#and there is so much they could be doing with her

[thalwri]

LOOK AT HER B☆TT!

STARRING: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb x reader

synopsis: you decide to be a bit of a tease to your boyfriend(s) and give them a good little peek. but you're freaks. of course it'll be more than just that. they'll always make sure you finish what you start. and if you can't, don't worry, they can take care of it for you!

warnings: porn no plot, backshots, inappropriate use of evol, super hard boners, masturbation, spanking, bathtub sex, public sex, cockwarming, dry humping, cunnilingus, panty fucking, choking, your men are just nasty freaks for you.

wc: 5.4k in total, roughly 1000 per li

an: happy belated birthday, @jadestone2!! here's one of the gifties i have for you <3. hope you all enjoy!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

XAVIER

There’s never a day where Xavier doesn’t believe the moments he wakes up from his naps aren’t blessings hidden as disruptions. 

Last week, he woke up to see you watering his plants looking like a cute bunny in one of his many hoodies. Two days ago he woke up to you halfway through placing a pillow beneath his head because he somehow landed up sleeping on the floor.

Today, he woke up to you cooking lunch for both of you. In nothing but one of his old sweaters.

It’s a particularly short sweater, even for him. The way it rides up your curves each time you reach for the cabinet hypnotises him. It’s like he’s in a trance, the way he hops off the couch —  bedhead and all — and stalks slowly behind you like a predator about to catch his prey.

Though, in this case, he is technically your prey. 

The outfit was a deliberate move from you. You had planned it the moment you realised he was asleep on the couch. You decided that instead of waking him like you usually would to teach him how to cook without burning the apartment down, you’d instead give him a surprise to wake up to. 

You blame ovulation, you just haven’t gotten to spend that much time with him since you’re both so so busy. Your fingers and vibrator definitely weren’t enough to substitute for the immense pleasure he gives you. Why not give him a little treat?

Xavier can feel himself throbbing in his pants by the time he reaches the kitchen. He doesn’t even have to glance down to know that his length is poking hard against his sweatpants forming a large tent. Judging from how the pulsation and heat down there is growing by the second, he’s definitely leaking precum from his slit.

His mouth waters at the sight of you simply humming to yourself while you chop away at the vegetables on the cutting board. Each and everything you do brings his cock to an almost painful throb.

The way your ass looks so soft and plush and barely hidden beneath his sweater— his sweater— boils deep in his core, so deep that all the blood rushing straight to his cock gets him lightheaded. 

His hands start grabbing the air in state of being half-sleepy half-horny for you. If you could just bend over just a little bit—

And you do. Fuck yes, you do.

You drop the your knife to the floor, quickly hopping on the spot to avoid the blade. In your eyes, you dodged a very sharp bullet. In Xavier’s, you just drove him deeper into his insatiable abyss of hunger for you.

The jump alone pushed the sweater up as far as your waist, revealing that delicious curve of your ass, your hip dips that he loves to lick and grip on, and your spine— fuck, he loves staring at your back.

“Oh my fuck,” You cuss under your breath and bend over to pick it up. The remaining blood in his brain is about to shoot out of his nose. He could cum on the spot. Being blessed with such a sight of your cunt openly greeting him makes his knees buckle. Drool is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Fuck.

Xavier has to fight the urge to just moan out loud from the sight alone. The way his cock keeps bouncing inside his sweats rubbing his tip against the fabric doesn’t make the situation any easier for him. He’s glued to the spot, hypnotised, enamoured, pussy drunk before he even gets a taste of you.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” He mutters under his breath. Not even a blink later Xavier finds himself on his knees right behind you— he teleported because he was mentally stuck to the ground. 

You obviously sense the change in the air, along with the new sense of warmth radiating right behind you.

“Xavier- oh.” You glance over your shoulder to find him nuzzling his head on your thighs, rambling incomprehensible words so fast you can barely catch on. A warm wet slither travels up your thighs and close to your core.

“Let me have a taste.” His whines. It would have been a command if it wasn’t for how high pitched his voice becomes each time he speaks. “Fuck, let me taste— please, let me taste."

Smiling to yourself, you sigh in relief that he finally woke up. “Of course, baby, take what you need.”

His mind snaps, shatters, splits into pieces—your affirmation is everything he needs to hear to plant his face between your cheeks and slither his tongue right into your cunt.

You both moan shamelessly from the contact, Xavier from tasting you and you from feeling you after so, so long. You hand immediately drops to his head to push him closer and closer, his hands fondling and squeezing your ass like a stress toy. It’s the only thing keeping him from stroking himself.

His hips jut up your leg in rhythm, bringing him to rut on you and spread his pre all over you through his soaked sweatpants.

“So good.” His muffled voice praises you. “You taste so good, fuck.” 

Your grip tightens on the soft tufts of his hair, burning hot into his scalp from his fingers reaching your bud of nerves. He circles, pinches, and rubs at your clit like he’s desperately trying to make you cum as quickly as possible.

“Xavier,” You whine, practically grinding on his face making his head bob in tandem with your needy ruts. “Need you inside.”

Literally anything you say can be a buzzword in his ears. Xavier shoots up to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that strikes his body in a flash to push his sweatpants down low enough for his cock to audibly slap his abdomen. 

His cock continuously bounces up and down, smacking his skin with his leaky tip to create a sticky string connecting his cock to his stomach. The lewd imagery is riveting, mind numbing, he can barely think straight. He doesn’t even notice you aligning his cock with your hand, stroking him while his brain goes dumb from desire.

“Snap out of it!” You hiss, practically losing balance from how much your pussy aches for him. “Xavier!”

A switch must have gone off to have him immediately slip inside until he bottomed out fully inside you. His arms wrap tight around your waist and he immediately ruts into you like he’s got a point to prove.

“‘M gonna make you feel real good, baby.” He groans, licking a wet stripe of spit up the length of your neck to your jaw. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

ZAYNE

Zayne can feel himself losing threads of his control. He can feel his cock beginning to strain against the confines of his slacks. 

All because you’re bending over to pick up a fork he dropped. 

It wasn’t on purpose, he swears. It was just that his hand slipped while he was talking to you. One long look at that beautiful face of yours, watching you laugh and his hand slips pushing the fork to the floor. He can’t help himself, he’s just so down bad when it comes to you.

What he hadn’t expected was for you to stand and reach to pick it up, despite him telling you it’s okay. What he really hadn’t seen coming was that you’d turn away from him and bend over, showing that you were barely wearing anything underneath your skirt.

And by barely, there was a very clear opening of the crotch area revealing your pussy to his eyes and his alone.

By the time you stand up straight, ice was creeping up his neck to cool his face down and reduce the blatant blush spreading across his face and ears. 

