse.

"If I tell you I use it for easier access, will you leave it be?" The fae tilts his head again, and this time it is not in confusion, but in the eerie manner of how all very much not human beings do it. Constantine swallows, but doesn't back down.

"Access to what, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Transportation," Danny provides. This does not explain shit and he knows it. Red Robin groans and rolls his eyes.

"We use it to summon Danny if we need him. It's faster than calling or texting."

Constantine freezes.

These fucking kids. Are using the fae debts. To summon him. Because they don't like texting.

Do they know that they can literally ask a fae to destroy a small country to fulfill a debt like that? It's not just a small favor, it's a gratitude. Fae take their gratitude very seriously. They value it. A lot.

Actually, you know what, no. John is not going to be explaining that part to them because God knows the batkids are all batshit crazy and this is an opportunity he is not willing to give them.

So he just nods stiffly, turns around, and heads to the zeta tube.

"Thank you for caring about my family," he hears a voice behind him, full of mischief and joy. Constantine feels the weight of the newly acquired debt, or better call it a favor, bind itself to his soul, and, great, he now has the power to part the sea like Moses, but only once.

He needs a drink. No, correction, he needs a whole bar to himself.

Wait, that's an idea.

"Get me a bottle of good bourbon, and we're even," he throws around his shoulder, stepping into a zeta tube.

When he steps out of it, there's an unlabeled bottle in his hand. John sighs and opens it, foregoing the glass or cup and drinking straight from the neck.

...It's good bourbon.

Inspired by @blackfoxsposts

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#danny phantom #dc x dp #dpxdc #batfam #tim drake #damian wayne #batman #john constantine #fae #fae au #fae!danny #cork prompts #changelings #changeling au

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talaok · 1 year ago

Text

Old Man

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel needs glasses but won't admit it, and there's only an amount of teasing a man can take before he decides to show you just how much of an old man he is.

warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, hair pulling, (joel gets a lil rough)

Ellie was the one to start it all,

I mean it's not like you hadn't noticed, but she was the one that started with the jokes.

Not very honorable of you to blame it all on the 14 year old, you knew... but still, just to get the record straight, you weren’t the one to tease him first.

“Gimmie Granpa” she had chuckled one time, grabbing the piece of paper where Maria had written down the recipe for her 'world-famous' casserole from his hands.

"Hey-" He'd protested,

"You can't see shit, man" she giggled, "Stop trying to fight it- you're getting old buddy"

And well from then on things had... escalated.

You'd yet to see a day where the poor man wasn't made fun of because of it, but truth be told, he really did need glasses.

You'd even suggested it to him more gently, in the comfort of your own room, away from Ellie's prying eyes.

"y'know baby, there's nothing wrong with getting glasses"

He'd looked at you as if you'd just told him to go fuck himself.

"Don't look at me like that" you'd smiled, rounding the bed to intertwine your hands behind his neck "It's for your own good"

"I don't need glasses"

"no?" you'd bit down a grin "you sure?"

"'m sure alright" he grumbled

"I bet Tommy would know where to get you a pair if you asked"

"darlin'"

"yes, baby?" you'd asked, hopeful

"I don't need 'em"

And you really did want to keep on trying to convince him, but then he'd kissed you and well- it must have slipped your mind.

Unluckily for him, not for a very long time.

He was in the bathroom, trying, or more specifically struggling, to open a bandaid for your injured finger.

It wasn't anything serious, just a little cut, but as you'd disinfected it, he'd insisted on covering it up, only of course you hadn't expected it to take so long.

"Baby, what's wrong, you can't find them?"

But the answer to your question was right before you as you entered the bathroom.

As I said, he was struggling.

A laugh bubbled up your throat as you took in his focused expression, the frown on his forehead, the squint in his eyes...

"Let me do it"

"No I can do it I just-" he tried to get it open again, failing miserably.

"Joel-" you smiled, walking up to him "let me" you said softly

And with a sigh, he surrendered, handing you the poor, tortured bandaid

"I could have done that" he grumbled as he watched you do it in a split second.

"Sure you could, old man" You grinned to yourself, carefully applying the bandage to your finger.

"What did you just say?"

A soft, breathless gasp fled your mouth-

He'd moved right behind you, and his hands were now on your waist.

"Jesus babe" you laughed,

"What did you say?"

His voice was rough, and his eyes... something had shifted behind his eyes.

You watched his reflection in the mirror before you as you answered

"I said I'm sure you could"

"Mhh" he hummed, his head lowering until he could dive into your neck and inhale your scent "The other thing"

"what other thing?" you feigned innocence, enthralled by his demeanor, by the almost predatorial look in his eyes

"You know what"

"no I don'-"

But you didn't have time to finish, he'd already grabbed you by your hair, pulling your head back until his mouth was ghosting yours

"you called me an old man, darlin'?"

He was a different man from a minute ago.

This was the Joel Miller people feared, the one that killed without remorse, the one that fucked you rough- the once that a sick and twisted part of you revered.

"Baby I was jokin-"

"didn't look like it" he growled, his clothed hard-on pressing into your ass making you whimper, "you think I'm an old man, babydoll?" he murmured, his grip tightening around your hair "I'll show you how much of an old man I am"

Next thing you knew, your upper body was flushed against the sink's countertop, and your shorts were at your feet, together with your panties.

You watched from the mirror as he freed his cock with the hand that wasn't holding you down, and then you felt it-

"will you look at that" he chuckled darkly, the tip of his dick sliding between your folds with ease "you're makin' a mess for an old man, babydoll"

"J-Joel" you whimpered

"no no darlin'" he cooed "You've brought this on yourself- now you're gonna be good and take it, alright?"

When you didn't respond, he yanked your head back, forcing you to look at him through the mirror

"alright?" he bent down, growling in your ear

"y-yes"

"try not to be too loud," he whispered "You wouldn't want people to know how much you like getting fucked by an old man"

You had no time to respond, to tell him how much you didn't care, because he'd already pushed himself fully inside of you, and the only thing you could do was scream.

"you can't help yourself can ya?" he muttered, watching your face contort in all sorts of bliss-induced expressions "The old man gives it to ya too good, 's that it?" he groaned, feeling your walls squeeze around him

"look at me" he ordered, pulling your hair again, making you open your eyes and watch him as he ruthlessly slammed inside of you "Look at the old man who's fuking you, darlin', don't be rude" he grinned

The sound of his skin against yours reverberated through the bathroom, and god it was nasty.

"f-fuck" you tried to speak, tears tarnishing your vision

"I know, I know" he pretended to care, getting up from where he was pressing his torso onto your back, using a hand to get you to remain flush against the sink "I'm going too slow, ain't I?"

Oh shit

Oh fucking shi-

If you thought he was going hard before... you hadn't seen anything.

You couldn't fully create one single thought in your mind as he picked up his pace, as he started literally slamming into you fast and hard enough to break you in half.

"I'm jus' an old man after all babydoll, ain't I?" he breathed, one hand still on your back while the other was still forcing your head up to look at him "You'll understand if I can't fuck you as hard as you'd like" it was like he wasn't hearing how loud you were moaning, how breathless your whines and gasps where each time his dick hit your cervix "what's that?" he mocked "you need it harder darlin'?"

"J-Joel-" you whined, begging, pleading for what you weren't even sure

"shh I got you baby" he cooed, bending down to whisper in your ear again, slowing down his pace just to thrust so fucking deep and hard into you you swore you saw stars "I know my old man's pace ain't enough for you doll"

But it was- Oh it was more than enough.

And yet he didn't care- he was going even harder, even faster, even deeper, and you... you didn't even remember your name anymore.

You could feel the thickness of his cock as it slammed into you over and over and over again, the way it would hit the most hidden spots inside of you, the ones only Joel had only ever been able to find, and then-

And then you could hear his grunts and strangled groans as he fucked you within an inch of your life, as his hair fell to his forehead and tears streamed down your face and your eyes struggled to remain open, struggled to keep on watching him as he fucked you from behind with enough force to break the fucking sink you were on.

Until it got to be too much, until you felt your stomach tighten and the fuse lighting, until he hit that secret spot once again, and all you could do was close your eyes as bliss took over your body, as waves of ecstasy washed over you.

"look at you" he groaned "coming all over an old man's cock" he breathed, your walls squeezing him too good to do anything else but follow suit "letting an old man come deep inside of ya"

It took a long moment for either of you to wake up from the sex-induced haze, but Joel was in much better shape than you, so it was him who came back earlier.

he begrudgingly pulled out, enjoying for a moment too long his own handy work before he helped you up, picking you up bridal style once he realized how useless your legs had become.

"baby" you murmured, before he could place you on the bed "You know I was joking right?" you said, leaning up to kiss him, your mouth catching his in a sweet, gentle kiss that contradicted completely the way he'd just ruined your ability to walk properly

"You're not an old man" you promised

"mh?" he hummed, kissing you again just because he could

"yeah" you smiled, melting into the kiss for what felt like an eternity

He was holding you gently, watching your eyes as they begged to close.

"good" he hummed against your mouth, watching it twist into a devious little smirk as a spark ignited in your eyes

"Although I still think you should at least consider getting glasses-"

"darlin'" he stopped you immediately "I suggest you stop talkin''"

"or what?" you bit down a grin, laughing softly

"Or Tommy's gonna be real mad when you tell him you can't make it to patrol tomorrow 'cause your legs don't work"

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 2 years ago

Text

Despite Danny's best efforts, no matter how much time past, Amity Park refused to see Phantom as a hero.

Sure, there were pockets of support, particularly among teens, but most of the town blames Phantom for the property damage, saying if he didn't fight the ghosts then it wouldn't be so bad, to that time he got mind controlled by Freakshow and "attacked" the mayor. It wears him down. It wears Tucker and Sam down. Jazz can only try to support them all.

Then one day, a member of the Justice League visits. Someone minor, and kinda a jerk... maybe a Wonder Twin? Zan? Whatever. They don't investigate; they don't look deeper. They listen to the town folks and declare the ghost hunters, Red Huntress and the Fentons, to be the official heroes of the town.

Worse? Danny Phantom is officially considered a villain to the Justice League. Tuck hacks into the Watchtower and confirms that they have a file (a heavily inaccurate file) about how to defeat Phantom.

Danny doesn't think he can do this anymore.

A few weeks later, a young villain escapes into Amity and demands (begs) that Danny help them escape from the hero after them. No idea who, I can't find a lot of info on teen villains in DC, so let's fudge some ages and make it Kyd Wyckyd from the Teen Titans cartoon. Danny agrees, because to hell with the Justice Losers, and they defeat the hero, becoming friends in the process. Kyd confesses that they became a villain after being ostracized bc of how they look, and they've been trying to avoid villain organizations because HIVE was abusive, but it's really hard to be a villain alone bc of all the heroes.

Sam gets an idea. Tucker agrees with the idea. Jazz is just happy they'll end up making friends.

The next day, the Teen Villain Alliance is formed, ready to assist with any teenage illegal shenanigans their allies might get into.

Some notes:

It's created to be a healthier option for teen "villains" to connect with others and support each other.

It's more important that this is for Teens rather than Villains. They're tired of adult villains taking advantage of them. The TVA would rather ally with a teen vigilante than with an adult villain.

Again, no idea who the teen villains are, but Klarion is definitely here. He leaves the Light for the chaos of the TVA. Maybe Ember is there too?

Timeline wise, this is around when Tim is still Robin, but Damien has arrived at Wayne Manor.

This is because, when it comes time to try to infiltrate the TVA, they'll have a convenient child-assassin who has none of the monitors of a teen hero that Phantom immediately picks up on.

Damien, who at this point has been abandoned by his mother, dismissed and scolded by his father, and has had no success at carving his own place in the family, jumps at the chance. He is then surrounded by peers who don't insult him or try to change his behavior (too much; jazz is trying to help him find healthier methods of expressing himself). He... might not want to continue being a spy.

Danny, Sam, Tuck, and Jazz are the founding members.

Danny reinvents himself as the High Prince of the Infinite, Prince Phantom Dark. He got kingship from fighting Pariah Dark, but since he's still alive, he's only a prince. He steals the last name Dark as an intimidation tatic against those in the know; only Danny would have the balls to claim family with Pariah.

Sam works as a powerless villain, but she might no be powerless? Either way, Danny gives her a bunch of repurposed Fenton tech, and she buys the rest with her parents credit card. She does NOT care if that's traced back to the Mansons. She would choose something goth, maybe something spider related or even bat?

I love Pharaoh Tucker, so I think he should get magic powers? Since pharaohs of old were considered the balance between the real and the divine. He's still a tech guy, now he's a tech and magic guy.

Jazz isn't really a villain, more of a team mom who's planning on using everyone's psyche's as her thesis paper. You know what, that's her callsign, she's Psyche. Sometimes she flirts with Nightwing.

#dc x dp #villain!everlasting trio #dcxdp #villain danny phantom #teen villain alliance #c: danny fenton #c: sam manson #c: tucker foley #c: jazz fenton #c: kyd wyckyd #c: klarion the witch boy #c: batfamily #c: damien wayne #they don't have an agenda like most villain team ups #they're there to support each other commit crimes and play pranks on the justice losers #dp x dc #dp crossover #dc crossover

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moonlightcycle571 · 6 months ago

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The Justice League mingling before their meeting

Captain Marvel, crashing through: CYBORG QUICK, I NEED YOU TO FIX IT

Cyborg: what?

Captain Marvel: SHES DOWN

Cyborg, palling: You don’t mean … *checkc* OH FUCK NO

JL, visibly concerned: What’s going on

Captain Marvel: HURRY DO SOMETHING

Cyborg, already has twelve laptops going through codes furiously: IM TRYING

Plastic man, bursting through the room: EMERGENCY, SHE HAS BEEN HIT

Cyborg and Captain Marvel: WE KNOW

Plastic man, gripping Batman: DO SOMETHING

Captain Marvel, slapping Plasticman: GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF SOLDIER

Green Arrow: WHATS GOING ON?

Captain Marvel: AO3 IS DOWN

JL: … what?

Green Lantern (Hal & Jessica): NOOOOOOOOOOO

Wonder Woman : … the fan fiction website?

Superman: that’s it?

Cyborg, dramatic gasp: how DARE-

Captain Marvel, dramatically holding him back: No my friend, they simply don’t understand

Green lantern (Hal): How am I supposed to get through monitor duty without my dose of SI field trip fics?

Green lantern (Jessica): How am I supposed to fly through space without my Percabeth podfics???

Green lantern (Hal): Aren’t John and Kyle currently in deep space right now?

A moment of silence for thé two lanterns in space

Flash: is this what’s got you in a fuss? Damn I thought someone died

Cyborg: SIX HOURS

Four Heroes proceed to cry in unison

Bonus:

After a gruelling 6 hour meeting, the heroes found themselves with their beloved writings again

Cyborg: SHES BACK BABY

Green lantern (Jessica): NO ONE TALK TO ME FOR SIX WEEKS I NEED TO CATCH UP ON MY FIC TIME

Captain Marvel: I CAN FINALLY POST MY NEXT CHAPTER

Green lantern (Hal): You’re an author? Let me see your works

The three look at Caps account: …

Green lantern (Hal): THATS YOU???