“You okay?” You ask as you place the fork back down by his plate. You fight the muscles on your face to keep yourself from grinning. Zayne only nods as if the ice has stiffened his neck.

You chuckle to yourself, he’s so cute. If it isn’t the sugar he relishes in consuming whenever he gets the chance, it’s how flustered he gets. Cheeks reddened, struggling to maintain eye contact… it’s all so cute until he starts to get back at you for putting him in that state.

You begin to turn away until his hand catches your wrist, grip cold and needy. Before you can even ask, you find yourself being tugged towards him, hearing the faint ruffle of his pants being unzipped and then the soft schlick of your cunt being stuffed by his cock.

“Not a sound.” His voice is cold as steel yet dripping with desire, holding you down tight by the waist to stop you from moving. You can just feel him twitching inside you. 

“I could’ve held back and waited until we reached the car but seeing you in that lace,” He adjusts, jutting his cock up deeper into you but not giving you the pleasure of fucking you good in the middle of the cafe. “Seeing that delicious pussy… you must be shameless.”

Feeling a slew of moans brimming at the back of your throat, you bite your lip hard enough to make it bleed just to hold yourself back. You wanted this the entire time but you didn’t expect it to happen this early. Not to mention literally sitting in a full cafe while cockwarming your lover.

If anything, the goal you had in mind was to get him riled up enough to humble you in his car. This, however, looks like it’ll be so much better.

“You’re getting so wet, my love.” Zayne whispers, feeling more at ease as his evol relaxes. His lips press hot kisses on the shell of your ear. His breath is hot on your skin and his once ice cold hands tighten their hold on your waist. “Is sitting on my cock in front of all these people turning you on?”

You won’t lie, it is turning on. You’re soaked through and through to the point where your arousal slick is dripping onto his pants. If it isn’t the way he’s teasing you in that hushed sexy voice of his, it’s his girthy length pulsating deep inside you.

Your walls involuntarily clench on him, making squelches loud enough for the couple in the booth behind you to hear. Zayne can feel his control slipping, feeling the plush of your ass so comfy on his lap, the way your pussy is just clamping tight on him— he just has to remind you to behave.

He raises your hips just a bit and slams you back down on his cock with a soft plap. You both have to swallow your noises of pleasure. Zayne can’t help himself but fondle your ass beneath your skirt, feeling that soft flesh that he loves so much.

“Zayne,” You whimper, feeling your core tighten in heat. “I need you.” There’s only so much discipline you have when it comes to cockwarming him— and being in a literal public space doesn’t make the matter any easier.

“Talk to me, darling.” Zayne murmurs, nudging your legs apart with his knee to grant himself access to your throbbing clit. Discreetly under the table, his fingers find your sensitive nub covered by sheer lace and gently rubs and teases you in cruel, rough circles.

“This is what you wanted, no?” He muses, now using two fingers to pinch and pull at your clit while his hips twitch into yours— a clear indicator of him being close. He would never admit it out loud, but the risk was turning him on too.

“After all that teasing, wearing those panties here for me to see, you didn’t think I’d give you just what you need?”

Before you can even muster a response, loud screams erupt around you followed by scrambles of people rushing to leave the cafe. You both snap out of your trance to see wanderers lurking outside the cafe and citizens rushing to escape.

Out of impulse, you move to stand up only to be held back down, deeper into Zayne’s length.

“Zayne, the—“

“Look, hunters have already been dispatched.”

You glance out the window to see a hoard of hunters already in battle against the wanderers, swiftly moving people out of the way. Mind still fuzzy from being stuffed, you ease back into his embrace.

“And since the cafe’s empty…” Zayne grins into your nape and presses a wet kiss on your skin. His hands roughly push your skirt high up your waist, relishing in the sight of your plump ass so close to him. 

He pumps his cock right into your cunt, shamelessly moaning into your ear as you whine from his ministrations. “Let’s take care of this needy pussy.”

RAFAYEL

He probably shouldn’t have asked you to join him in the bath.

Yes, you hadn’t seen him in a week, and yes the only time you could see him without disruption was coincidentally his bathing time. Buuuuuut… a little bath wouldn’t hurt, right?

WRONG! Rafayel can feel his cock rising beneath the water. He’s struggling to think. Look at you, reaching for the shampoo on the little side table next to the bath. Stretching so nice that he can watch droplets of water cascade down your spine and fall into the crack between your plump ass cheeks.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s seen you naked more than enough times to be well accustomed to seeing your posterior— he’s painted you like this more than fifty times. But this particular sight is something that not even paint can accurately capture.

He watches you spread your legs wider, exposing your core right to his hungry eyes.

“Fuck.” Rafayel curses under his breath. He wraps his hand wraps tight around his cock, slowly pumping his shaft beneath the water.

“What’s wrong?” You muse, wriggling your hips just enough to make your ass bounce and smack the water.

Just enough to tease him. Just enough to make him lose his patience, grab you by the hips and fuck you so good that half the water in the tub ends up splattered on the floor— along with a few other fluids.

You know just how much Rafayel loves your ass, plump and soft just for him to fondle and nibble on. You’d found paintings scattered around his studio and even more bound within his sketchbooks, all having a small note of his insatiable thirst for you.

Don’t get him started on the view he gets when he takes you from behind.

He’s shamelessly stroking his cock, feeling the heat of unbearable pleasure surge through his veins. He has a very strong feeling you know what you’re doing, rudely moving like that for him. Precum mixes with water and his breath goes heavy.

“Is it that hard to get shampoo?” He huffs in a huskier tone, one you easily recognise as him getting more aroused. “Can’t be that hard, cutie.”

“Can’t seem to reach it,” You deliberately whine, dramatically arching your back for the water to collide with your skin like a wave crashing with the shore. All that work and Rafayel just doesn’t seem to budge.

“Uh huh.” He’s in a daze. Eyes locked like glue on your ass, watching your sweet nectar start to drip from your core, almost as if your pussy could sense the rise of desire in his cock. You are his bride, after all. It’s only natural to share each other’s desires.

“Just— just keep trying.” His words slur as the sounds of his hand stroking his cock grow louder just enough for you to hear. “You’ll get it.”

The splashing and rhythmic pumps definitely catch your awareness, and that only irritates you more. Why isn’t he doing anything about it? You softly grunt and snatch the shampoo from the counter, ensuring you lean back directly above his crotch. 

“Got it!” You grin and glance over your shoulder. And my, my, my, is he a sight for sore eyes.

His cheeks are flushed redder than a tomato, his hand shamelessly jerks away at his length to pleasure himself while his eyes are locked on your ass.

“You were ignoring me on purpose!” You huff, hitting his face with water to catch his attention.

“Do you even know what you do to me when you act like this?” Rafayel releases his cock from his grip and holds your hips to align your pussy with his throbbing length. “I just had to wait for you to come back.”

You can feel your eyes twitching. “I wanted you to lean over me and fuck me senseless, Raf, why do you think I was taking so long?!” 

“Oh.” There he goes with that faux shock. “I thought you were just struggling. Wasn’t really surprised. But now that I know what you want…”

He swiftly pulls you onto him while raising his hips, filling you to the brim with his cock. He doesn’t waste any time to start snapping his hips to pound his cock as deep as it can possibly go— which isn’t that hard considering you’re soaked like a fucking sponge.

Your eyes roll as soon as he hits that delicious sensitive spot instantly, moans ripping from your throat to echo around his bathroom like a lewd symphony. His leaky cockhead continuously pokes that gummy spot as if it’s target practice. You can barely keep up with how hard he’s going, your balance keeps slipping from being half submerged with water despite the death grip you have on the edges of the tub.

“Rafa—“ Choke on your moans, practically hypnotised by the way the water moves with you, drenching you, him, and the floor completely. His thick length just stretches you out so so good you can barely think straight, your only ambition is to squeeze around him tight enough to memorise each vein— as if you haven’t already.

“Not— fuck— not gonna last long—“ Even better for you. You want to have him fill you up, that’s what you’ve been aching for the entire time.

“Don’t hold back,” You squeeze around his cock tighter forcing your walls to clench as hard as you can, stringing out a noise from his lips that sounds like a mix of a moan and a whimper. “Want you to cum deep inside.”

The water jumps out of the bathtub and up Rafayel’s thighs as your hips roll in tandem with his thrusts, landing a noisy slap of his sacks against your clit— only bringing you closer to unravel on his cock. 

The schlap schlap schlap of soaked skin colliding in an obscene tempo begins to create a symphony in his head that he forces himself to memorise. The pieces he could create from the sounds of your pleasure could make audiences break down into tears.

“Gonna fill you up good,” Rafayel muses right into your ear. “All that teasing… you deserve it, don’t you?”

You can barely speak from how hard you’re going, grinding your hips on his to chase your pleasure while bringing him to his own undoing. All you can do is nod, and that’s all the signal he needs to keep going.

And he won’t stop for a while.

SYLUS

You have no business bending down like that.

Especially not on his bed. In one of his many tailored shirts that barely cover your torso because it keeps slipping off your shoulder. Bending over his bed to reach for your book.

Why were you bending over in such a scandalous position? It’s simple, really. You threw your book off the bed in the midst of your cuddle/reading session because you read an unexpected plot twist. A very erotic plot twist.

Sylus had made a soft yet audible whine when you pried his hands off your waist but his little noises — which only you have the privilege of hearing — fell to silence when you crawled to the edge of the bed and leaned right over the edge, leaving the image of you straddling air for him to consume.

“Need help, sweetie?” Sylus muses as he watches your struggle, both amused and aroused. A very familiar hardening length is starting to push out of his robe’s parted front— and he conveniently decided not to wear anything apart from his robe tonight. 

“Nope.” You huff over your shoulder. The book is more than an arm’s length away— why did you throw it so aggressively? 

You’d been in that position for longer than you intended, fully absorbed on the goal of taking your book. What’s taking you so long was the fact that you are about to fall off the bed. Feeling gravity attempt to pull you to the floor (again), you swiftly wiggle your ass as you move your legs bit by bit to push you further into the bed.

All Sylus can see is the ricochet of your soft cheeks with each movement. It takes so much deep restraint to not crawl to you and bite your ass just for the fun of it. 

 But he’ll have to distract himself even if his eyes refuse to look away. “How’s the search going?”

“Terribly.” You huff— but it sounds more like a suppressed moan from stretching your body to abnormal lengths to reach for that damn book.

That just makes it worse for your poor kindred lover. His hard on reveals itself by pushing his robe out of the way— that’s just how strong his love and desire is for you when you unintentionally tempt him. Now imagine what happens when it’s deliberate. 

He doesn’t even try to touch himself, knowing the eventual slick noises will catch your attention. It’s becoming unbearable to watch you in the midst of your hunt, trying to keep his eyes on you when all he can see is your arched back accentuating the curve of your ass all while his length twitches and leaks in his peripheral. 

Each movement of your reaching forward or rebalancing yourself made your flesh jiggle. Every. Single. Movement. That plush, softness that he’d always grip on tight when you clench on him hard, or that he’d smack soft or hard when he aches to hear you moan so deep in his ear that it’s engraved into his every thought. 

When you move one more time, if you jiggle that ass one more time— and you eventually do— Sylus closes his eyes in blissful resignation. 

Fuck it.

Smack!

It’s been hours. Hours since he pounced on you.

His hand collides with your cheeks to watch that delicious, cock throbbing ricochet that makes him harder and harder than he’d like to admit.

You’re hours deep into him being deep inside you, still bent well over the edge of your bed with the only thing keeping you in place being his powerful grip on your hips.

“I feel like you did that on purpose.” Sylus purrs and pulls your hips flush against his to ensure you can feel the curve of his cock dive into your pussy with each powerful thrust. “You could’ve hopped off the bed— ffuck— and yet-“ smack! “You chose to be a tease instead.”

You can only respond with a giggle that sounded more like a moan. Blood is rushing to your head like a current, your hands grip the bedding to claw at every time he pounds your weeping pussy harder and harder just how you like it.

Was it intentional? Maybe.

In your defence, you did actually throw the book out of shock. You were about to simply hop off the bed to make it quick but you had stopped and came up with the idea to tease your lover. Just a little bit. You did neglect the fact that you weren’t wearing anything under his shirt that you wore and that the book made you wetter than you’d like to admit.

Another thing you underestimated was that Sylus is down horrendously bad for you. So down bad that seeing your pussy glisten in the dimmed lights while you’re bent over the edge of the bed would drive him mad. 

“Took— took you long enough!” You whined as a harder push of his hips almost threw your off the bed, bringing you closer to your edge (for the fifth time tonight). 

The position you are in is just too good. The bed’s already soaked through and through with cum from both of you that somehow managed to leak out of your hole while he’s been plowing you. Your skin is warm and sticky with sweat and slick adding extra deliciously maddening friction for every time your hips collide.

Sylus is grinding— no, rutting on your ass, moaning loud into your ear from how soft and cushy it feels, how your pussy literally swallows his cock and refuses to let him out. 

“Keep squeezing me like this and we’ll end up making a big mess, Kitten.” He seethes, bending over your body to lick the shell of your ear while his cock still ravages you, dragging through your gummy walls until its shape is ingrained in you.