Cyborg: howwwwwww

Green lantern (Jessica): Oh shit, I’m a big fan of your work

Bonus 2:

Batman, in the BatCave: it seems this ao3 site has a great deal of influence. I might need to investigate this.

Batman: Captain Marvels work may also give me clues as to who he is

Ten hours later

Batman, knee deep in Gray ghost, Batfam and Danny Phantom fics: … I may have made a mistake

Bonus 3:

Lex Luthor: hey Mercy. Mercy. Hey.

Mercy: WHAT

Lex: wouldn’t it be funny if after ao3 starts working again, I mess with it some more. Making it go down so soon after the 6 hours are up

Mercy: that’s sounds cruel

Mercy: I love it

Bonus 4:

Lex Luthor talking to some villains

Lex: it seems that I was right, planting a bug within the reading platform brought forth a level of villainy i hadn’t truly imagined

Sivanna “got blamed and beat up for it”: THAT WAS YOU!

Cheetah “her furry and wlw safe space” : WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT

Killer Croc “same reasons above”: Oh I’m going to beat your ass

Harley Quinn, pulling out her bat and calling all the Gotham Rogues (who have been up in arms about it): IM WAY ON YA! YOURE DEAD

Lex Luthor, “just wanted to stop seeing himself get shipped with Superman”: I sense that I may have made a mistake

#in honour of the fallen (ao3)#and mix it with my boy #Billy Batson #because I enjoy giving him more reasons to crash out #what’s one more trauma on the list #there’s so many characters here that I’m not going to tag them all #mostly because I’m lazy #I just know the Lanterns are ao3 users #what tags you read define which ring you get #I also think most villains love ao3 #especially the Gotham rogues #something about them gives me that vibe #yes this incident did get most of the JL really into ao3 #I also know the younger heroes like the titans and YJ have been up in arms about it

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pathologicalreid · 8 months ago

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that gold mine changed you | s.r.

in which Spencer won't open up to you following his release from prison and you've reached your breaking point

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warning: post prison/prison arc, lack of communication, chemist!reader, slightly proofread word count: 2.13k a/n: love this song. both the original and the phoebe bridgers cover.

i don’t wanna be here anymore; it all tastes like poison

You rifled through the dish that you kept on the entryway console, looking for your car keys so that you could get out. It was hard to describe the way you felt like a spinning top, not dizzy but out of control. Everything felt so out of control.

How could you let it get this bad? You breathed heavily as you fished your keys from the pottery and looped your finger through the key ring. Wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, your eyes caught onto some movement in your periphery.

“You’re leaving?” Spencer asked from down the hallway; his work clothes were rumpled and creased like he’d fallen asleep in them.

You had hoped that he would have the ability to ease himself back into society after three months of prison, and you always took the time to assure him that you would be there for him. Desperately, you tried to be a pillar of support, but you had reached your breaking point.

He’d been given six weeks to readjust. When that didn’t seem to be working, you thought maybe he needed to find his rhythm again, but going back to work at the BAU didn’t seem to help him either. It wasn’t until his first sabbatical hit that you finally considered the fact that things would never be the same between the two of you again.

When you didn’t answer, Spencer put his foot out but hesitated to take a step toward you. “Are you going to come back?”

Swallowing thickly, you looked down at the keys in your hand, “I don’t know.” You eyed the key to your lab, the one place you could always go to escape when you needed to, but you never imagined needing to escape from Spencer.

You weren’t even sure he had been sleeping in the same bed as you, and if he was, he was getting in after you and getting up before you. There was once a moment when you and Spencer shared every minute detail of your lives with each other, at least the parts you weren’t together for, but now you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he was teaching in his lectures, and he couldn’t guess which projects you were working on.

When Spencer was in prison, you thought that was the loneliest you would ever be, but now you were living with the ghost of the man who you once loved, and you had never felt more alone.

Last week, you had practically begged him, very nearly gotten on your knees and pled with him to have a substantial conversation with you. He didn’t seem interested.

you believe that you love me

Looking back up, your eyes widened at the revelation that Spencer had made his way to you in complete silence; he was standing in front of you, “You’re sneaking out?”

Your nostrils flared in frustration; you were sneaking out of your own apartment, a space that you and Spencer were supposed to share, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. “Did I do something wrong?” You asked him, studying his brown eyes as they appeared until the cool light of the moon.

He set both of his hands on your upper arms, and you pulled away from his touch. Spencer flinched back as surely as if you’d struck him. If you pulling away from him hurt, then he wouldn’t be able to fathom how you were feeling right now—how you had been feeling for the last seven months.

“Is it because of your mom?” You tried again, silver lining your eyes as you looked up at him, mercurial tears streaming down your cheeks as you begged for an answer. “I was at work when she was abducted,” you reminded him, having thrown yourself into work while Spencer was in prison. “Is it because I didn’t help her?”

Spencer’s lips parted in surprise, “I didn’t know you blamed yourself for that.” His arms hung limply by his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to release nervous energy.

Blinking tears from your eyes, your shoulders slouched at what felt like a rejection, “How would you? You don’t talk to me,” you told him, your tone wholly accusatory.

“We talk every day,” he rebutted, the energy in your conversation veering toward hostility. That’s not what you wanted; you just wanted to feel at peace.

Three months in prison, six weeks of mandatory leave, one hundred days with the team, twenty days into his first sabbatical, and Spencer was refusing to face what you had already run into headfirst. “We haven’t had a real conversation since February, Spencer. It’s September.”

His eyebrows pinched together as he studied your body language, profiling you to deduce what you wanted from him instead of just asking you. “What do you mean ‘a real conversation?’”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, and you searched every part of your brain for something to say that wouldn’t contribute to taking your life apart brick by brick. You couldn’t. The words simply weren’t there anymore. Maybe you had left them behind months ago, but right now, you shrugged helplessly, “You’re different, Spence.”

He peered down at you as if you had offended him, “Did you expect me to stay the same?”

It was pathetic. You felt pathetic. Staying in your entryway and begging for someone who previously kissed the ground you walked on for a reason to stay. You never had to ask him before. “I’ve never expected anything but love from you, and you know that,” you told him, pulling the truth from the depths of your soul and putting it on display for him.

Spencer took a step back, stumbling as if his legs were threatening to give out beneath him. “You don’t think I love you anymore?” His own tears welled in his eyes, glittering saline along his lash line that made your chest ache.

You blinked, letting more tears fall down your cheeks. You heard the droplets as they fell on the vinyl decal of your sweatshirt, the only noise in the midst of an otherwise deathly silence. “You have given me no reason to believe that you do,” you admitted, your voice tight with emotion.

so, lose your faith in me

“Don’t leave,” he gasped, struggling through his tears. He held a hand out to you, too hesitant to touch you because of the way you reacted earlier.

You felt like you were tearing your own heart from your chest. You held the organ in your hands, blood dripping to the floor and seeping within the woodgrain, and you asked him to put it back where it belonged. “I can’t do this anymore,” you told him.

He set a hand on the side of your neck, and this time, you didn’t pull away from him. Instead, you savored his touch, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin as the two of you waited for something to give. Three months in prison had been a test of your relationship; you had very little contact with each other. Nothing face-to-face, and after a while, Spencer’s mail started to go missing—interference by a prison guard who had it out for him. You thought that getting him back would fix everything.

Spencer was exactly the same, but somehow, he was completely different after his release. You couldn’t fault him for what he had gone through in prison, but you refused to continue your pattern of dancing around each other.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice so faint that you would’ve missed it had you not been searching for it. His breaths were quickening, and if it weren’t so dark, you’d be sure that his pupils were dilated in fear.

You pursed your lips, “Say it again.” You wanted to hear him. You needed to hear him. You so desperately wanted to hear him repeat himself so that you could throw your arms around him and let him know that everything was perfectly fine.

He panted, “I love you,” he echoed. “Please,” his voice broke, “I love you so much.”

“I want to believe you,” you breathed, looking back down at the keys that remained in your hand. As far as you were concerned, Spencer was the Patron Saint of Liars. He had the intelligence and the experience to become a master manipulator. He’d lied to you before. What was stopping him from doing it again? He knew that I love you was what you wanted to hear. When faced with telling a lie and losing you, the choice was laid out in front of him.

He nodded as if he understood, but you weren’t convinced that he possessed the bandwidth to fully comprehend why you were so unhappy. “I’m sorry for lying to you,” he whispered.

You lost your balance, your back slammed against the wall, and your eyes widened as a result of his apology, “Why?”

Spencer’s brown eyes widened as you slid down the wall, waiting until you were sat on the floor to speak again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mexico.”

“You could’ve told me,” you told him, “I could’ve helped you, Spencer. Then we could… Then maybe…” your voice trailed off, lost in a sea of hiccuping sobs.

Gingerly, Spencer lowered himself to the ground and took a seat next to you, “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to jail. You’re right,” he admitted, “but maybe they would’ve killed you too. Maybe there would have been the same outcome as the one we got, or maybe it would have been much worse.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, you pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. “Lorenz,” you murmured, closing your eyes to relieve some of the burning.

“The Butterfly Effect,” Spencer commented, “Small changes can have large consequences. I made a decision that had massive ramifications and negatively impacted you, and I haven’t been doing enough to fix it.”

You sighed, “You can’t fix it, Spence. It’s like a band-aid over a bullet hole.” You thumbed the hem of your sweatpants, opening your eyes just to stare straight ahead at the wall.

He hummed in what you sincerely hoped was understanding, “I took six years of building trust with you and destroyed it, and now when I tell you I love you, you don’t believe me.”

“You told me you were going to Houston,” you whispered.

“I told everyone I was going to Houston,” he said softly.

Your head snapped in his direction, “I deserved more than what everyone else got. I deserved an explanation, and instead, you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you wouldn’t even let me see you while you were in prison.”

The corners of his mouth downturned, “I didn’t want you to see me in there, and I didn’t want anyone else to see you in there.” You’d heard second hand from JJ that the men at Millburn had ogled her the entire time she was visiting Spencer, and maybe he had explained himself in one of the missing letters, but he hadn’t mentioned it since coming home.

“Spencer, I just want to talk with you,” you whispered. “I want to have a conversation with my boyfriend that doesn’t end with him creating some arbitrary mental block because he doesn’t think I can handle it.”

There was a moment where you thought he was just going to let you go, but Spencer Reid liked to keep the things he cared about close. “It’s not because you can’t handle it, it’s because I can’t handle it,” he admitted.

You turned your body to face him, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to tell you about prison,” he clarified. “I barely want to tell my therapist about prison, but you—” his voice broke, and your heart went with it. “If I tell you everything I’ve done, you wouldn’t want to be with me anyway.”

You frowned, “Try me.” Your heart was racing; this bit here was decisive. His response would either mean letting go or moving forward.

He looked down at his lap, “Come to therapy with me tomorrow. It’s… there’s something about the leather couch that turns me into an open book.” He told you, nervously running his palms up and down his cloth-covered thighs. Instinctively, you reached out and grabbed his hands, putting a stop to his compulsive movements. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, “Please don’t leave.”

Shaking your head, you sniffled through your tears. If you’d had more energy, maybe you would’ve given him a soft smile, but for now, you answered him, “I won’t.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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cait-sith · 29 days ago

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Hey what if Starscream repainted himself post-canon

Unnecessarily long thoughts and ramblings (mostly about Starscream) under the cut.

This was originally in the tags but then it became an actual wall of text so. Keep Reading be upon ye.

So in IDW Till All Are One 12 Windblade shows Starscream his “true” form quote unquote and it's like this blue-white-and-red colour scheme. And while I don't really know how to feel about that; got some implications vis-a-vis transgender stuff, Starscream clearly took it as something that was taken from him, something that defined him, something that would have made him different (more likeable, more successful, unclear). On the other hand, I also think that Starscream sort of clings to that idea, because it's more painful to believe that he couldn't have changed anything, that it might just be a flaw in him. Something external to blame, y'know.

Windblade kinda points that out, it wasn't really the point of showing him that, but maybe that's just my personal interpretation. “I could have been so much more had I just been allowed to be born as I was meant”. Missing Windblade's point that he is still the same person in his spark, regardless of frame, it is ultimately up to him who he is. His actions define him, not his appearance. BUT. I feel like that kinda misinterpretation would be in-character for him, and so maybe in post-canon he'd... well really I think he'd reframe but maybe as like an attempt to reclaim what he thinks he should have been (even if he doesn't need to, even if he was perfectly capable of changing who he was without that). He frequently sabotages himself, because he doesn't believe in trust and he's so used to being in adverse relationships where he cannot rely on anyone being on his side. So then he gets everything he ever wanted, and it's.. not really what he wanted. Metalhawk, Wheeljack, Windblade and Bumblebee all sorta get under his plating, in different ways, and he admits to liking them, but can't bring himself to trust them. He's constantly at loggerheads with Metalhawk and Bee at the start, but Metalhawk tries and gets murdered for his troubles.

Wheeljack, well, he's just kinda mostly nice and willing to forgive and help, even while he's wary. In a way, I think Starscream gets attached to him because he's safe to get attached to, because Wheeljack doesn't take the shot when he's vulnerable, offers to help, to be on his side. From a distance. He doesn't really... actually initiate much of a friendship, but he talks about the idea.

Windblade, I think that relationship is a bit more fraught. They end up working together a lot by necessity, given their positions, and Windblade frequently has to fix or contend with Starscream's messes, and she has none of the prejudices of the others, but again, she's a threat to his power, to what he wants, can't really look past that. She tries, though, and I think he does sort of like her as time goes on. It just doesn't stop him from doing what he always does. No trust and all that. As for Bee. Bee. While he's alive, he's much like Metalhawk and Windblade: A threat to Starscream's power, with the added issues of being a major enemy and an autobot, with all the prejudices that brings. They don't make friends. Only Bee "dying" changes that, and only because Starscream is utterly convinced he is a ghost. In his own mind, he's *almost* okay with admitting to his flaws, his worries. Bee's ghost becomes his conscience, his confidante and companion, and because he's fictional, a fragment of Starscream's mind (or so he thinks), he's safe. Safe in ways none of the others are. And Bee tries, he has nothing really left to gain, no power to hold onto. For all intents and purposes, he *is* a ghost.

That was probably terrifying when Bee turned out to not be dead. Someone who saw all of Starscream's vulnerabilities, with so much power to hurt him. He can't help himself. He does have moments, though. Rare choices where he does trust, sometimes for lack of better options but still. And by the Unicron-finale, he's, well, still not friends, but he admits to everything, he comes clean, kind of.

So. We're going to ignore that he dies for the sake of this. <3 Just temporarily. In a hypothetical post-canon, I think he'd try to get a bit of agency back, try and follow that dream of his better self. And I think Windblade, Wheeljack and Bumblebee are the closest thing to friends he's had since his trine. And Metalhawk, technically, but he's kinda dead and also with the dead universe revival wasn't too happy with Starscream lmao. Perhaps Bee's the most comfortable, after that, if he ever gets over himself, because he's already spilled his guts to him, if accidentally. I don't think Starscream would ever be *easy* to get along with, and Bumblebee doesn't really take shit, but I'd like them to be friends. Squabbly-bantery friends, but still. Wheeljack seems a bit gentler, while Windblade's a bit more professional, she's kind but responsible.

Point being: this is Bee helping him repaint himself to leave the past behind.

Thanks for listening lmao

#art #my art #artists on tumblr #transformers #maccadam #bumblebee #starscream #idw starscream #idw bumblebee #idw transformers #tf idw #tf bumblebee #tf #tf starscream #starbee #if you squint but I'm not really bothered with either interpretation. Tagging for the likers #my friend said this has sisters painting each other's nails energy and I like that description #Almost titled this “Do you think they ever explored each other's bodies” as a joke but no #I really like Bee's unicron finale design.#Till All Are One's Starscream design is very nice too. The artist who does the Windblade comics has a nice style #I'm not even particularly fond of the redesign of Starscream's spark-frame; I just think it would be an interesting character-moment.#good lord I'm yappy #character analysis if you squint #can't believe it's only been like a month or two since I started reading IDW and now I'm done and it won't leave me brain #ALSO. I kind of forgot Bee's wings.#Well not really they were in the way and there was no more space on the canvas so we'll pretend he can fold them in/slick them down

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phantasm-ae · 3 months ago

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Sort of part 2 of my Mrs. Price drabble. I hope u like it🥺

cw: afab reader x captain price, soft fluff, afab reader x soap, afab reader x ghost, afab reader x gaz

HEADCANON: Forced to crash in Price’s place momentarily. The team meets you — Mrs. Price again — much to Price’s annoyance. Treating his house now like a sleepover den

PAIRING: John Price x reader, slight Poly141 x reader

something something, the team forced to reroute their entire mission due to an intel mix-up. Having to lay low for a few weeks somewhere in this woodland retreat of a lodge for the meantime.

But it wasn't entirely that bad. Fuck no.

Not when they rest of the team realized that they could technically crash at Price's own place for the time being. A quaint little countryside cabin with a roaring fireplace, creaky wooden floors, a tiny plant nursery at the front, and the comforting smell of pine that lingered in the air. But most importantly of course -- You. Mrs. John Fucking Price at the center of it all.

Price didn’t seem thrilled at first. Fuck that. He already hated how Soap practically salivated at the thought of his wife ever since they met her in that dingy pub. Cheeky bastard grinning like a schoolboy everytime he mentioned her and her famous lemon drizzle cakes.

But Christ on earth, they didn't exactly have a choice at the moment. So. Reluctant. Waning. Frustrated and annoyed. Muttering about how his place was hardly a “luxury hotel,” but once the team started packing their things with the energy of schoolboys on a field trip, he relented. And, honestly, who could blame them? They were tired, dirty, and living on dry rations; a warm bed and a roof over their heads was like a damn vacation.

So here they were. Standing in front of their little cottage abode. Walls mossy, wood comforting, and air remote. Quaint and tangling ivy around the roof. The marshy nook like something out of a storybook.

And as soon as the door opened, the familiar, warm scent of you greeted them. Wood, fresh herbs, mint, and a lingering hint of something that made the whole place feel more like home. Price's wife, sweet sweet perfect Mrs. Price, was already waiting when they arrived

"Oh my darlings. Its glad to see your faces again", she greeted them. Voice soft and smile warm. Price, absolutely knackered, immediately felt a wave of relief at the sight of her.

Long hair up in her usual hairdo, apron tied around her waist, and despite the chaos outside, she looked perfectly put-together in a way that made him feel all of a sudden like maybe he was the one who didn’t belong in the mess they’d become.

She looked absolutely angelic. Vision of druidic calm. Heaven sent and sacred. Hera in crochet and bunny slippers.

Price stood taller, more rigid at her side -- already bracing for what he knew was coming.

"Come in, come in," she beamed, ushering them all in like they were visiting nephews rather than elite soldiers who could snap necks before breakfast. "Shoes off at the door, please. I just mopped."

They all shuffled inside with relief, shaking off the dust from their clothes as if they’d finally arrived at some kind of sanctuary. Gaz obeying immediately, kicking off his boots like a schoolboy caught tracking mud, while Soap practically tripped over himself trying to get them off any faster.

"I made stew," she called from the kitchen, already halfway down the hall with her apron strings bouncing behind her. "And bread. Oh -- and Johnny, I baked that lemon drizzle you like."

Soap nearly wept.

“Marry me, Mrs. Price,” he shouted after her, only half-joking.

Price whipped around, face like thunder. “Johnny—”

“Jokin'! Jokin'!” Soap raised his hands in surrender, grinning like the devil himself. “Ye already bagged the best lass on earth, I know. Just sayin' -- luck bastard ye are"

Gaz leaned in, whispering to Ghost, “Swear to God, it’s like visiting your nan’s. All we need is a jigsaw puzzle and some knitted socks.”

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to. Massive hulking posture already loosening and starting to mellow. Halfway through removing his gloves and looking -- dare anyone say it -- peaceful.

Later that night. Cozied up in Price's living room. Her crocheted throw blankets and mismatched cushions cradling their weighty and coarse bodies like they weren't seasoned and elite killers but a bunch of children in a sleepover at their gran's. Bellies full. Air serene and leisurely, watching some old movie Mrs. Price put on.

She'd even brought out bloody hot chocolate (with marshmallows, of course), and Ghost -- Ghost with his towering frame, permanent scowl, but now brushed blonde hair that strangely smelt like that eucalyptus oil that you recommended him -- had accepted his mug with two hands like it was holy.

Sitting on the edge of the floral couch. Cupping the mug in both gloved hands like it was a sacred relic. Taking a cautious sip before letting out the softest grunt of approval anyone had ever heard from him.

Soap nearly dropped his own cup laughing. "That good, Ghost?"

Ghost didn’t look up. “Shut up.” But he took another sip.

Gaz, already wrapped in one of the knit blankets she’d handed out like party favors, leaned over with a grin. “I think I just saw you smile, mate. Terrifying.”

“She’s a bleedin' marvel, so she is,” Soap whispered behind his mug. “Bit o' witchcraft in that cocoa.”

"This should be a regular thing," Gaz mumbled, curling up farther into one of her handmade quilts with a contented sigh. "Every end of the quarter. Team regroup with Mrs. Price."

“Quarterly sleepovers, aye?” Soap echoed, raising his mug.

“Aye. With lemon drizzle cake and that stew. Jesus.”

Ghost hummed, shockingly agreeing, “Better than the barracks.”

John Price, sitting stiffly in his armchair like he’d rather be interrogating someone in a bunker, glared at them over his mug.

“No,” he said flatly.

Mrs. Price, from the kitchen, called out without missing a beat, “Oh I don’t mind, dear.”

“No, they’re not,” Price barked from the hallway, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

But no one was listening anymore.

masterlist

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cherryblossom-heart · 3 months ago

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First Date

A/n: Hi! This is just a little headcanon for how our favorite cat dad/fuckboy Sukuna get's ready for his date with reader. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Series Masterlist

Cat dad!Sukuna who looks at himself in the mirror, his towel hanging loosely from his waist, drops of water still running down his body as he just got out of the shower.

Cat dad!Sukuna who doesn't know why the fuck he's nervous, it's not like he hasn't gone out with you before. You both had gone to restaurants, movies and even a couple museums before you ghosted him (rightfully so).

Cat dad!Sukuna who puts on a black T-Shirt and a couple of washed up black jeans and calls it a day, only for Oni to stand next to him and meow at him.

Cat dad!Sukuna who scoffs at his cat's antics, rolling his eyes as he's about to put deodorant but the meows increase in quantity and volume. For her being a new mother she surely still acted like a little kitten sometimes.

Cat dad!Sukuna who yells "What?!" because the annoying little pest he decided to house keeps meowing at him, almost as if he was comiting a heinous crime and she had to let everyone know.

Cat dad!Sukuna who sighs as two yellow eyes look at him, as if he could understand what she was trying to say. When he ignores her one more time, she decides it's time to take action.

Cat dad!Sukuna who almost wants to scream as the cat begans clawing his clothes and for a second Sukuna thinks she's disapproving his clothes. That couldn't be it, could it? There's no fucking way she could even know what's color the celling is, let alone the fact that he's going on a date.

Cat dad!Sukuna who takes a double look at his clothes in the mirror the more Oni fights the loose threads from his pants. He was taking you to a fancy, expensive restaurant like you wanted, surely for the amount of money he's going to spend tonight it wouldn't fucking matter if he was wearing a garbage bag for pants.

Cat dad!Sukuna who thinks of you, on how hesitant you were to accept his invite. He couldn't really blame you, not when he remembers how heartbroken you looked that night you found him with a random girl in his apartment.

Cat dad!Sukuna who will never admit it, not even to Uraume, but he regretted that night. He regretted the fight you guys had the night before. He regretted getting shitfaced at a shitty dingy bar. He regretted forcing himself to flirt with that chick whose face he couldn't even remember. He regretted taking her home and having you come to what he could only guess was making up.

He regretted not doing more to reach out for you, stupidly thinking you would come back eventually.

Cat dad!Sukuna who takes off his clothes, rummaging through everything he owns until he finds something a little more appropriate. A black long sleeved dress up shirt and black pants and some shoes that didn't have dirt on them and that weren't meant for sports.

Cat dad!Sukuna who turns around to Oni that was now laying on his messy bed, cleaning herself.

"What do you think?" He asked her.

The cat stopped licking, turning to him. Big, round yellow eyes looked at him and after a few seconds she went back to her duty, now purring loudly. He supposed that was good enough.

Cat dad!Sukuna who rolls his eyes before finishing getting ready, brushing his teeth and applying the cologne he bought just this morning because he remember you liked how it smelled on him the one time he bought it. After you ghosted him he hadn't bought it again.

Cat dad!Sukuna who hears a knock on the door and gives Oni a pat in the head, ruffling her fur earning a meow in protest.

"See you later, pest."

Cat dad!Sukuna who looks at the big cat bed in the middle of the living room where all the little spawns sleep. He looks at them, one of them waking up for a second, giving him a pathetic attempt at a meow before falling asleep.

"Rats." he mumbles with the tiniest smirk known to man

Cat dad!Sukuna who opens the door, Uraume standing outside as they type something on their phone.

"You owe me." They say plainly as they hand him their car keys.

"We'll see." He says, snatching the keychain from their grasp as they walk in side.

Cat dad!Sukuna who point's at the kittens sleeping.

"They're over there. Just make sure they shit and they don't fucking die, I had to fucking baby proof the house because they keep trying to chew the fucking outlets."

Uraume just hums in agreement.

Cat dad!Sukuna who is about to leave and close the door behind him when Uraume calls him. He turns around, their arms crossed in front of their chest.

"She's not going to forgive you if you fuck up again. I'm surprised she even agreed to give you a second chance."

"I know."

Uraume hums in response, her eyebrows raising in a sarcastic way as she nodded.

"Don't fuck up."

"I won't."

Cat dad!Sukuna who finally closes the door, Uraume's words lingering in his mind. Of course he wasn't going to fuck this up, not when he finally got you back in his life again. Not when, for the first time in his life he was excited for something else other than meaningless, hookups.

He was excited to see you, spend time with you, hear everything you had to say. He was excited about the prospect of commitment, of calling you his and you calling him yours.

He was excited to be yours.

Only yours.

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shizunitis · 1 year ago

Text

Ghostfire Shen Yuan loyally following the lonely, undying, forgotten Luo Binghe from the original outline.

They never even met.

Shen Yuan had died long before Luo Binghe’s story was set to start. Abandoned by his System, he was left wandering the realms, searching for anything to latch onto, anything to stave off the darkness encroaching on his consciousness whenever he stopped. He keeps himself entertained with little jokes and references that will never reach anyone. At least back home, there were other people on the opposite side of his screen reacting, seeing. Paying attention.

He never would have thought he’d miss the times he was perceived by others. He’d give anything, though. Anything.

He stumbles upon the protagonist as he’s ascending the stairs of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect for the first time. Dressed in rags and heaving with the effort, Luo Binghe is exactly as Shen Yuan had pictured: a little bun, soft and kind and so very brave.

The excitement wears off soon enough. When the tea ceremony is held, Shen Yuan watches, hopelessly trying to stop the cup from hitting Binghe’s head. He lunges at Shen Jiu; let him be identified and exorcised, at least he would have done something with himself, however useless. It doesn’t work. Of course not—nothing can come between Luo Binghe and his fate.

Shen Yuan thinks about leaving. Many times. But every time he considers the possibility of going back to wandering the world, or just passing on… Well. There’s still a lot to see, isn’t there? It will get better. It will.

Only, it doesn’t. Not really.

There’s no harem; there’s no warm comfort offered to Luo Binghe by a sympathetic beauty, no wedding celebrations, no moments of gentle companionship, however brief, however superficial. There’s no camaraderie with his demon underlings, his generals, his allies; it’s all casual cruelty and dismissals, before it’s violence and subjugation.

There’s no joy. There’s no hope. There’s no ‘better’.

Something is wrong, that’s clear. Something is wrong, and Shen Yuan has no one to blame.

This is not the Proud Immortal Demon Way he knows.

Centuries later, when Luo Binghe begs for the heavens to allow him to die, Shen Yuan hears. When Luo Binghe rages against the passage of time, alone in the wreckage of his palace, left behind by everyone he’d ever known, Shen Yuan accompanies him. When Luo Binghe lies down in the Holy Mausoleum and refuses to get up, Shen Yuan waits, as he had for centuries, until Luo Binghe opens his eyes again and takes to the road.

They end up in a hidden realm so filled with Yin energy that Shen Yuan can channel it to manipulate his form into that of his former body. It’s not detectable by the living, but it’s there. He feels stronger, too. He can walk, float, fly, interact with what few other ghosts they encounter.

Still, Luo Binghe cannot see him.

Luo Binghe doesn’t talk much. Well, that makes sense, he was never in the habit of talking to himself, but still. It’s lonely.

They end up in a town where a diviner takes one look at Luo Binghe and offers him a free reading. Shen Yuan can’t enter her tent, well-warded against foreign entities as it is, so he waits outside.

She tells Luo Binghe of the little hanger-on he’s got. A powerful one, too, though he’s still getting used to his powers. He’s been here for a long time, she says. Since he was a child. He comes from far away—farther than even the most distant star.

Luo Binghe begins talking to him. Shen Yuan isn’t sure why, but he’s not complaining!

Luo Binghe also begins meditating again, trying to soothe the damage done by Xin Mo over the centuries. For every meal, he places a few fruits or snacks across from him on a plate he’d made himself, which he eats only after finishing his own dish. He makes space by his side whenever he walks on a narrow road. He stops at every landmark and tells stories about them, always starting the same way.

“Do you remember when…” becomes Shen Yuan’s favourite phrase.

One night, Luo Binghe sighs and looks across the table. Shen Yuan places himself so that he’s in Luo Binghe’s focus.

“What is it, Binghe?”

Luo Binghe doesn’t answer him, of course. Still, it feels like a conversation, when he says:

“I wish I knew your name.”

Shen Yuan frets. He’s been trying to manipulate the physical world, but he never got the hang of it. He’d tried drawing in sand, with water, just pushing things off shelves. And yet, nothing.