“S-Sy!” You whine. You can feel yourself falling. At an instant, a gust of black and red mist swirls round your body and raises you both to keep you in place. 

“Relax, I got you.” That purr is more than enough to make you cum again. “I’m not done yet. You teased me with this pretty ass of yours.” Another smack! hits your skin— you’re sure it’ll leave a mark of his hand.

“I plan to make the most of it tonight.”

CALEB

He can literally smell your arousal in the air. 

It’s not even like you’re doing anything. He can just smell it. 

That sweet musk that he chases to inhale whenever he does your laundry. That delicious scent the snorts into his brain whenever his face is locked between your legs slurping up your slick to satiate his thirst that only you can provide. 

You aren’t doing anything. Just lying on the couch. Legs spread. Wearing as little as a crop top and one of his favourite panties. One that he’s definitely used for other purposes. 

Lying on the couch with a pillow underneath your abdomen to keep you comfy while you scroll away on your phone. Lying on the couch with your ass up in the air, panties bunching in to accentuate your curvaceous form.

You aren’t doing anything. And that’s the problem.

Your legs hang casually over his lap, directly above his crotch. You can literally feel his boner growing beneath you but you’re playing it off, pretending you don’t even notice. Pretending you don’t even notice the strain in his voice, the need brewing in his core like a pot boiling over onto the stove.

“D-Do you mind, uh—“ Caleb stops himself before a moan slips out from his lips. His knuckles are about to turn white from how hard he’s gripping the couch to stay in place. Anything to stop his hips from acting out of their own accord.

“Huh?” You stretch your legs right over his bulge, making sure you rub just enough to build up friction. You’re such a tease.

Caleb’s rendered speechless. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavy through his nostrils to gather some level of control. Jokes on him, that flew out the window the moment he saw your ass.

He can’t seem to stop staring at it. Seeing how you naturally get wet just from being within his proximity, how your slick coats your underwear and exaggerates the puff of your pussy lips especially when you’re horny, how he can literally smell it—

“Caleb?” 

His throat goes dry hearing his name leave your lips. Not even, he’s salivating. Literally dribbling from the mouth like he saw a meal after weeks of not eating. He might as well assume that is the case.

“Yeah?” He chokes out while forcing himself to pull his gaze away from your ass. What was he trying to ask earlier? “Oh— you mind moving your legs a bit? I need to stretch.”

“Stretch?” You innocently ask — but that grinch-like grin slapped on your face only widens. “You just sat down.”

That is just all the confirmation he needs to know you’re doing this intentionally. He sighs and grips your thigh. Tight.

“I’m going to turn over and eat you out through your panties if you don’t let me stand up.” 

You didn’t expect him to fold that quickly. Usually, when either of you play this teasing game, it can take up to hours for either of you to fold— be it literally grinding on each other or using subtle innuendoes. This time, he looks extra needy for you.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, wondering if he’s joking. He’s not. His eyes are practically turning another colour from all that arousal brimming deep within him, not to mention the his hard length raging in his pants.

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, gracing him with a Cheshire grin. Caleb doesn’t even bother speaking. He plants his face right onto your clothed cunt while the rest of his body follows suit, laying comfortably in a makeshift sniper position to eat your pussy until you soak the couch.

“Fuck yeah.” His breath is hot on your skin, prickling goosebumps all over your body. 

He can hear the squelching gush of your arousal spill out of your pussy like a bursting faucet. His tongue slurps up a taste of your desire through your panties, suckling as much of your taste through the fabric as he can.

He might ruin this pair of panties but he’s more than happy to take you out to buy replacements— just to ruin them later. 

Your taste is divine, heavenly. He could worship you every damn day if you ask him to. He’d do anything to drown in your taste, your scent, in you. It all just feels too good not to rut his cock on the bed like a dog in heat.

“Oh, fuck, Caleb,” You sigh into the cushion trapped between your arms, bucking your hips back for him to ravage you completely. No matter how many times either of you try to tease each other, nothing beats the satisfaction that comes from breaking.

The way his clothed cock just perfectly fit in the junction between the cushion and couch is mouth watering. Eating you out while the stimulation going off in his cock like alarms is more than enough to make him cum, but he’d never waste his seed on something that isn’t you.

Caleb reluctantly pulls his face away from your core and strokes himself while he aligns his cockhead with your sobbing cunt. “I think I’m gonna ruin these panties, baby.”

“No, they’re my favourite!” You whine at the feeling of his cock rubbing up and down your clothed cunt, the stimulation from how wet you are makes your back arch like a cat. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t worry,” You can practically hear the smile spread on his face as he leans over you to press his cockhead into your cunt, pushing his panty-covered tip inside. “I’ll just fuck your panties a little bit. Then I’ll give you just what you need.”

The mere heat of his tip throbbing inside you drives you into a lust-dazed frenzy. You hump your hips in tandem with his short, torturous thrust, relishing in his swallowed moans from how your soaked panties rub on him just right. 

“So tight,” He whines into your ear, arm slithering under your head to put you in a gentle headlock, just the way you like it. “Pussy’s so tight— fuck—“

Caleb’s arm slides between you to tug your panties to the side then slides his cock right inside, slow and deep. The tight fill just burns so good that you both make noises loud enough for anyone outside the house to hear. 

“This is so mmmuch better,” You smile into his arm. 

“Yeah?” The muscles of his biceps and triceps bulge as he tightens his headlock on you. You choke on your breath just as his cock starts to pound into your cunt, wet plaps from his hip smacking your ass sounding in the living room. “Good. We’re gonna stay like this. Nice ’n snug. Til neither of us can think."

a/n: this was so fun to write, LET ME BE FREAKY!

[bluewxrld07]

Soap

Lando Norris X F!Reader

Summary: Y/N has always loved hard and shows that through affection. Especially lately. She's a touch-starved kind of lovergirl, and Lando has always been okay with it. At least she thought so.

Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

Warning(s): angst, Lando being an ass (so sorry), Max being bestie

Y/N had always been a lovergirl at heart.

She was never afraid to show it, show how much she cared about the person. Whether it was family, friends, or lovers. She thought they deserved to be shown how much she cared for them being a part of her life.

It was something she would never change doing. She grew up in a household where that's all they ever did. Showed how much they loved one another.

So, when she met Lando, she had never stepped away from her normal self. It was why he fell in love with her.

He met her at one of the F1 races, the girl working alongside Redbull, and being close to Max. Childhood friends, if you will. Max was the one to introduce the pair, always raving to both parties how well they'd be together.

Lando had always noticed the way she would hug or wrap her arms around Max. Not in a way that could lead to it looking like they were more than friends, she was just always friendly with everyone in a mature way.

It was the way she would brighten up a room when she came by, always making sure to give attention to everyone in the room equally.