“I’m sorry, I wish—” he tries, but Luo Binghe is already talking again.

“I wonder if we ever crossed paths when you were alive.” He’s expressed this thought more than once. Shen Yuan never likes to think about how they’ve missed each other, how they’d been set up for failure from the start. “I wonder if we would have been friends.”

Shen Yuan scoffs. Of course not. Him and the protagonist? No way.

But—those cold star eyes, blindly searching for him, trying to land on him… They make him want to say, I would have liked that.

He reaches a hand out to touch Luo Binghe’s forehead. He’s taken to doing it whenever Luo Binghe broods, or makes a silly joke Shen Yuan wishes he didn’t find funny. It’s soothing.

He wishes Binghe could feel it.

When his finger touches the demon mark, it blazes. Luo Binghe gasps, that heavy gaze settling on Shen Yuan’s face.

Shen Yuan startles, and jumps away.

“No! Wait!”

Shen Yuan hesitates. Luo Binghe is looking around himself, eyes begging for even a wisp of Shen Yuan’s shadow.

He can’t deny Luo Binghe this.

He can’t deny himself this.

He reaches out again. This time, he cups Luo Binghe’s cheeks. When those eyes clear of panic and widen in awe, he whispers, softly, “Shen Yuan. My name is Shen Yuan.”

Luo Binghe looks like he’s been handed a treasure so precious he’s afraid to touch it. He hesitates, raising his hands in careful starts and stops, before taking Shen Yuan’s face in them, gently caressing the soft, cold skin of his face. His eyes dance with the haste he takes in memorising Shen Yuan’s features.

Then, he smiles. Helpless and weak and so, so precious. Shen Yuan has not seen hope so bright in Luo Binghe’s face since that fateful day on Cang Qiong Mountain.

“Hello, Shen Yuan.”

#svsss #svsss fic #luo binghe #bingyuan #shen yuan #bing-xiong #lbx #i DONT know what the fuck this is #im so exhausted. i am not in the right writing mindse #but please. please ponder this with me im begging so much #ignore every spotty grammar instance. im waving the ESL flag like its a shield #luo bing-xiong PLEASE tell me ur secreta #.txt #loyal ghost au

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pythonmoth · 4 months ago

Text

cw: suicidal and homicidal thoughts. johnny is jealous and inconsistent. brief infantilization by tf141. reader is angry and pissed. author is projecting their own likes, sorry. pretty chill update. johnny is a simp loser.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

Part 11

He wants the world to eat him alive, to swallow him and to forever keep him down underground so he never makes a single mistake in front of you ever again. To see you running away in panic because of him is something he will probably never recover from. He barely has the time to grimace when he hears you rushing away, someone right behind you; he just assumes it's Simon.

Johnny decides to just take a moment to clean up before going after you as well, when he hears someone getting into the kitchen. He looks up, expecting the Capt'n to be here to scold him, but when he sees Simon instead, he raises an eyebrow.

"Ah, it's you. I tripped" Johnny grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You hurt yourself".

"Just a tiny cut, 's nothing. Where did she go?" Johnny questions, bringing his thumb to his mouth, licking the drop of blood clean.

"I don't know. Practically bolted when you dropped the plate".

Johnny stares at him with slowly growing irritation. "And what are you doing here? I must've scared her" he sighs, standing up. "Where to?"

"Garrick already went after her".

"So?"

"They're getting along. A lot".

Johnny blinks again.

Smack.

"What the fuck? What was that for now?" Simon growls out, rubbing his head. Johnny shakes his head, still expecting an answer. Simon sighs. "Over there. Come on".

Simon guides him, their feet barely making any noise, used to being quiet and, also, because they don't want to spook you any longer. When Johnny sees, however, you're… being taken care of, he curses quietly. Gaz is cupping your cheeks, kissing you. And he feels like he just died inside a little bit.

When the Lieutenant doesn't move, seemingly not breathing, he grips his arm, whispering to him to move. They can't just invade your privacy like this, especially not when it's clear they aren't needed.

At least, Johnny knows so now.

He can't manage to take Simon with him so he walks away alone, his eye twitching in annoyance. Really, he doesn't mind you're with Gaz; they all know what's happening between the whole team, and it's not a secret they've very little boundaries. It was gonna happen one way or another, so that's really not the problem. Sure, he's pissed and a little jealous, but the problem is that he is not there.

He can't hold you in his arms and protect you from the panic if he's the reason for it, if Simon is the reason for it. He's aware of that, he's just fucking pissed. Pissed at himself, pissed at the Capt'n, pissed at the bastard who framed you and fucking pissed at the higher ups. If he could, if he's given a single opportunity, he won't hesitate to grab his rifle and smack them with the heel so hard that their noses cave in so he can watch them choke in their own blood.

For now, though, he goes sit in the living room, watching as the Capt'n snores, the movie still rolling in the back, his mind a goddamn mess. He can't stop his mind from going back to you crying in Gaz arms and him kissing you like that. Again, he's jealous for so many reasons. It's just… odd.

You've never been interested in Gaz, as far as he knows, and Simon looked so surprised that it's obvious you didn't tell him anything either. You're supposed to talk about those things! He can't blame you, he obviously understands why this connection is happening right now, but—

He barely registers Simon's grabbing his shoulder and pushing him out of your house until he's inside of the car, his mind locking away his own fear of scaring you now that he's out of your space, and allows himself to be pissed at the whole situation with Gaz.

Hell, if you talked to Simon about him, why couldn't you do the same thing with them?

Simon drives them away, clearly needing a moment. Johnny's hand is shaking over his knee, and only when Simon stops the car in a random parking lot, does he say anything.

"I'm gonna kill him" he says, not really meaning it. He does want to punch him, though.

"No, you won't".

"So what? We say nothing? We can't even fucking look at her and she's—"

"That's none of our business now" Simon snaps, getting out of the car. Johnny follows right away, both of the doors snapping shut harshly enough to echo in the parking lot.

"You can't possibly be okay with that" Johnny groans, tugging on his hair as he starts pacing next to the car. "Fuck that!"

Simon sighs, lifting his mask just enough to rub on his face. "Like hell I am, Johnny. We don't have the face to call them out on it. We've no right to be jealous".

"And why the hell not? She's ours, not his. Like hell I'm sitting here doing nothing".

That makes Simon's eye twitch, but he fights hard to ignore it. "She's not, Johnny" he reminds him, crossing his arms. "Not anymore. She was clear about it".

His heart pounding in his chest, denial burning deep in his core, Johnny marches up in front of Simon with a snarl, gripping the Lieutenant’s collar. "We made a huge mistake, aye. But I thought we were okay now. We've been talking, she's been great. Why she suddenly freaked out is what I just can't understand".

He remembers, just like Simon, falling asleep to your breathing, to your snoring, to your shuffling in the bed. Even if it was through the phone, it had meant something. Why is it that now—

Simon smacks his hand away. "Stop that. Maybe it was easier on the phone. You saw how she reacted when you dropped the plate".

"Ah. So it's my fault then? It started ever since she saw your fucking mask" Johnny snaps. Immediately, he regrets it. He knows it's not fair. Not fair on him, not fair on Simon and definitely not fair on you. It's like he just can't think about what he's saying.

"Calm the fuck down, Johnny. It's our fault she's like that. We've enough shame and guilt to share so don't come and dump it all on me" Simon states, firm. His tone might shake a little, and Johnny wants to cry, but his mind is spinning with so much guilt that he can't focus. "We went through this with Price. We knew it'd take time".

"Aye! I know that! But why him? And why are you so awfully calm about this?" Johnny snaps at him, gripping his collar again. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're giving up on it. On us".

Simon's shoulders slump, looking at him in a terrible, heavy silence. There's no need for words. Simon doesn't stop him as Johnny grips his tshirt and pins him against the car, looking like he's only bracing himself for an angry punch or a beat up.

"You can't be serious" Johnny snaps again, his hands shaking where he's holding Simon, his own eyes burning with unshed tears, his throat closing up. "Where does that leave us?"

"That leaves us wherever she wants us to be" Simon mumbles, a hand coming up to rest on his nape, gripping him tight, seemingly uncaring of how aggressive Johnny feels. "You get that, don't you? We hurt her, Johnny. We're lucky she wants to talk to us at all".

That does it for him.

Unable to control it, he lets the regret, the pain, and his heartbreak take over, and finally bursts into tears, head falling against Simon's chest as his body breaks, sobbing. He knows he's being unfair, he knows he should be just wanting you to be happy and to enjoy yourself, even if it isn't with them. He knows. He's just… so hurt. He feels like he's being thrown away like an unfitting piece in the puzzle you're slowly building again, along with Simon. He's scared they won't be accepted back, afraid they’ll no longer be necessary in your life.

He doesn't want to be the only one, at all, he just wants to be there for you, too.

A while later, his body finally goes slack after crying so much, and Johnny wipes his face clean, looking up at Simon. Wordlessly, the Lieutenant presses a comforting, deep kiss to his lips before he slips his mask on again, sighing. "Well. Let's take a little drive before going back".

"This fucking sucks" Johnny mumbles, absolutely defeated. He can't keep on denying the situation, and he just… has to accept that this is what it is.

"Very much so".

"I still wanna punch him".

"I know".

Johnny hesitates, but he doesn't hold it back. "I'm also kinda jealous".

"I know" Simon grumbles quietly, his eye twitching behind the mask. Johnny can truly understand the feeling.

"We should drive off a cliff and die".

"Noted".

In the end, they just sit inside of the car for a while, both of them silently going through the whole situation. Johnny's mind is silent for once, as if he had needed a good sobbing session to ease himself into no longer denying the consequences.

The drive back to your home is quiet, but it feels... peaceful. Johnny's shoulders are relaxed, even if he feels himself snarling slightly as he thinks of Gaz. It's just great, but… he's got no right to question you.

So when they're back, Gaz’ lips split in a bright grin as you place gummy bears all over Price's face, they both can't help but smile at them, hearts full.

You seem happy.

You look up at them, your eyes wide. This time, however, you're not afraid. You raise a hand and motion them to be quiet and come over, Gaz handing them the whipped cream.

This is enough, Johnny thinks. He gets to see you smile, enjoy yourself, even if he isn't allowed to be there with you like Gaz is.

Deep down, he can't be upset.

After the Capt'n uses you as his personal napkin for being a brat, your high pitched screeches of delight making his heart pound, you invite them to sleep over. And you're really serious about it. He doesn't even mind it when you hand them those stupid pink pajamas you bought them for your 5th anniversary with the team; they “forgot” about them every time they came over, so they've never truly left your house. Now, however, Johnny will personally skin alive anyone who dares denying you this little thing. Fortunately, they just sigh and change.

Blankets over the carpet, over the couch, bodies a lot closer than before, the pink of the pajamas actually look pretty good when illuminated only by the movie. Johnny doesn't even know why you chose them. They're… ponies. One has wings. Why do they have such crazy blowouts and why does the rainbow one look like a lesbian?

Of course, they want you to feel comfortable, so when it comes down to choosing the movie, they all turn to you, but Johnny isn't sure he likes that grin.

Sure enough, more ponies.

“That's a mustang, and he's a great horse so mind your manners” you scold him when he complains, handing him the popcorn. He wouldn't mind watching ten hours of paint drying if you're willing to talk to him, even if it's to call him an idiot.

As the movie slowly comes to the end, Johnny sees the Capt'n wiping his tears in silence, even Simon's eyes are a little shiny, and cheeky, annoying-as-hell Gaz? He's sobbing, muffling his mouth with a hand. You're no better, your bottom lip trembling as fat tears stream down your cheeks.

“It's just a movie” Johnny sighs, crossing his arms.

The rest do not hold back their retorts at all, calling him hypocritical and heartless. Even Simon doesn't back him up, pointing at his face.

“We can see the tear streaks. You ain't fooling anybody”.

“It's the allergies!” Johnny yells over their loud voices, shamelessly reaching up to wipe his face.

That gets a loud laugh from you, and that's enough for him. Johnny doesn't mind being the target of their teasing, as long as you're part of it.

As they slowly settle down, munching on crisps and some baking goods you made a few days ago, the Capt'n asks what everyone's been dreading to mention. The Question.

Johnny almost throws a pillow his way, but he swallows thickly and discreetly places a hand over Simon's tense thigh, all of them waiting.

“Will you be changing teams?” the Capt'n questions, his shoulders forcefully relaxed, his mouth stuffed with a creamy tart. Johnny can see how hard he's trying to be calm, not wanting to force an answer out of you. “I can… well, recommend a few other teams. Or I can show you a few options, I just need a few days to go over the files”.

You wave a dismissive hand, shaking your head. Everyone's heads whip in your direction, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Listen, I know… I know what I said, but I already know how we all work, and I'm already comfortable with you. Starting over, with the weight of the reason why I would be changing teams… I don't want that”.

“What did your therapist say?” Simon asks directly, his eyes firm on yours. “Did you discuss it with them?”

“I did. She advised me against it, but… I think I can handle it. Maybe it's gonna take a little while, but—”

“What if it's too much? Trust is very important, and we… we can't blame you for not trusting us. Look, maybe you should reconsider it” Johnny interrupts you, his chest tight. He doesn't want you to leave, but if you get hurt because you can't trust them and accidentally do something to put you in danger… he'd rather avoid that. “It's an important decision”.

“I understand that” you insist, your left eye twitching a little. “I'm aware it could be difficult if I panic again. That's why I'm in therapy, after all, so I can–”

“Therapy can only help so much, anyway. We can train together, and then see if you're feeling up for it. If not, I can always check the files” the Capt'n interrupts you, mostly talking to himself, his lips pursed in thought.

“Besides, the higher ups probably won't want anybody talking about this. Maybe they won't even let you change teams at all” Gaz adds, rubbing his cheek.

“That's why I'm trying to–”

“If they don't let her change teams, we could always call them out on their bullshit” Simon huffs, crossing his arms, now focused on the rest of the men. “What are they gonna do? Kill us, send us away? People will talk”.

“Aye. We can always do it ourselves after all”.

"Good idea. We could—"

“Enough!” you snap, making them all turn to you at your outburst. "I've been with you idiots for nine years! Do you seriously want me to leave?”

“No!” Johnny shrieks, alarmed. The rest shake their heads, Simon's hand halfway to rest on your arm, as if wanting to sooth you, but you pull your arm away.

“Then stop questioning me, goddamn it! I'm not a child, alright?” your voice raises, your eye still twitching. "And I'm not dumb, you big, stupid idiots".

For a moment, everyone's silent.

"You're right" the Capt'n says first, his cheeks a little bright for being yelled at. He's probably not used to that, not by those who aren't his superiors. Right now, he's not just the Capt'n, but also John, anyway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to question your decisions, I'm just... worried".

"And I appreciate that" you grunt, rubbing your forehead roughly. "I just... stop trying to make this decision for me".

With your words now deep in their hearts, they all go quiet for a long moment, awkwardly looking anywhere but in your direction.

Johnny is incredibly happy about it.

He knows it's selfish and awful of him to be happy you want to stay with them, but he also knows it will probably be difficult at first, especially when you see them with their uniforms again. He wants to help, to be there.

Eventually, they all fall in a comfortable conversation again, Johnny pressed against the armrest of the couch, you squeezed between him and Simon —much to his surprise and contentment—. Gaz and the Capt'n are bickering over something Johnny doesn't really catch as they sit on the blankets in front of them. He's just so aware of you being next to him, willingly, that nothing else matters for now.

At some point, he sees you yawning.

It doesn't take long for you to excuse yourself, leaving them to get comfortable in the guest room. Johnny decides not to focus on Gaz and you being in this room just a few hours ago. With a little look in Gaz’ direction, you give them your goodnights and walk up the stairs.

They're sharing the bed, since it's easier and better than to sleep on the floor. Still wearing those ridiculous pink pajamas —they are very comfortable, if you ask him—, they set their bags filled with clean clothes on the side and start getting ready to sleep. Of course, that doesn't happen right away.

The Capt'n scrolls down his phone, resting against the headboard, and when Johnny and Simon get lost in their conversation, they both notice Gaz discreetly leaves the room. Simon throws a little look his way, and Johnny can only nod slightly. Reaching out to grab the man's hand, he just keeps on talking, distracting both of them.

Despite looking fully focused on his phone, Johnny can tell the Capt'n is listening and very much alert, because everytime they both complain about anything, and everytime Simon hums instead of giving him a real answer, the Capt'n's lips curl in a very subtle smile.

The door to your room gently creaks open, two dark eyes staring at you. You grin from your bathroom, your face white and soapy as you wash it with your fingertips, foam up to your hairline and down your throat.

“Come on in. I’m almost done” you say, leaning down to rinse your face. With closed eyes, you hear as Gaz’ moves over to your bed, laying down on it with a low groan, his back cracking.

As you go on with your skincare, carefully massaging your skin, Gaz lays there, watching the video that’s playing on your tv, even if you know he doesn’t understand a single word. You take your time, content to just let him hang out with you. His eyes leave the screen when you get closer, opening his arms for you, like all those months back in the clinic.

With a mischievous grin, you drop all your body weight on him with the intention of making him groan, but he only wraps his arms around you and nuzzles into your neck, nearly flipping you onto your back, mumbling something about how nice you smell. Gaz pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, smelling the watermelon lip balm on your lips, studying how the creams you used just now make your face look shiny. He doesn’t tell you, but your eyebrows are also a little funny looking, brushed in many directions, but Gaz does reach up and uses his thumb to brush them back in place.

With no need for words, he just curls around you, his nose buried deep in your neck as he stretches, an arm comfortably sneaking under the pillow. That’s when he pulls back and raises an eyebrow at you, lifting the pillow under his head.

“What—” he grunts, incredibly amused, as he looks down at the knife that’s not-so-safely hidden.

With a grin, you shift and reach down between the headboard and the mattress, showing him another big knife that’s hidden there. You aren’t allowed guns until the psychologist says it is okay, so knives it is. Gaz only rolls his eyes and wraps his arm around you again. “Fair, I suppose” he mumbles, burying himself in your neck again.

You just let him, caressing his arms and enjoying the closeness until he falls asleep. He looks peaceful and content, and you really, really want to sleep next to him, but your mind is working a little too much, so you slowly get up the bed, quietly walking around the room, hoping it will tire you again.

It’s something that often happens to you. You’re tired and sleepy, until you’re in bed and then you can’t sleep for hours and hours on end.

You stare at the paintings you’ve gotten, the ones you painted yourself. Looking a little to the left, you can see the music albums you got when you were in your early twenties, now mostly a good memory, and something nice to listen to when you’re feeling low. As you get closer to your bookshelf, you pick a random book, vaguely remembering how many times you’ve read it in the past.

Lost in thoughts you can’t even begin to understand and organize, you turn to the guitar in the corner of the room. It’s been there for over ten years, and you never learned how to play it. With a soft huff of amusement, you walk over to your desk, looking down at the pictures you have there. Your parents, your siblings, the team, and the girls… you didn’t even say goodbye. You hope they aren’t so mad they weren’t invited today. You make a mental note to contact them after the guys leave.

Besides, Simon, Johnny and Gaz aren’t your friends. Not really, at least. And Price is basically like your dad when you’re around him, even if he’s fun to talk to, and reliable.

You reach out to take one of the pictures in your hands. A simple black frame, Johnny and Simon on either side of you, all of you wearing your uniforms, Simon’s mask in place. The sight of the mask makes your eye twitch, but it’s nothing too bad.

Setting the frame down, your thoughts become a little more overwhelming, memories of the whole team chatting by the mess hall, munching down on stale bread and days-old tea that made Simon scowl. You grin as you remember Johnny sprinting after you when you took his clothes from the showers a couple years ago, giving the soldiers a whole show by running entirely naked, only to slip and end face first against a wall. He had thrown you into the showers with your uniform, messing with your already rusty hair. Really, you had it coming. You couldn’t even be mad.

Your shoulders slumping, you turn to Gaz.

Your feelings for him have been changing for a while now. The first kiss was innocent, calm, and now, you couldn’t lie to yourself. It isn’t in your plans to deny yourself a true connection, but you had been a little hesitant, because of Johnny, because of… Simon.

You miss him. Dearly. Sometimes it feels like your heart can’t take it, like you’re dying every time you aren’t in his arms, but the panic hasn’t left. The fear is small, less… destructive and loud, but still there, regardless. You’re aware they will never hurt you again, not like that, not after everything, not with the knowledge that they were manipulated once. You know they will forever doubt the higher ups, even Price. That doesn’t mean your fear is irrational.

That doesn’t mean it makes them less guilty.

For months, you’ve wished it’s all over. It wasn’t entirely difficult for you to understand and, in your heart, you’ve already forgiven them, but… forget? That will never be possible, and you’re aware. Perhaps hugging Simon will never feel the same, but you also haven’t given yourself the time to savour it again.

Lost in thought, who knows for how long, you accidentally hit the chair with your toes, hissing loud enough that it startles Gaz awake. He sits up in alarm, but when he realizes you’re physically okay, he stretches and calmly walks over to you, smiling when you give him an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry I woke you up” you hum quietly, placing your hands on his shoulders when he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Hm, ‘s alright. Shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’ll get going” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It makes your heart tremble with contentment.

After he leaves, the exhaustion hits you like a truck, as if your mind was no longer in alert. You barely manage to turn the lights off, before you curl into your bed, body melting into your bedsheets, Gaz’ scent all over the pillow.

Just a little while after Gaz comes back, Simon turns onto his side, his back using his arm as support, and starts snoring pretty quickly.

Johnny always teases him about it. He falls asleep like a dad. He’s out not even two minutes in.

He wasn’t sleepy yet, and fortunately Gaz wasn’t either. They talk in low mumbles so they don’t wake Simon nor the Capt’n up.

Gaz is still pretty flustered because he was called out on dating the Capt’n, but Johnny doesn’t understand why. Did he really think nobody knew? Everyone with eyes —and, much unfortunate, good hearing—, could tell.

“She was in a pretty bad shape” Gaz mumbles quietly, his breath brushing over Johnny’s lips. “I think she snapped out of the panic because I hugged her. Dunno, maybe compression helps?”

Johnny makes a mental note to get you a weighted blanket. He would take his phone out to do it right now, but Gaz is still talking, and doesn’t want to interrupt.

“I kinda fell asleep on her bed, so we didn’t really talk” Gaz admits, scrunching his nose up. Johnny’s eyes are immediately fixed on the movement. “But she looked a little better”.

“I’m happy she can rely on you, Gaz. You can actually help right now, and she… she needs that” Johnny hums lowly, his lips pursing slightly as his eyes burn. He’s too embarrassed to reach up to wipe the single tear away, but Gaz beats him to it.

“C’mere” he huffs.

A little surprised, but fully willing, Johnny accepts the hug. He holds Gaz’ head against his chest, both of them groaning quietly at the instant warmth between them. Johnny is hyper aware of Gaz’ heartbeat against his own, but they remain in silence, comforting each other. It’s not the first time they’ve cuddled to sleep, but… to Johnny, it feels different. He can only hope it isn’t in his mind only.

Next to Gaz’, Price’s shoulders relax very subtly, lips curling up as he also lets himself fall asleep.

The next morning, Johnny wakes up earlier than everyone else, feeling energized and content. Who knew he actually needed a good cuddling session with Gaz to fix his problems.

Wearing only those pink pajama pants, he makes his way to the kitchen, carrying one of his backpacks to take his headphones out, not wanting to disturb anybody. As silently as possible, he brews coffee and some tea, washing his hands as he starts preparing a few ingredients to cook breakfast. Head in the fridge, music echoing in his brain, he has no idea someone is sneaking up behind him.

He jumps off his skin when he feels a cold hand on his bare back. Johnny hisses as he hits his head with the fridge, rubbing it as he straightens up, turning so he can snarl at whoever startled him.

All he sees is a messy head, pillow-marked cheeks, and a bright smile. Your eyes are twinkling as you look up at him.

Johnny forgets it all about being embarrassed.

You join him so easily, stealing some of the coffee as you help him cook. It is your kitchen, after all. He lets you take his headphones, watching as you shake your shoulders to his music, his eyes filled with hope as he tries not to end up cutting his finger off because he can’t stop staring. It’s more than enough for him to see you humming the song very quietly, sipping your coffee.

It’s domestic. Warm. It feels like he’s finally home. He doesn’t even care if you haven’t really said a word, because the way you trust your back to him tells him enough.

At some point, he catches Gaz getting out of the guest room, his eyes still very misty with sleep. You’re facing somewhere else so you don’t see him, but Gaz realizes it’s just the two of you and grins at Johnny, quietly shuffling back into the room, leaving them alone. He’s very thankful for that, because right away, you turn to him, taking your headphones off.

“It’s done. Let’s eat!”

Much to his contentment, you two end up having breakfast alone, even if it’s obvious to him the rest are already awake and starving, but he enjoys this little moment, your soft voice and your happy humming as you eat. Johnny tries not to be too creepy by staring at you so intently, but he loves the way you sip on the coffee he made, the way you munch on the salted veggies he made for you.

The door of the guest room quietly opens after half an hour, maybe, and Simon’s face stares at him from behind it. Johnny gives him a grin.

Not even twenty seconds later, they’re all filling your kitchen.

It’s so perfectly domestic that Johnny can only grin. He watches you talking to Gaz and the Capt'n while Simon is a little busy cooking for the rest. Sometimes you flinch when Simon moves a little too fast, but you relax almost instantly, even if your eyes follow his hands for a few seconds.

This is his family, he realizes —not for the first time—.

Maybe it’s a little complicated, but it is his.

And that's enough.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 12

Buy me a coffee

I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm glad bc it took me like eight days to finish the outline. it's been a tough week, you guys.

ANYWAY, so progress 😌 why did they have bags w clean clothes if they didn't know reader would invite them over? they were hopeful. little soap went skipping to the car to grab the bags btw

we've officially reached this part... I cannot add more people to the taglist in a single post. man, I love you guys sm ♡

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

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sweet-as-an-angel · 2 years ago

Text

MW2 Reaction To You Panty-Flashing Them

Warnings: Implied Smut, Mean! MW2, Dominant! MW2, Victim/Reader Blaming, Slut-Shaming, Reader Getting Pimped Out, Mention of a Leash, Allusions to Injury, Mentions of Blood, Petnames, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

Ghost

Ghost is a territorial man. So seeing you flash not only him but Johnny as well made something in him simmer.

It wasn’t rage, for this little accident, regardless of how intentional it was, was not your fault. If he had to place it, he’d attribute it to…

Lust.

As was evident in how he excused himself from the gathering of the 141 and Los Vaqueros in your living room, grabbing you by your arm.

He stowed you away. Dragged you to a desolate laundry room and gripped you by your thighs. You gasped, gripped onto him. Felt something hard rub against you.

Ghost threw you atop the washing machine and gave you a harsh stare as he watched you try to fight the feeling building within from the machine’s buzzing and shuffling.

“Go on then, Doll,” he rasps, eyes hard and the throbbing monster between his legs harder. He palmed himself. Remorse was not in his nature. And neither was mercy.

“Seein’ as you were practically beggin’ the others to fuck you, go and put on a show.”

His voice lowered. He stood between your legs, frame blocking you from any form of help or salvation.

“Just for me.”

König

König had been sat on your sofa, an action figure in a house for a doll half his size, and you’d bent over to retrieve something from beneath the TV cabinet.

The fact that you were wearing a pair of König’s shorts was already clouding his moral compass. Seeing your underwear peeking out beneath them was what sent him over the edge.

As you remained bent, cheek pressed to the floor as you reached for what you’d lost, you didn’t hear König approach. Didn’t know he’d even moved from the sofa until something thick and hard was pressed to the back of you, followed by two heavy hands holding you at the waist, and a slow, shuttering breath.

“Don’t move,” König told you. “Stay like this.”

Slowly, he pressed deeper into you. You could feel his restraint unwinding second by second.

It was when he bent over you, had his broad chest pressed to your back, that you knew you weren’t escaping. And you weren’t backing down.

“I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you cum, bleed or pass out.” König’s voice held no humour, but you could feel the franticity building in it.

He reached round, gripped your chin. Made you look at him. His smile was sharp, his features dark.

“Whichever comes first.”

Soap

Johnny pulled the leash tighter around your throat when you tried to protest your innocence. Tried to make him see reason.

“Doesn’t matter that it was ‘just an accident’.” He mimicked you, made you sound weak, whiny. His eyes hardened and his jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white around the leash.

His shadow loomed over you from your position on the bed, on your hands and knees while Johnny presided over you with an iron fist.

Tears obscured his silhouette. Made your eyes glassy.

“Aww, Did I upset you, Bonnie?” Johnny’s tone held a gruffness that didn’t even try to hide the anger running beneath.

He huffed, a mocking laugh.

“How’d’ya think I felt when you were practically spreading your legs for Simon?”

Again, you tried to tell him what really happened. Tried to incur any fragment of mercy Soap would spare you.

He pulled on the leash again. Tighter. You gasped, hands flying up to the leather around your neck, trying to loosen it – to plead for Johnny’s favour – as the air was knocked out of you.

“Oh no, you don’t get to talk.” He said. He stepped to you. The bulge in his jeans became ever more noticeable. Impending.

“M’gonna use you like the whore you are ‘til my cum’s leaking out of every hole in your body.”

Valeria

“Do I look like I fucking care, Darling?” Valeria circled you, her belt wrapped around her hand, a glint of darkness in her eye.

Wrists and ankles duct-taped to the chair, you could do little to follow her. To understand her intentions.

“Do you really think whatever little lie you pass off as an excuse can quell the fire you’ve set?”

Before you could attest your innocence, beg for forgiveness, Valeria’s belt came down across your thighs. Crying out, you flinched, tried to withdraw, pushing your chair back in the process.

Valeria lunged forward and gripped the chair by the arms, pressing your skin into the wood, and dragged you back.

Her face twisted into a visceral snarl, the portrait of evil.

“Please, Valeria, I’m begging you–”

“Oh, you’ll beg for me, alright.” Valeria looked down at you, her face to yours. Just shy of your noses touching. With bared teeth, she smiled.