After they had been introduced at an afterparty, she didn't hesitate to bring Lando in for a big hug.

Her scent smelled addictive, drawing him in more. That's when he realized that everything about her was addicting to keep around.

It wasn't long after that that the pair had begun dating.

It threw him off at first, the way she would nonchalantly be within his vicinity, like it was a reflex. It wasn't something he was used to, as his past flings and relationships were always very aware of their distance with Lando.

He had put two and two together when her touches were sly; things like wrapping her arm around his bicep or waist, when she'd run her hands through his curls randomly, or linking pinkies when they were in a crowded room.

She always had to touch him in some way, but at the same time, it was never something that overwhelmed him. It was just how she loved. How she cared.

Especially when she was drunk or tired. This girl was always by his side. Lando had soon became obsessed with it.

She wasn't afraid to show her love or affection towards Lando. She did have a brain, keeping it to a minimum as she didn't want people to roll their eyes every time a pap photo came out.

The fans had grown to love her, not too long after one of Lando's streams, she had made an appearance in. The way she wrapped her arms around him from behind, the boy leaned back in his gaming chair, at the feeling of her arms around him.

It was Raceday in Canada, Y/N was already in her game mode for the day.

Y/N was currently putting things together at the paddock, signing off on a few documents before handing them to one of the engineers and walking down towards Lando's garage.

She peers in, waving and going to give a small hug to Zac as she sees him, the man pointed to where Lando was.

The girl thanks him before making her way over towards the curly-headed boy, his back turned away from her as he spoke with one of his techs.

She softly wraps her arms around his torso, the man not alarmed one bit by her touch. Immediately knowing it was her without a glance.

He wraps his hands around her arms that wrap around him, letting them trail and slither to her hands before lacing them with his as he carries on his conversation with the tech.

Y/N presses a light kiss to his shoulder, patiently waiting as he speaks, not in any rush to pull him from the conversation.

Once the tech finishes up with Lando, the Brit turns to face his girlfriend. A goofy smile on his face as he wraps his arms around her figure. He looks down at her, placing a light kiss on her lips.

"Hi baby," he mutters softly against her lips. She grins against them.

"Hello, my love. How're you feeling?"

He shrugs, pulling back enough to look down at her as he rubs her back lovingly. "Pretty good. Pretty confident. Starting off high up after Qualifier for Canada is always a good sign. I think this will be a good one," he explains, Y/N nodding as she takes in every word.

"You got it, I feel it too. Gonna be a good one."

He hums at her, giving her a look. "Hm I don't think you should be telling me that," he jokes. "Sounding like a traitor to your own team."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Let me just my loving boyfriend goodluck on a race he needs, yeah? How's that?"

He chuckles before his eyes flicker to her lips for a second. She presses a couple chaste kisses to his lips after catching him, the boy smiling against her lips.

"Alright," he chuckles as she presses kisses all over his face. He backs away as she teases him, laughs leaving his lips. "Enough, gonna get lip gloss all over my face now."

She gives him a look. "Like you care."

He purses his lips, nodding curtly. "Got me there."

Y/N breaks away from his grip, grabbing his face one more time to press a big kiss on his cheek before backing away. "Goodluck, Norris!" she jokes. He rolls his eyes playfully. "Yeah yeah."

"I love you!"

He smiles widely at her words, blowing a few kisses towards her as he gets handed his helmet.

Y/N chuckles as she makes her way back to the Redbull garage, seeing Max getting his gear ready to go. He looks over towards her, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"You give your Romeo his goodluck kiss?" He jokes, earning a playful shove from her.

"Shut it, Verstappen," she giggles, before pulling him for a hug. "Tear it up out there, yeah? Let's get this shit going."

He scoffs with a smug look before nodding. "It's me we're talking about. Of course I'll come out on top," That answer makes her push him away as they broke their hug, Y/N making her way back over to her spot in the garage.

Before she knew it, the race had started, and the cars were off. Y/N in complete game mode as she kept her eyes on the screen in front of her, cutting in when she needed to with Max.

Things had been smooth so far. McLaren was rocking it with their pole positions to say the least, and Max wasn't too far behind.

Y/N only froze when she had caught sight of both McLaren cars racing against one another, soon watching Lando's car get caught up and crashing into the wall.

It had made her chest tighten, and her stomach drop to her ass. She felt some of her coworkers look her way, waiting for a reaction from her. Y/N only sitting there in her chair, hands covering her mouth in shock as she watches it unfold.

The girl couldn't move. Not only because she was frozen. But they were still in the middle of a race.

As much as she wanted to drop everything and go make sure he was okay, she still had her job to do. She knew he'd understand that.

"Y/N, he's okay. All good. No injuries," Max's voice comes in, as if knowing she would immediately drift over to thinking about him. He was anchoring her back, making sure she knew he would be able to assure her to snap back into race mode.

She nods more to herself, muttering a 'thank you, keep pushing' to Max through the radio.

Her knee bounced the rest of the race, not wasting a second to stand up straight from her spot to join the crew over where Max met them as he finished P2.

Max immediately went to Y/N first, seeing both freight about Lando and excitement in her eyes for her best friend placing, in her eyes. He could tell she was in a mental battle.

So he says nothing, just gives her a tight smile and pulls her into his arms. She doesn't hesitate to hug him back, placing a friendly kiss on his head. "Still a good spot to place," she says, her tone uneasy. "That's worth something."

He chuckles before breaking away from her, his eyes looking down at her antsy state.

He nods towards the garages.

"Go find him," he says, making her snap up and look at him.

"What-"

"Go make sure he's okay. I can read you better than you think."

She gives him a sad smile, kissing his cheek before squeezing her way past people and darting straight to the McLaren garage.

Her eyes search through the crowd of reporters already over there, seeing that Lando was interviewing with one. His face showed nothing but a blank state, trying to make it look as neutral as possible.

Y/N makes her way towards the side of the garage, managing to squeeze by the reporters, watching as Lando finishes with his interviews. He starts to walk back towards his Driver's room, Y/N following cautiously behind him.

By the way he was walking, she could tell he was pissed off and disappointed.

He shuts the door behind him, Y/N stopping it before it can fully slam, before slipping inside. It clicks behind her, the girl saying his name softly as she approached him.

He huffs as he leans against the desk in the middle of the room, Y/N seeing he was trying to not lose it.

"Lan," she says once more, her arms coming out to reach for him. "I'm not going to ask how you are, I know you hate that."

He scoffs at her words, nodding and still remaining silent.

"I'm sorry. I know how bad you want it," she assures, trying to be cautious of her words. Her hands softly make contact with his back, running her nails up his spine.