“I won’t stop until you do.”

Price

“If you wanted attention that badly, you could’ve just asked.”

Price had your arms and legs bound to a hard, wooden chair while a thick ream of cloth had your mouth gagged. He stood over you, arms crossed over his front, a glint in his eye. He sighed, brought his hands to grip your tied forearms. Pressed them into the armrests.

You winced.

“What…possessed you to go and show your arse to Alejandro and the rest of the team?” His voice reflected a tone of ponderment found only in Sarcasm’s extended family tree. And it showed with the faux confusion written in his brow.

“Do I just not cut it for you?” He leaned in. The chair creaked. Your arms hurt. He didn’t let up.

“Am I not enough to keep you from throwing yourself at the nearest soldier?”

He watched you, his stare narrow. You shook your head, eyes wide. You tried speaking through the gag, tried to tell him that he was the only man you loved, but you both knew your efforts were futile.

He withdrew, gripped his belt, adopted his default stance. He heaved a deep breath.

“Come in, lads,” he called behind him, not taking his gaze off you. Your stomach tightened.

A thin smile stretched across Price's lips as he watched your eyes widen, your gaze following Simon, Soap, Gaz, Rudy and Alejandro as they filtered into the room.

Price bowed at the waist, lowered his voice so only you could hear.

“Seeing as you’re so keen to show ‘em what’s under your clothes, I’m gonna let them use you ‘til you’ve learnt your lesson.”

Horangi

Hong-Jin popped the top button of his jeans, keeping his gaze trained on you, spearing you with a dark stare.

“Did you enjoy giving König and I a little show, Dear?”

Sarcasm nestled in his tone, a viper in a den. But the excitement running parallel beneath it, just shy of its transparent underbelly, was evident.

Hong-Jin slid the zip of his jeans down. Pulled the denim over his hips.

“It’s only fair that I…” He took your hand, placed it at the hem of his underwear. Dipped beneath the band.

His skin was scorching. Something pulsated beneath your fingers.

The implication sat heavy in his tone. In his eyes.

“Return the favour.”

Alejandro

“I didn’t know I was dating such an attention-seeking whore.”

Alejandro’s voice was the roll of thunder across a darkened valley, the weight of a downpour of knives settled into his tone.

Hands behind his back, he stood over you, having resigned you to sitting on your knees, the hardwood floor pushing against your joints.

“Luckily for you, I’m not the type to hold grudges.” A smile played at his lips. One you knew not to trust.

“But he is.”

Alejandro looked to the door, where, from beyond its frame, emerged Rudy. His face held a similar, serpentine pallor, his lips drawn up into a thin smile. Venom in his veins.

“Wasn’t expecting to get blue-balled by (Y/N) earlier, Ale,” came Rudy, his usually sugared demeanour having dropped, the veil between what he was and what he showed to the world slipping away. Retreating.

Alejandro gave him a knowing look. He turned back to you.

“Why don’t you be a good little doll and put your face to the floor. Just like we practised.”

The memory of leashes, lashings and tears flooded your memory. You held back a wanton whimper.

Alejandro’s voice dropped. “And let Rudy see the rest of what you promised him.”

Rodolfo

“I don’t want to have to do this, Cariño. Rudy stood over you, his hands on your shoulders and his face dark. Grim.

His hold on your shoulders tightened.

“But I can’t let your behaviour go…”

He searched your eyes for the right word. His brow furrowed when he found it.

“Unchecked.”

He sighed. Pushed down on your shoulders.

“Come on, Angel. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” He told you, pushing harder until you bent to his will.

Now, on your knees, you could see how desperately he needed you.

One hand came to your jaw, thumb trailing to your lip, pulling your mouth open. The other slid down to his belt, sliding it from the buckle. It hissed, pulled tight against the metal. You swallowed.

Rudy’s breath shuttered, and you could tell from the way his hand clenched, the way he slipped the belt from his jeans like a snake, that he was enjoying this. Much more than he wanted to let on.

“Now remember, mi Amor, no teeth, no biting.” His head tilted. Condescending. “Or I’ll bite you back.”

Graves

He can barely contain himself.

It was only the briefest of flashes. It wasn’t even intentional. But something about your shy smile after the fact once you realised what you’d done sent a vicious little idea to Graves’s head.

He starts stealing all your underwear. Gradually, yet in large enough volumes that he doesn’t have to wait longer than he can handle without his reward.

One day, you come into his office, face warm and tugging an oversized shirt over the top of your thighs.

“Missing something, Darlin’?” Graves drawls. Your eyes narrow at him. You know he’s had something to do with your underwear’s disappearing act.

He puts his papers down, sighs, and rests the back of his head in his hands against the backrest of his chair.

“How about you flash me again. Slowly, now.” His eyes glint with a dark mischief and want.

“Y’don’t wanna know what happens if you don't do it the way I like it.”

Gaz

“Oh, Darling, look what you’ve done,” Gaz’s voice carried despite the thickening tension in the room. Neither of you needed to look down to see what he was referring to.

Despite the chastising tone in his voice, his eyes were warm. Kind, almost.

“If you wanted my attention so badly, you only had to ask.”

He stepped towards you, placing a hand under your jaw. He smiled.

“It’s only fair that I reward you for being so creative, isn’t it ?”

His other hand came to your shoulder, pushing the strap of your tank top until it fell, leaving the sweeping juncture between your neck and shoulder exposed.

Has bit back a shuttering breath.

Despite his gentile voice, an angeline choir, the soundtrack of mercy, there lay a hunger in his eyes, in his barely-restrained grip, that suggested a beast lurked beneath his pretty boy exterior.

And you knew from the way he told you to “Get on the bed – be good for me,” that you’d be seeing it tonight.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

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puppybei · 4 months ago

Text

Unsaid Dreams

Chapter 2 (Series Masterlist )

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: none for now except that Reader is a mother, called mumma/momma, Hana is five years old, Toji being a warning of his own,

Wc: 1.7k

A/n: I’m still too lazy to make a masterlist (I lowkey have no idea how to lmao) But I only post fanfics on this account so rest assured the post before this will have chapter 1. Likes and Reblogs greatly appreciated!!!

You had never been more grateful for the barrage of office workers that always made it to your shop at 1pm daily, grateful that they were your main source of income but god was it tiring to give out twenty different kinds of bread to vulture like businessmen.

A weak smile found its way on your face as you sat your daughter on a stool behind the counter, groaning internally when Toji takes a seat down, ordering a cake you knew he wasn’t going to finish.

The corporate slaves ordered in bulk, putting it on the company card as you got out the pre wrapped pieces of bread, eying jealously at the cups of caffeine in their hands, god knows you could use one with the incoming headache you were about to have.

“Have a good day Mrs.Owner!”

One day you should really correct them, you aren’t married, never have been and you don’t think you will be in the future either. The group leaves the cafe after another 45 minutes, precious time where you got your daughter her hello kitty pouch back and sat down to think of what excuses you would give Toji, perhaps you could just stab him… blame it on an unfortunate accident or something..

You were snapped out of your thoughts when the devil himself slapped a few dollar bills on the counter, grinning fakely at you as he pointed with his thumb towards the kid,

“So who’s the kid?”

You push Hana to hide behind your legs, but her stubbornness and outspoken behavior which once you admired was currently getting cursed out in your head. You flash a tight smile to Sukuna’s errand boy,

“Get out if you’re done eating, I don’t indulge in private matters with my customers,”

Hana states up at the man, twirling a lock of her hair as she looks almost akin to bored,

“Mumma is he bothering you? Should I call the police? That’s what we should do right!,”

She looks proud of herself for remembering such an important rule and you melt patting her head softly as you smiled,

“Yes baby! That’s right, but he’s unfortunately not a bad man-,”

You turn to look back at Fushiguro, side eyeing him,

“Yet, so why don’t you run along and leave mumma to talk with the customers hmm?”

Hana nods enthusiastically, glancing one last time at the man before running away into the house,

The silence between you both stretches out for a good minute before he breaks it with a wolf whistle,

“Goddamn she looks just like him doesn’t he,”

He rubs his chin with a calloused hand, resting his arms on the high counter and an inch away from leaning against the glass display,

“Sit down Fushiguro, I’ll get us some tea,”

You accept what your fate has become, brewing two cups of tea and setting it down in front of the 30- something year old man,

“So.. how’s Sukuna doing,”

Toji raises an eyebrow at you, chuckling dryly as he took a sip of the tea, you pull a chair out, sitting down with the man as lunch rush slowed down,

“I’m not sure if that’s something you can ask about doll,”

You bite your lip, fiddling with your thumbs under the table as you sigh,

“Look- I don’t want any trouble okay. Don’t tell Sukuna about this- any of this. Where I live what I’m doing- one word and I’ll just disappear, I’ve done it once and I’m not afraid to do it again,”

You seethe out, glaring at Toji to even move a muscle,

“Huh, yeah whatever I don’t really care about that- it’s just,”

You raise an eyebrow as Toji looks off to the side,

“I got a kid of my own okay, don’t fucking pounce on me goddamn,”

The chair screeches under you as you get up, placing the finished cup of tea in the kitchen behind the counter,

“I expected you to get someone knocked up, just didn’t expect you to go through with it,”

You laugh darkly, wiping your hands down as you finish cleaning the cups and turning back to face Fushiguro,

“Don’t fucking-,”

He starts before rubbing his face exasperatedly,

“Just shut it. I’m not gonna say anything to Sukuna, was just tryna relate or something for fucks sake. Not like me and him are all buddy buddy,”

Toji gets up from his seat, watching the school children start to fill the streets at 3pm, a few even coming into the shop and ordering bread. He watched them leave with a serene expression, the clock ticking being the only thing that served as source of sound,

“It was good seeing you again, I’ll swing by sometime later with the kid- Megumi. I’ll come with him later,”

Toji throws a lazy wave as Hana comes out again to see you both meeting Toji’s wave with a more excited one of her own, and he finally leaves.

Your palms slap the marble next to the sink, tension rolling out of your body in waves as you let out a sigh of relief. A soft tug to the fabric covering your knees brings you back to reality,

“Mumma was that man your friend?”

You pursed your lips, grimacing at the question but trying not to show it,

“That man was mumma’s old friend okay?,you don’t need to worry much Okay?”

A scene flashed through your mind,

Sukuna had a phone pressed to his ear, still in his black button up and slacks, the first few buttons undone. City lights streamed in through the small crack in the curtains, further illuminating his figure next to the ceiling to floor windows.

“Yeah no shit Toji, I expect you to deal with it before I’m back with her,”

You stir on the bed and the six foot man is already by your side cupping your cheek. You can see the chipped black nail polish from weeks ago that he let you convince him to do,

“Go back to sleep pet, Tojis on the phone. Something came up, I’ll come back soon,”

You nodded blearily, holding his hand for a second while his gaze softened, intense ruby eyes crinkling at the corners as you succumbed back to sleep

An almost identical set of eyes stared back at you, wide with curiousity. You sighed, picking the five year old up and placing her into your arms. A glance at the clock tells you it’s just a few minutes past 4:30, your part timer should be here any second so you change out of your apron.

Fumiko was only seventeen when she started working for you, but even four years into college she still holds the same amount of respect for you. You grace her with a smile when she entered, almost routine for you as she takes her own apron as you and Hana wave to her.

You sigh as you leave from the backdoor, walking through a small porch before keying your door and entering the pathway to the living room. Hana immediately removes her shoes, changing into home slippers and you do the same, arranging the shoes neatly into the shoe rack.

Hana follows you into the bedroom, watching you change into a more comfortable set of clothes and trailing behind you into the kitchen,

“Did you like the lunch I made baby?,”

The five year old sits at a tiny desk and chair, one that you bought her when she started . She neatly arranges her chopsticks, knife, fork and spoon and the sight of it makes you want to roll your eyes. Really did your genes even try to fight in this child’s genetic makeup.

“Yeah mumma! Are we having the same thing for dinner too?”

You nod, taking out the leftovers from the fridge and placing it on the counter to for a while,

“Why don’t I help you take a bath and then we can be all ready to have dinner okay?”

Hana nods her head, she’s at the age where she wants to do everything by herself and refuses help from anyone. You smile at her while her little fingers tug at the buttons of her shirt, pulling it over her head and running to the washroom. You check in on her soon after, watching her stand in the bath and scrub clumsily at her own skin.

A chuckle escapes before you can help it and she glares at you, pouting before offering the plastic loofah to you. You kneel by the bathtub and help her, slowly getting the dirt and grime from kindergarten washed away.

Scented lotion is applied to her baby skin soon after, and you massage it slowly into her limbs.

“Let’s go have dinner okay?”

Hana smiles at you and you both enjoy dinner while she talks about her day. She’s put to sleep not soon after and you check up on Fumiko as she’s cleaning up. The closed sign is up and the lights are switched off, Fumiko’s cleaning one of the tables and leaves the rest of closing up to you, muttering something about a group project as she dashes out.

A few more weeks pass by in radio silence until another figure enters your bakery, you can already feel the throbbing headache when your ex-boyfriend’s most loyal ‘servant’ shows up at your abode, effectively ruining what was supposed to be a calm Saturday afternoon.

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Taglist: @lady-of-blossoms @shokosbunny @after-laughter-come-tears

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

seven minutes in hell [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: what begun as a night of laughter turned into a powder keg. a drunken dare. a too-small space. a collision of bodies and buried feelings. you both said things you don’t mean—and things you do. but before you can face what’s unravelling between you and bucky, someone else finds you. and he’s not here to play games.

word count: 6500

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, female masturbation, enemies to lovers, mentions of alcohol, angst, forced close proximity, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter

The city was soaked in silver. Midnight rain streaked across street lamps and taxi roofs, painting Manhattan in slick, melancholy gold.

Bucky walked without a destination, only momentum. His hands were stuffed in his coat pockets, collar turned up, but the water still found its way in—slipping down the back of his neck, collecting beneath his metal arm, sticking his shirt to his skin. He welcomed it. The discomfort kept him grounded.

He couldn't get the image out of his head. Your mouth on Sam’s. The way your hands gripped him like he was something tethering you to the earth.

Of course, she likes Sam, Bucky thought bitterly. Who wouldn’t?

You hated Bucky. And maybe that’s what made it all worse—because something in him had started to hope that your fire wasn’t hate at all. That it was something hotter. Closer.

He didn’t know what stung more: the kiss, or the fact that he didn’t even blame you for it.

It was his fault. For getting too close when you were unconscious in the medbay. For spilling himself open in front of you, sharing his feelings and vulnerabilities and all of his ugly truths. For thinking that things might have been different.

The rain blurred the neon signs and billboards as he passed them, boots splashing in shallow puddles. The metal hand curled tight at his side. He remembered how it felt when it shielded your body, the weight of protecting you, the panic in his gut when you went down.

You nearly died for him. And then ran from him. Straight into Sam’s arms.

“Fuck,” he muttered aloud, voice swallowed by the downpour.

He kept walking. Not toward home, not toward the tower. He needed something strong, something to burn this ache out of his veins.

And he knew just where to find it.