It's not too long after he immediately snaps up and away from her touch, walking to the other side of the room.

She frowns at first, but just turns her body to watch his figure walk towards his closet. "You can talk to me," she says. "Say anything to get it out of your system. I'm here to listen."

He shook his head. "Stop."

Her brows furrowed. "Lando I'm just-"

"No, just stop," he snaps back at her. His head snapped over to glare at her over his shoulders. Y/N just nods, understanding he doesn't want to talk. "I'm sorry," she mutters.

So instead, she just advances towards him, beginning to wrap her arms around him. He doesn't hesitate to rip her arms off of him and turn to face her.

"Y/N fucking stop, enough! Stop touching me!" he yells at her, the tone he was using was something she had never heard him use on her before. This was the first time he had ever raised his voice at her.

"I'm sorry. Lando, I swear I was just trying to help-"

"Well don't! I don't want to talk about it, or have you always clinging onto me," he shoots, making her eyes harden. "It's fucking too much. You're too much."

"Excuse me?" she asks softly. "You always tell me my touch helps calm you down."

"Well I lied," he snaps, making her face drop. "You're always hovering. You're fucking suffocating me."

Y/N swears her heart drops.

Was she really making him feel that way?

"You're always fucking touch me, fuck," he huffs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't need this right now. You need to leave, or I'm gonna say some fucked up shit."

Y/N nods, trying her best to keep her composure. "You already did."

Lando's eyes soften as he finally turns to look at her. He sees that her eyes are glossed over with tears, but her stance and stare are harsh.

"I'm too much? That's fine," she scoffs before heading to the door, not even aware that tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"Y/N wait-"

"Feel better, Lando," she sniffles. "I hope you know you don't need to be so down on yourself."

With that, she shuts his door with a light slam and scurries her way out of the garage. Her head is down as she excuses herself past people, wiping away the wetness on her face.

Once she's back in the Redbull garage, she doesn't hesitate to make her way back towards the staircase to the offices, heading to the second floor.

She misses the way Max sees her walking in, his proud smile dropping immediately as he sees her red and blotchy face.

He excuses himself from the last of his interviews, immediately following her hurried steps. When he reaches the top of the steps he feels his heart tighten, hearing her break down into sobs behind her office door.

Max doesn't waste any time opening the door, Y/N whipping around to see him standing there.

His face falls, making his way towards her.

"Don't," she says shakily, wrapping her arms around herself. He furrows his brows, but stops in his tracks.

"What happened?" he asked her. She shook her head slowly, closing her eyes as she felt her heart break. Her chest burned as her head replayed Lando's tone. His words.

"Y/N," Max presses, a more stern tone and hard expression. "What happened?"

Y/N says nothing, just sniffling before her eyes meet Max's. The next words that leave her mouth nearly make his knees give out.

"Am I really too much? Do I suffocate people?"

Max tilts his head, confused by her words. He steps closer to her, not caring if she tries to push him away. Her words slowly starting to click in his head.

She was thinking she was clingy.

"Y/N no," he softly answers, immediately pulling her in for a tight hug. His arms encircled her entire body as he felt her body shake. "Absolutely not. You're never suffocating. You love so physically. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Then why does Lando think that?"

Oh, if he didn't have a reputation to hold, he would've easily left that room and made Lando run for his money.

He'd do it regardless, actually.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I don't mean to be. I just wanted to help him. I'm sorry," she sniffles in between hiccups.

Max shushes her softly, taking one of his hands and caressing her head. His other hand stays wrapped tightly around her waist. His mind was going a million miles a minute.

Y/N was always the strong one between the two. She never cried. It just wasn't something she did. It was rare, and Max would know that.

So the fact that Lando had made her cry spoke volumes in his mind.

Lando had a lot of explaining to do, and Max wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it.

Not after this.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 3)

This chapter is mainly Baby (Beom) oriented!) THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT! I think this ones a little longer!(my tag list IS closed but you can follow the post in order to receive updates on when i make edits!! So sorry!)

Part 1 Part 2

To Y/N’s surprise, the Saja Boys were actually a talented bunch. Although, she wasn’t sure how much of it was raw talent or made by demonic power. 

The tired girl had finished up the lyrics, allowing Baby and Romance to write with her. She had ingrained into them that, if they used their fake charm on her, she would withdraw her offer and leave them to rot. Y/N despised flattery, it was a candy trail for those, foolish enough to pick up a piece of poisoned candy.

‘Huh, you really make it obvious. “Gotta drink every drop.”? I might as well tell them I'm a demon.’ Jinu sneered, with his hand over one headphone as he listened to the demo Y/N had drafted. His words, however sharp, bounced off Y/N as she noticed a small detail in Jinu’s behaviour.

‘Your shoulders are dancing.’ Y/N grinned cheekily, her chin resting on her balled fist.

‘I didn’t say it was bad.’ Jinu grumped, bopping his head to the beat. ‘Abel was right, you do have talent.’

‘Why thank you Jinu.’

‘Y/N?’ A voice called out, ‘For the rap, can you help me with some of my lyrics?’ Baby grasped Y/N’s hand delicately, as if unsure.

‘Hm? Yeah.’ Y/N slipped out of her chair, inconspicuously removing her fingers from Baby’s grip. She wasn’t sure how much of him was actually shy, and the other just a sarcastic mock of the industry’s infantilisation of idols.

‘Let me know if you want anything changed, Jinu.’ Y/N patted the older man on the shoulder quickly before moving over to sit with the youngest of the bunch. 

Jinu watched on with a familiar feeling in his chest.

Envy.

Greed.

Jinu blinked, quickly jerking his gaze away from Y/N and his youngest friend. Was he jealous? What for? His eyes narrowed, sneaking a glance at the pair again.

Y/N and Baby, were leaned over Y/N’s notebook, chattering animatedly. Baby, actually seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

‘Hey, wait, these are actually really good, kid!’ Y/N laughed, ruffling the hair of the youngest. The boy in return grumbled, red cheeked, battering Y/N’s hand away.

‘I’m over two hundred years old.’ He slumped over, laying his head on the cool marble table.

‘Huh, y’know sometimes I forget.’ She mused, looking at Baby’s now messy hair. 

‘Is this actually you writing or you guys using your powers.’

‘I was a poet before I took a deal with Gwi-ma. My name was Beom.’ He hummed, looking at the notebook, tapping the pen on his cheek.

‘I see! It really shows. You have really good flow as well.’ Y/N smiled, leaning back, forgetting that the stool had no backing.

‘Watch it.’ Jinu’s arm wrapped around her waist securely. His gaze was… conflicted? When did he move from the set up to the kitchen table?

Jinu was stuck between wanting her to fall and wanting to wrap her up to keep her safe. He could feel the heat of her skin through her thin shirt.