The bar he found was half a dive, half a graveyard. No music. No televisions. Just the faint hum of neon and the occasional cough from a man hunched over a pint. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask for names or eye contact. The kind of place where ghosts could drink in peace.

Bucky slid into a booth in the back, rain dripping from his hair, soaking into his coat. The waitress, a girl with a lip ring and purple eyeliner smudged beneath tired eyes, dropped a whiskey in front of him without a word.

He didn’t thank her. Just wrapped his fingers around the glass and drank. It was sharp, smoky—burning his throat all the way down. He welcomed the sting.

The second drink came faster. The third even faster than that. He wasn’t talking. Wasn’t moving much, except to lift the glass. His phone sat on the table, screen down, but he kept glancing at it like it might speak first.

After the fourth drink, he gave in.

He picked it up, thumb hovering over a name in his call list.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Her contact photo: a perfectly poised smile, curled lips painted deep red. Always in control. Always camera-ready.

He stared at the screen for a long time. His vision swam slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the ache.

She would answer. She always did.

She’d probably offer to come over. Or send a car.

He imagined her voice: light, sweet like poison. “James, darling. Are you alone?”

He pressed his thumb down—

—and then pulled it back.

“No.”

It was a whisper. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a warning.

He turned the phone over, face-down again, as if the screen itself was too bright, too dangerous. Then he drained the rest of his whiskey and signaled for another.

By the time the flashbulbs hit, he barely noticed. Just a soft mechanical click, followed by another, and another. A pair of paparazzi across the bar—drawn in by the sight of ex-Congressman Barnes alone, disheveled, and clearly a little drunk. One of them had the nerve to get a little closer.

Bucky turned his head just slightly, eyes bloodshot but burning. “Take one more step,” he said, voice like gravel, “and I’ll shove that camera down your throat.”

Maybe it was Bucky’s threat, or the mechanical whirr of his fingers when he flexed them into a fist, but the man froze.

The other tugged him back by the arm, whispering something sharp. They both scurried out the door, back into the rain.

Bucky went back to drinking.

And he didn’t pick the phone up again.

────✪────

The rain hadn’t stopped. It tapped gently against the windowpane, streaking the glass in long, shimmering trails. Sam’s apartment was warm, dimly lit—soft light from the kitchen casting a quiet glow over the small living space. The air smelled like coffee and clean laundry.

You sat on his couch, knees pulled to your chest in an oversized hoodie—one of his. The same one he’d tossed you earlier, when you returned from the medbay soaked and trembling. It smelled like cedar and something familiar. Something safe.

Sam moved quietly around the kitchen, stirring a mug of tea. Not pushing. Not asking questions. Just… being there.

When he finally handed you the mug and took a seat beside you, there was a long silence. You sipped, not because you were thirsty, but because you didn’t know what else to do.

“I should say something,” you murmured, voice small.

He gave you a soft look. “Only if you want to.”

You nodded, eyes still on the tea. “About the kiss.”

“I know.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Sam Wilson—your anchor in all this. Steady, patient, good. The kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to be strong.

“It wasn’t fair,” you said. “To you.”

“Wasn’t exactly one-sided,” he replied, offering a small, understanding smile. “But… I also know what that kiss meant. And what it didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m so confused, Sam.”

“I’d be more worried if you weren’t.” He leaned back slightly, arms folded as he studied you—not judgmental, just honest. “You’ve been through hell. That fight, the coma, whatever happened in your head… And then Bucky—he complicates things.”

You laughed once, bitter and low. “He ruins things.”

“No,” Sam said gently. “He complicates them. You ruin things when you run. And I don’t think you’ve ruined anything yet.”

You looked away, cheeks flushed, heart aching in a way that felt like guilt. “I don’t know what I want. I was with Shane for five years. And now suddenly, I’m not. I have this new job. I’m an Avenger. A new apartment and new friends. If I can even call you guys that. It’s just… it’s a lot.”

Sam nodded, taking a little time to process the weight of your words. After gentle consideration, he put a hand on your leg, comforting, grounding, even.

“That’s okay,” he said simply. “You don’t have to know right now. And if you need more time… you don’t have to come with us on missions. You can stay at the tower with Bob. For as long as you need. I told you this before but we’re family now, no matter what.”

“I just…” You sighed, rubbing your temples. “That word… ‘family’, it’s been so long since I had that.”

There was so much Sam didn’t know. You’d probably be comfortable telling him the truth if his best friend weren’t the man who killed your brother.

Were they even still friends? You found yourself wondering. Sam and Bucky certainly still had tension between them, and you probably didn’t make it any easier.

Sam reached over and rested a hand on yours. “Family is complicated, and we’re no exception. I’m just glad I don’t have to share a bathroom with Alexei.” You let out a small laugh before Sam continued. “This is your life, and you’re free now. I’ll always be here, but if you need space, I can do that too.”

There was nothing romantic in his tone. No pressure. No expectations. Just warmth. Just friendship. Just someone who wanted to see you whole.

Sam was perfect in person and on paper, and yet, you felt nothing. You didn’t feel the yearning or the longing or the dizzying haze of falling in love. You felt like there was something wrong with you. Sam was strong and handsome and kind, and he always did the right thing. And fuck— still, even after all of this, you were still consumed by Bucky Barnes. You cursed him and swallowed down the overbearing thoughts, the memories of him repeating in your head over and over like a broken record.

Was it really all revenge?

You gave Sam’s hand a small squeeze. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “But when you do figure out what you want…”

“I’ll be honest,” you promised.

And for now, that was enough.

────✪────

The elevator doors hissed open, and Bucky stepped into the dimly lit Avengers Tower common room like a storm in a bottle.

His clothes were damp with rain, his expression unreadable. Not glassy-eyed drunk — no stumbling, no slurring. Just quiet. Tightly coiled. Off.

Yelena looked up from her seat on the armrest of Alexei’s chair, brows pinching. Ava paused mid-scroll on her tablet. Bob was standing by the window, arms crossed, tension sharp along his shoulders. John leaned over a table scattered with street maps and traffic cams, mid-strategy.

They had all stopped what they were doing the moment the doors opened.

“Where the hell have you been?” Yelena asked, voice even.

Bucky shrugged off his jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. “Out.”

“Out where?” John pushed, standing upright now. “We’ve been running ops like she’s been kidnapped. You just vanished.”

“She’s fine,” Bucky replied flatly, pulling a hand through his wet hair. “She’s at Sam’s.”

Silence snapped across the room like a live wire.

“You knew?” Ava said slowly, rising to her feet. “You knew she was safe and didn’t say a damn thing?”

“Sorry,” Bucky replied, jaw tight. “I checked. That’s all.”

Bob stepped forward. “You could’ve told us that. We’ve been running surveillance for hours—”

“I said she’s fine,” Bucky snapped, louder now. “So drop it.”

“No,” Yelena said, standing. “We won’t. Because this isn’t about her being fine. This is about you pretending you don’t care when every single person in this room knows you do.”

A beat.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward her — just once — before he scoffed, turning away.

“Don’t project your shit onto me.”

“Don’t insult our intelligence,” John cut in, arms crossed. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Alexei added, calm and low, “You’re wounded, Bucky. Not stupid. But wounded men shouldn’t lead alone. Remember, we’re your family and we want to help you.”

“I’m not wounded,” Bucky bit out. “I’m focused. She’s fine. That’s what matters. You can all stop playing therapist and get back to whatever you were doing.”

Bob looked like he wanted to say something — really say something — but thought better of it.

“She was here,” he muttered instead. “Two hours ago. I stepped out, came back, and she was gone.”

“And I found her. So what exactly are you mad about?” Bucky snapped. “That I didn’t tell you fast enough? Or that I didn’t fall apart the way you expected me to?”

“You did fall apart,” Yelena said, taking a step toward him. “You just did it somewhere else. And now you’re pretending like it never happened.”

Bucky’s expression hardened. Ice over something molten. “We’re done here.”

He turned toward the hallway without another word.

No one followed. Not yet.

As the training room door slammed shut, Yelena exhaled slowly and looked back at the others.

“Well, he’s in love with her,” John said.

Alexei nodded. “And now he thinks he’s lost her.”

“Which is why he’s being an asshole,” Ava muttered.

“He always is when he’s scared,” Bob added, quiet.

They all stood in silence for a moment.

“They really need to talk it out,” Ava said, putting her tablet down on the coffee table. “Lena, maybe you can text Joaquin and ask if she’s still awake. We can head over to Sam’s place. Disguise it as another game night, but it’s covert. We go in, make sure she’s okay, have a few drinks and bring Brooding Barnes over.”

“He is not gonna want to see her,” John sighed. “But I’ll go and see if he can be persuaded.”

────✪────

The punching bag didn’t stand a chance.

Bucky’s fists crashed into it over and over again—measured, controlled, brutal. He didn’t need a sparring partner. He needed something to hit that wouldn’t talk back. Something that wouldn’t kiss someone else. Something that wouldn’t look at him like you used to.

He exhaled sharply, sweat dripping from his brow as the bag swung wildly on its chain. The training room was otherwise empty—just him, the hiss of his breath, the thud of impact, and the low hum of the building’s systems.

Until he heard the door slide open.

“Jesus,” came a voice behind him. “You trying to punch your way through the bag now?”

Bucky didn’t look. “Go away, Walker.”

“No can do,” John drawled. He strolled in with the same casual arrogance that always made Bucky’s fists itch. “We drew straws. I lost. You get me.” Bucky stiffened at John’s words. “I’m kidding,” John raised his hands in mock surrender. “I came because, I know something about how it feels to be… angry…”

Bucky ignored him, going right back into a set. Left hook. Right jab. Elbow. Left. Right. Crack. The bag groaned under the force.

“…Unloved…” John continued, almost hesitant with his words, like he was testing the waters.

That caught Bucky. He whipped around, facing John now. “What?”

“You know you’re allowed to stop punishing yourself, right?” John said, folding his arms.

Bucky paused, breathing hard. “What do you want?”

John shrugged. “We’re going to Sam’s. Games. Beer. Pizza. Actual human joy. We’re supposed to show up like we don’t all hate each other most of the time.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” John motioned at the bag. “Sweating out your self-loathing?”

Bucky finally turned again, this time only to glare at him.

John didn’t flinch. “Look, man. I get it. Sort of. You're brooding, dark, mysterious—whatever. But you’ve been walking around like someone pissed in your coffee.”

Bucky turned away again. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You never are,” John snapped. “But you used to show up anyway. Now it’s all late-night workouts and haunted stares. What gives?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s a lie and even Bob doesn’t believe it, and that guy thinks microwaves are spying on him.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t about to admit anything, especially not to Walker. Not about you. Not about your kiss with Sam. Not about the ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away no matter how many reps he did.

John stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Look, man. You don’t have to talk about it. I’m not your shrink, and I’m not your friend. But you’re our leader. And whether you like it or not, people notice when you disappear.”

Silence.

“Yelena’s worried. So is Sam,” John added. “Alexei is devastated that his favourite Super Soldier has gone all soft. And her…”

Bucky’s fists clenched. He hated that even hearing your name—unspoken as it was—could make his pulse spike.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not. But that’s your problem.” John took a step back. “All I’m saying is—come by. One beer. A few rounds of Mario Kart. Worst case scenario, you get to throw popcorn at me.”

Bucky finally looked over his shoulder. “Tempting.”

John smirked. “I know. You love me.”

“I hate you.”

“Whatever.”

With that, John turned and headed out, leaving the door open behind him. The silence in the room returned, thick and suffocating. Bucky looked back at the punching bag—his knuckles raw, his body aching—and for the first time all night, he didn’t throw another punch.

────✪────

You curled deeper into the couch, Sam’s oversized hoodie drowning your frame, the sleeves swallowed past your fingers. Rain tapped gently at the windows, and for once, the quiet was welcome. The ache in your body had dulled, replaced now by an uneasy restlessness you couldn’t shake.

Sam had made you tea. The mug sat on the coffee table, untouched. You were grateful he hadn’t pushed. He just let you rest, checked in occasionally, kept the world from creeping in too fast.

That peace shattered when a knock sounded at the door—short, purposeful, followed by a familiar voice.

“Open up, Wilson. We know she’s here.”

Yelena.

Sam groaned softly. “Told them you needed space.”

“Yeah, but they said it was party night,” Joaquin smirked, bringing a tray of beers out from the fridge and setting them on the counter.

“Uh— what?” Sam narrowed his eyes. Sam; ever so quick to get protective and defensive. You sensed a hint of annoyance towards Joaquin for agreeing to the New Avengers coming over, but it was completely washed away when you spoke.

You sat up quickly, heart leaping. “It’s okay.”

He gave you a quick look—searching, soft—before crossing the room to open the door.

Yelena marched in first, followed by Alexei, Bob, Ava, John, and—

Your breath caught.

Bucky.

They were all here.

Yelena beelined to you with no hesitation, pulling you into a firm hug. “I swear, if you ever do that again, I will kill you myself,” she said, voice tight despite the threat.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, forcing a smile.

One by one, the team poured in, relief etched on their faces. Even Ava cracked a grin. Bob lingered in the background, watchful, quiet, eyes flicking over you with something unreadable. Maybe concern. Maybe suspicion.

“I brought cookies,” Alexei announced proudly, holding up a crumpled paper bag. “They are a little wet. The rain, you know.”

Laughter bubbled in your throat for the first time in days.

Sam glanced toward the balcony and nodded subtly. “He’s out there. Maybe you should talk about what happened… back when— you know…”

You turned.

Bucky stood at the edge of the small balcony, hands gripping the railing, his broad back soaked by the misty rain. His hair was damp, curling at the ends. You hesitated before stepping toward him, pushing open the door and slipping outside.

He didn’t turn when you joined him. Just said, “You okay?”

“I’ve been worse.”

You watched the street below, cars rushing by, people bustling like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn’t stopped for you.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“For coming.”

That made him glance at you, just briefly. “You saved my ass in that fight. Should be me thanking you.”

You smiled faintly. “I guess we’re even.”

Silence stretched between you—awkward, heavy.

Bucky looked away again. “You shouldn’t have run off like that.”

Your voice dipped low. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“I did.” It came too fast. Too sharp. Then he backtracked. “The team did.”

You turned toward him, watching the tension in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“I saw the press conference,” you said finally.

A beat. Bucky froze—just a flicker—and then nodded. “Yeah.”

“She kissed you.”

“She did.”

You waited, but he offered nothing more.

“I should get back inside,” you murmured.

“Wait.”

You paused.

Bucky’s eyes met yours, something guarded flickering behind them. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You nodded once, then slipped back inside.

He stayed out there, alone, letting the drizzle soak him through. Inside, laughter and warmth crackled like static. But all he could feel was the cold.

And the distance.

────✪────

The coffee table was cluttered with half-empty pizza boxes, open bags of chips, a bowl of jelly beans (Bob kept picking out only the red ones), and Alexei’s infamous cookies—soft, dense, and somehow always a little too moist. The fact they were saturated in rainwater meant they were more so mush than anything else now.

“You didn’t have to bring them,” Yelena muttered, eyeing the pile of cookies with disdain.

“I wanted to contribute!” Alexei said proudly, crossing his arms. “They are wet because I soak them in condensed milk for flavour. Definitely not because I dropped them in a puddle on the way here.”