‘Holy crap, thanks Jinu. I forgot about these chairs. I don’t usually sit here, I don’t really have people over a lot.’ Y/N’s sentence drifted off, as she realised how sad that sentence sounded.

‘I mean, you’ll be stuck with us for a while.’ Beom smiled nervously, looking at the girl with hopeful eyes.

‘Yeah, this song will take me less than three days. I mean, look at your writing! It’s been less than two hours and you’re already almost done with your lyrics!’ Y/N praised, forgetting for a split moment that she was talking to a demon.

‘Thanks Y/N.’ Beom beamed, standing up and gathering his notes. ‘I’m going to go practice with the music!’

‘Alrighty kid, let me know if you need anything.’ Y/N called, watching the man’s blue hair bounce slightly as he ran over to join Romance, Mystery, and Abel.

‘Why are you pretending to be nice to them?’ Jinu sounded irritated, his voice was filled with aggression. 

‘Huh? I’m not pretending to be nice. In fact, I actively claim to be a rude and disagreeable person.’ Y/N crossed her arms, at his accusatory tone. Why was he being so rude to her? He was at least somewhat nice to Rumi in the movie. Maybe, even kind.

‘Yeah well, I can see that.’ Jinu bit back, staring at her with a similar stance.

‘Look Jinu, I don’t know what your problem is, but I'm helping you at the moment so the least you can do is be nice to me. Or in the least, be agreeable.’ She spun around, picking up her note book and standing. ‘I get that I’m not pretty like the rest of Huntr/x but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad when you treat me differently.’

‘Who said I thought you weren’t pretty?’ He frowned, looking confused. ‘I’m an asshole, not blind.’ 

Y/N  waved him off, seemingly seeing through his lie.

‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere. I’m not stupid Jinu. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to hate me.’

‘But I-’ 

‘Let's go over the lyrics. Is there anything you want me to change? Do you want line distribution done by you or by me?’ Y/N picked up a pen, changing the topic so quickly it almost gave Jinu whiplash.

‘Uh…’

‘Well, Jinu was a singer before we became like this. He should have the most lines.’ Abel hummed, leaning over Y/N’s shoulder. 

‘I think we can take care of line distribution. Did you wanna change anything?’ Abel smiled as he continued. ‘I think we’re ready to record!’

Y/N nodded at the taller man before turning to look back at Jinu.

‘Is there anything you wanted me to look at Jinu? Or did you wanna start recording?’ Y/N tilted her head, a habit she had picked up from leaning to listen to Bobby ramble during loud Huntr/x concerts.

‘No, they look good. Let's start recording.’ Jinu looked at the hand that Abel had placed on the small of Y/N’s back, guiding her towards her set up. Why did he feel heat spreading through his chest? An uncomfortable burning that set him aflame with this... resentment. 

--

The recording lasted only two other hours, but the mixing and mastering lasted the rest of the night. Y/N ended up with eyebags and heavy eyelids as she finished up using her pitch corrector and adjusting the mixer levels to be within industry standards. She slumped down the back of her chair as she pressed export, sending it to be downloaded onto her desktop.

‘ ‘m done.’ She mumbled, closing her eyes as she slid off her noise cancelling headphones. The boys had decided to stay in her apartment to figure out the choreography. Of course, being demons meant they didn’t have to sleep so they actually could spend hours upon hours doing whatever suited them.

Honestly though, Y/N was surprised that they actually came up with their own choreography. She had thought it was just some spell the demons had cast to make it easier. 

‘Wow, that was fast!’ Romance commented.

‘Can we hear it?’ Mystery asked, leaning to rest his forearms on Y/N’s seat from above.

‘Mm.’ Y/N mumbled laying her head on her crossed arms and ignored the boys. She was getting too old for these all-nighters. She could feel the youth drain out of her body as she closed her eyes. 

‘Oh oh! Me first!’ She could hear the boys squabbling over who got to hear the finalised version first. The voices began to drown out, as Y/N drifted into a silent sleep. Blocking out the noise from the conscious world. Whenever she overworked, she tended to pass out completely rendering her useless to the rest of the world. Not even alarm clocks would wake her up. Several times, Bobby had to come into her apartment and rouse her from sleep. It was why he had a spare key card. He wanted to make sure Y/N was alive during the weeks where they were preparing for a new album.

‘Be quiet.’ Jinu hushed the group, looking at Y/N, hearing her slowed, steady breaths. 

‘She’s asleep. Y/N’s been working on this the whole night.’ He said slowly, eyes tracing over her slowly rising shoulders.

‘Right. Should we leave her here or?’ Beom kneeled down to look up at Y/N’s sleeping face. He made a mental note of how Y/N’s eyelashes fluttered when her eyes moved behind her closed lids.

‘I’ll carry her back to her room. Keep practicing the choreo, just make sure you’re quiet.’  Jinu kneeled, delicately slipping his hands under Y/N’s knees and wrapping a protective arm around her neck. He stood with little effort, his demon strength aiding him in carrying Y/N.

He nudged a door open, decorated with sound proofing foam with his foot, peeking around to see if it were her room. He hummed in amusement, spotting pages of writing on the floor, scattered in a semi readable pattern.

‘So you’re a work-aholic, huh?’ He whispered, laying Y/N down on her back. The room was relatively clean despite the lyric sheets scattered on the floor. It looked like she spent more time in her set up than in her room.

Y/N groaned, as she rolled over in the bed, hunching over.

‘Cold?’ Jinu mumbled, shifting Y/N’s legs so he could grab the comforter and lay it over the sleeping girl. He watched as Y/N’s face smoothed, relaxing under the light pressure of her blanket. 

A rush of warmth.

What? Since when did he feel anything but rage and shame. He had feelings, but none of them ever felt so…

So tranquil, as if it were lulling him into a gentle embrace.

No.

He didn’t have time for that. Jinu needed his memories gone so he could move on with his life. He was sure that he could find a way to leave Gwi-ma’s hold, he just had to get past his first hurdle. 

‘Who cares if you’re pretty or not. I’m not shallow enough to think that’s what matters.’ He muttered, turning around before pausing. 

‘And I never said you weren’t pretty.’ He added, before stepping quietly out of the room. Jinu returned to the living room after closing Y/N’s door, watching his friends practice their new choreography.

‘Is she asleep?’ Mystery asked, pausing the music as he spotted Jinu stalking back towards them with a sour face.

‘Yeah, let’s get to work.’ Jinu nodded, taking his position in the formation. ‘Abel did you figure out the entire dance?’

‘That's right.’ Abel looked proud, his thumb pointing toward his chest. ‘Y’think Y/N will like it?’ 