“They taste like mud,” muttered Bob, who still popped one in his mouth anyway.

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know what mud tastes like.” Ava frowned, rubbing her temples.

You curled up at the edge of the couch, a pillow hugged to your chest. Bucky sat diagonally across from you, nursing a beer, quiet but present. He hadn’t said much since arriving, just offered everyone a tight nod before taking his usual shadowy spot.

Sam, meanwhile, was mid-laugh, leaned back with a bottle in hand. “Okay okay, it’s time. Truth or Dare, New Avengers edition. Let’s go.”

“Oh no,” murmured Joaquin, already sinking into the cushions.

“We’re adults,” Yelena said dryly.

“Exactly,” Sam smirked. “Which makes it way more dangerous.”

They went around the circle. Joaquin was dared to write a love poem about Bob’s freakishly small feet. Alexei had to do ten squats while holding Yelena. Yelena—unfazed—took a truth and confessed that her last online search was “how to flirt without sounding like a threat.” Bob got dared to kiss the TV screen when a shampoo commercial came on. And, there was a little too much tongue for John’s liking.

Laughter echoed off the walls. Even Bucky cracked a faint smirk. You glanced at him once—he was watching the group, not you, but his grip on the bottle tightened just slightly when he caught your eye.

Then it was Ava’s turn.

“Oh, I’ve got a good one,” she said, eyes glittering with mischief as she looked directly at you. “Dare.”

“Hit me,” you said with a teasing smile, already half-nervous.

“I dare you…” Ava dragged out the words, looking around the group for dramatic effect, “…to spend seven minutes in the closet.”

You laughed. “Okay, with who?”

She turned—slowly, deliberately—to Bucky.

The entire room went still.

You blinked.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“With Bucky,” Ava grinned.

A beer bottle clinked too loudly against the table. Bob let out a low whistle. Sam sat forward slightly, gaze shifting between the two of you. Even Yelena raised her brows, her mouth twitching with suppressed entertainment.

“No way,” you said, heartbeat skipping. “That’s not—”

“It’s the rules,” Ava said sweetly.

You looked at Bucky. He was staring at you, unreadable, then gave the slowest shrug you’d ever seen—like he wasn’t sure if he was agreeing or resigning.

The silence stretched, the group waiting. Sam looked like he was about to object, but then sat back.

Seven minutes. In a closet. With Bucky.

You stood up.

Bucky did too.

The team collectively leaned forward like they were watching a car about to crash.

Ava clapped her hands. “This is gonna be so good.”

The two of you walked to the hallway closet.

The door slammed shut behind you with a jarring clack, sealing you and Bucky inside the pitch-black closet.

You blinked into the darkness, heart already thudding.

“Real mature,” you muttered under your breath, shifting awkwardly and bumping into a cardboard box. “I hate all of them. Especially Ava. God, I feel like I’m sixteen again.”

“Me too,” came Bucky’s voice—low, rough, and right there.

“How long ago was that, 100 years ago?” You laughed, sarcasm dripping from your tongue.

“No… 94 years ago.” Bucky corrected, the humour not quite hitting the way it was intended.

“Right.” You froze. His body was practically pressed against yours.

Chest to chest.

Knee to thigh.

Warmth radiated off him in waves. Thick, suffocating heat that settled into the small of your back, the dip of your collarbone, the space between your thighs.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to give yourself some breathing room—but the closet was tiny, crammed full of half-folded coats and towers of supplies, and Bucky Barnes was built like a damn wall.

“Can you—back up?” you said, voice tight.

“I literally can’t move,” he said, deadpan. “Closet’s too small. You take up all the floor space.”

“You’re the size of a fridge, Bucky.”

He exhaled through his nose and adjusted slightly. His thigh brushed between yours—just a nudge—and your breath hitched before you could stop it.

You instinctively widened your stance a little, trying to make more room, but all that did was open space he naturally filled.

One subtle step forward and he was suddenly between your legs, pressed almost completely against you.

You slapped your hands to his chest. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re standing like—like—”

“It’s a closet,” he growled. “What do you want me to do, phase through the fucking wall? I’m not Ava.”

You tried to lean back, but a tower of boxes wobbled behind you. His arm snapped out instantly, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other catching your waist.

You sucked in a breath as his fingers curled firmly at your hip, anchoring you. Your hoodie had ridden up slightly, and your shorts were paper-thin. His palm was warm. Wide. Calloused.

He noticed.

You felt the exact moment his thumb twitched—like he was trying not to notice the curve of your bare skin, the soft warmth radiating off you.

He didn’t let go.

You tried not to look down.

But his jean-clad thighs were thick and braced between yours. His muscles shifted with every breath. You were practically seated on his leg now. He had to bend his knees slightly just to fit in the space.

And you were warm. So warm. Too warm.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “What are you wearing?”

You glared into the dark. “Excuse me?”

“You’re basically naked.”

“I’m in shorts and a hoodie.”

“That hoodie barely covers anything, and I can feel everything.”

Your heart jackknifed in your chest.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped.

His voice dropped. “I’m not. Trust me, I’m trying really hard not to think about it.”

Too late. You felt it—the twitch of something hardening against your inner thigh.

Bucky shifted again, trying to adjust, and gritted out, “Fuck.”

You swallowed hard. “Are you serious?”

“You’re the one rubbing up on me.”

“You’re the one in my personal space!”

“There is no personal space!” he exploded.

“God, you’re such a child—”

“Oh, right, sorry I’m not the one making out with Sam—”

You reeled back, heart stuttering. “What?”

Shit. Shit.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

You gawked at him in the darkness, pulse pounding. “You—how did you—?”

His jaw clenched. “I came by… I saw it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You followed me?” You asked in disbelief. But maybe you shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, he was an ex-spy.

He snorted. “Please. I didn’t follow you. I was heading to Sam’s to check on you. Didn’t realise I was interrupting something. Got to admit, I never took Sam as the bedtime story type.”

Passive agressive much.

“Don’t start.”

“Why not?”

You shoved at his chest, but again, there was nowhere to go. His arm tightened around your waist instinctively, holding you steady.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this closet was built for children, and I’m trying not to knock you over like a fucking bowling pin.”

“You are insufferable.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “And you’re a spoiled, entitled brat.”

You fisted at the material of his black t-shirt.

His voice dropped, rough. “Don’t push me.”

“Or what?” you hissed. “You’ll go all Winter Soldier on me?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s real cute. You gonna throw the past in my face every time I piss you off?”

“You piss me off constantly.”

“Feeling is mutual.” Bucky grumbled.

“I saved your goddamn life!” You said, exasperated.

“Then why won’t you say why?”

You pushed against his chest again, angry, flustered, and breathing far too fast.

“I did it because I had to!”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine!” you spat. “Why don’t we talk about your little press conference with Valentina, huh? The way she grabbed your face like a prize she’d just won?”

He stilled.

You could feel the heat between you thrumming, like the air was laced with static.

You were both furious. Flushed. Breathing heavily.

Your body rocked slightly with the effort of holding yourself still on his thigh, and he felt it. Every tiny movement. Every flicker of heat.

“I hate you.”

His head dipped just slightly. “Whatever.”

“Get out of my face.”

“I can’t,” he snapped. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“You’re suffocating me.”

“Then stop breathing so loud.”

You laughed, humourless. “Fuck you.”

His lips were so close to yours. “Not if you were the last person on Earth.”

Your hand fisted in the front of his shirt before you realised what you were doing. He stared down at your fingers, then up at you, eyes dark.

The air sizzled.

Your heartbeat thudded in your throat.

Your lips almost—almost—

His hand on your waist flexed again.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first. Maybe both of you.

Your noses nearly brushed. Your lips hovered a breath apart.

And then—

The door swung open.

“Seven minutes is up!” Alexei’s voice boomed as light flooded the space.

You and Bucky jerked apart. You stumbled out, pulse racing, face flushed, hands clenched. Bucky followed, jaw tight, eyes dark, not looking at anyone.

He stalked past the others and grabbed a beer from the counter without saying a word.

And you?

You stood there, breathless. Fuming. And absolutely burning.

The room felt stuffy.

Too many voices, too much noise, and him—lingering just out of reach, brooding by the window with his jaw clenched like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just pressed his body against yours for seven minutes of angry, blistering heat in the dark.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, rising from your spot on the couch. “Thank you, all of you—for coming to check on me. Seriously.”

Yelena looked up from her half-frosted cookie. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah, just tired. Think I’m gonna shower, crash early.”

A chorus of half-drunken well-wishes followed you to the hallway, but you didn’t look back—not even at Bucky.

Especially not at Bucky.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you like the seal of something sacred. You didn’t bother locking it—everyone knew better than to interrupt—but still, you felt like you were doing something secret. Something forbidden.

Water thundered from the showerhead, fogging the mirror and your thoughts.

You stripped off your hoodie, the fabric still clinging from the humid heat of the apartment and the way Bucky’s body had radiated against yours in that tiny closet. You stepped out of your shorts, left them puddled on the floor, and stepped into the shower like it was confession.

Warm water hit your skin like a release. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

Because you still felt him.

That closet had been too damn small. His thigh had been firm beneath you, slotted between your legs like it belonged there. You had tried to shift away, just to breathe, and instead found yourself practically straddling him. His breath had hitched when your hips brushed his. You had felt it—that growing pressure against your core, the slow throb of heat pooling low in your belly.

You closed your eyes and leaned into the tile, letting your hand trail slowly down your stomach.

God, the way he looked at you. Like you were fire and sin and something he couldn’t touch without burning. But he hadn’t moved away.

He’d grabbed your waist. Held you steady. Like you were his to anchor.

Your fingers slid lower, slick with steam and want.

You thought of his hands, calloused and sure. That metal arm—cold and unyielding. You imagined it wrapped around your throat, pinning you to the wall while his mouth bruised yours.

He’d be rough with you.

Not cruel—but desperate. Angry. Still mad from the fight, still bitter over what you didn’t say in the closet. He’d call you insufferable again, spit the word against your lips before kissing you so deep you forgot your name.

You gasped.

Your other hand gripped the bar for balance as your hips rocked into your touch, chasing the friction.

You thought of his voice—low, rough, vibrating through your bones when he was mad.

Thought of how he’d sound when he wasn’t mad.

How he’d groan your name when he finally gave in. How he’d hiss between his teeth when he felt your thighs tighten around his waist, when you raked your nails down his back, begging him not to stop—

It didn’t take long.

You came in shuddering waves, heat curling deep in your gut as your forehead pressed to the tile and water ran down your spine. Your breath caught in your chest.

But even as the pleasure washed through you, the ache didn’t fade.

Because it wasn’t enough.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Not until it was him.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know if he wanted you back.

Not like that.

Not after Sam.

Not after Val.

You stood there for a while, dripping and silent, the water slowly going lukewarm. And when you finally turned the faucet off, you didn’t feel clean. You felt dirty. Haunted.

You emerged from the shower, hair wrapped in a towel and another bad idea.

Your skin was flushed from the water—and from the way you’d spent the last ten minutes—but you wore composure like a second layer, pretending you hadn’t just whispered Bucky’s name against your own wrist in the steam.

The apartment had quieted.

No more laughter. No Alexei cramming wet cookies into his pockets. No Ava demanding a Mario Kart rematch. No Yelena shouting about cheating over Cards Against Humanity.

Just… quiet.

You padded into the living room, half-expecting someone to still be there. But the couch was empty, the mugs cleared. Only a few candles flickered low. Joaquin’s door was closed—finally asleep.

Only Sam remained, standing by the window with a beer in hand, lit by the faint glow of city lights. He glanced over when he heard your steps and gave you a warm, tired smile.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded, tucking damp hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Shower helped.”

He held out a fresh bottle of water for you, which you took gratefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly. “I mean, I know it was their idea… and Joaquin’s but… yeah, you were a good sport.”

Sam gave you a look you couldn’t quite read—part warmth, part worry, part something else entirely.

“You’ve been through hell,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay, y’know.”

You sank onto the arm of the couch, towel pulled tighter around your chest.

“I’m not pretending,” you said. “I just—I don’t know what I’m feeling half the time. My head’s all over the place.”

He sat beside you, keeping a careful distance.

“You don’t owe anyone answers. Not me. Not Bucky. Not the team.”

His name cracked like lightning in your ribcage.

You tried to hide it, but Sam saw.

His voice softened.

“Whatever’s going on between you two…”

“There’s nothing going on,” you said, too fast.

Sam didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slow.

“Okay.”

You stared at the water bottle in your hands, the label peeling beneath your thumb.

“Sam…” you started, then paused.

He turned toward you. “Yeah?”

“I—I wanted to say thank you. For the flowers.”

He blinked. “What flowers?”

You looked up. “The ones at the medbay. The red, white, and blue bouquet. It had your colours—I just assumed—”

Sam’s brows pulled together.

“I didn’t send flowers.”

Your stomach dipped.

“What?”

“I didn’t send flowers.” He repeated.

The bottle slipped slightly in your grip.

“No. They were there. Wrapped in white paper, hand-picked. No card. I thought—”

Your heart slammed once, then again, louder.

Your pulse stuttered.

Oh.

Bucky.

Of course.

He always did things without words. Always too proud to admit he cared. Always burying his feelings in silence and bruises and stupid, perfect flowers he’d never claim.

You stood suddenly, heart racing.

Sam frowned. “Hey, you okay?”

“I—I have to go,” you muttered, already heading for the door, towel forgotten, now tugging on your hoodie and some dry shorts as fast as your fingers would let you. “I just—thank you again. For everything.”

“Wait, what’s going on?”

But you didn’t stop.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t even hear his question over the thunderbolts of your pulse as you yanked open the door and stepped barefoot into the hallway, chasing the ghost of something unspoken.

Because suddenly, it all made sense.

The flowers.

The look in his eyes.

The fight in the closet.

The way he held you like he didn’t want to let go.

The air outside bit colder than you expected. You didn’t even feel it.

You were running — barefoot, hoodie thrown over damp hair, shorts clinging to your thighs — chasing the man who’d haunted every thought since you left that damn closet.

You turned the corner at the end of the block and spotted him.

Bucky.

Leather jacket. Broad shoulders. That same broken posture he wore whenever the world got too loud. He was walking away — hands in his pockets, head bowed, already half-swallowed by the night.

“Bucky!” you called.

He didn’t stop.

“Bucky!” you tried again, louder, but a car rolled by, headlights washing you out, your voice swallowed by the city hum.

You pushed harder, bare feet slapping against the pavement. Your heart pounded so loud it drowned out your thoughts. You were seconds away. Inches.

Then—

A figure stepped directly into your path.

You slammed to a stop, stumbling back instinctively, breath caught in your throat.

He stepped forward with a smile — slow, predatory.

And your heart plummeted.

It was him.

Shane.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks. But here he was, still cruel in the eyes. Still sharp in the jaw. Still able to freeze your veins in a heartbeat.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Look what I found.”

Your limbs locked. Your breath hitched. He stepped into your space like no time had passed.

“Hey, little Avenger,” he murmured. “Think you could run forever?”

────✪────

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