‘She doesn’t have to like it. It’s about whether or not the people will. We’re stealing the fans.’

‘I think it would be nice if Y/N also liked the dance.’ Beom rolled his eyes, sassing the leader.

‘She isn’t important. We’re just using her to make sure we can steal Huntr/x’s fans and get Gwi-ma his souls.’ Jinu stated firmly, As if trying to convince himself of his own statement. He pressed play, resuming the music on the computer.

‘There's no need to be mean about it.’ The purple haired man hummed, before falling into position with the rest of the group.

‘Enough. We have two days left to have this choreo down. Let's start rehearsing.’

A soft melody of whistling, and popfunk synth filled the night, accompanied by shuffling footsteps and quiet singing. Y/N remained fast asleep as the boys practiced well into the morning, each man making sure to be as quiet as possible to keep from waking their new producer and writer. 

-

Y/N winced as she stretched her complaining joints, creaking in protest. She sat up, rubbing her sleep filled eyes, looking around at the new scenery. Huh, she was in her room. Last she remembered, she was laying her head down on her desk after finishing Soda Pop. The tired girl roused herself from the bed, shrugged on a random jumper and opened her door.

A soft whump as the boys landed on their feet into their ending pose.

‘Huh, that's lookin’ good!’ Y/N cocked her head, an approving smile lighting up her face. ‘Wanna show me the number from the top?’ 

Pressing play, Y/N watched the boys easily slide into their beginning poses and begin their song from the top. It was extremely impressive, the way Jinu’s voice was almost an exact one to one of the recording. His stage presence was evident, even in her very own living room. Mystery had an incredibly sweet voice, whilst Romance had a round, upbeat one. Coupled with Beom’s deep voice and Abel’s boyish charm, the group meshed into a force to be reckoned with.

Huntr/x really did have some competition. But Y/N was sure that she would be able to figure out a way to stop Gwi-ma from slipping through the Honmoon. 

She’d find a way.

‘Thoughts?’ Jinu grinned, his chest heaving from exertion. 

‘If you guys weren’t trying to take over the world, I’d actually consider taking you on as personal clients.’ Y/N smirked, turning around to switch off the music. 

‘A couple more times and I think you guys have it down to perfection.’ She laughed, turning her chair to open up her browser.

‘Watcha doing?’ Beom walked over, dragging another gaming chair with him. Y/N kept several of those for whenever she had HUntr/x over.

‘I’m gonna send you guys the file so you can upload it. That way you can also have it in your respective phones.’ Y/N hummed, logging into her email.

‘What's your email?’ 

A pause.

‘Do you guys even have phones?’ Y/N blinked, turning back to face the boys.

‘Yeah, here I’ll give you mine, Beom nodded enthusiastically, putting his phone on the table in front of Y/N. 

‘Alrighty Beom, I’ll send it over to you. After this, I’m going to get breakfast. Are you guys gonna go home?’ Y/N clicked away on her screen, typing in the details of Beom’s email.

‘We’ll get breakfast for you.’ Mystery called out, already walking away towards the elevator. The rest of the boys besides Beom walked towards the door.

‘Beom will stay here with you.’ Jinu clarified, walking towards the door that led to the stairs.

‘Hey Abel, do you think you could out run me on the stairs while I took the elevator?’ Jinu struck up a challenge in a prodding tone.

A challenge that Abel jumped on.

‘Oh, you’re on.’ Abel flung open the door and rushed down the stairs. The pattering off feet on stairs diminished slowly, echoing off the stairwell.

Jinu however, strolled leisurely back to the elevator door and pushed the button. He met Y/N’s confused stare with a confident smile and said, 

‘He's the biggest one and I wanted more space. Y’know how it goes.’ He walked into the elevator doors as they opened, whilst Romance and Mystery gave small chuckles, shaking their heads.

‘We’ll see you soon Y/N.’ Romance waved as the doors closed.

The girl slowly side-eye'd Beom and pressed send on the email she had written.

‘So, is there anything else you wanted me to do?’ Y/N spun around in her chair lazily, allowing the inertia of her spinning chair to keep her entertained.

‘No not really. Although, I do want to say that, I saw another song in your notebook.’ Beom’s eyes followed Y/N’s spinning figure.

‘Wait what?’ Y/N slammed her hands on the table, grasping at her notebook.

‘Did you write that for us?’ Beom’s tone was inquisitive.

And there it was. The back bone of ‘Your Idol’ written out in the notebook. When had she written this?

‘I… It’s not finished.’ She gazed into the book, as if in a trance. 

‘It looks pretty cool! I hope that I can hear it one day.’ Beom shrugged, leaning back on his chair.

‘So, a poet huh? What made you choose that path?’ Y/N closed her notebook, setting it aside. She wanted to change the subject, and fast. ‘Your Idol’ wasn’t meant to be written already and if she were being honest, she wanted to avoid the story plot advancing to that stage.

‘Yeah, my father was a court official in the palace. They wanted me to become a scholar and follow his footsteps.’ His eyes were glazed over, staring out the glass window.

‘Yet, all I wanted to do was write. I wanted to make words flow into a beautiful stream, to be read and understood by all.’ He continued, smiling slightly before his eyes came back into focus.

‘But my father disapproved.’ Beom's gaze hardened and his jaw was set.

‘He wanted me to be just like him. A cunning, snivelling leach who kissed the feet of the emperor. So I took a deal with Gwi-ma. That I’d give him my soul and in return, I would be a well known writer, famous enough to sustain myself and my mother.’ Beom’s hands were clutched in tight fists.

‘And so?’ Y/N prompted cautiously, leaning over, elbows on her knees, resting her head on her open palms.

‘It was amazing at first. People paid to hear my poems, they came from all over the country. But then the patterns started. And they kept spreading until Gwi-ma took me into the underworld.’ Beom’s patterns flashed, his form glitching for a split second into his true image.

‘He took you?’ 

‘Yes. Just like he took Jinu and the rest of the boys. I guess he wanted to use us somehow. Gwi-ma always takes back the favours he’s owed. It’s part of the reason we’re here.’ Beom sighed, shaking his head as if to clear away thoughts, clouding his mind.

‘But even here, we can still hear him. Telling us we aren’t enough. That we deserve nothing and that without him, we’d be rotting in the dirt.’ Beom smiled bitterly, looking up at Y/N through his lashes.

‘Well that's simply untrue.’ Y/N laughed, sliding her chair closer to Beom’s side.

‘I think you would have been successful, even if you didn’t take that deal. I mean look at your own writing! I’m a harsh critic, trust me. But you wrote these lyrics in such little time and they’re actually good!’ Y/N gently placed a hand over Beom’s shoulder, in a comforting motion. 

A spark. 

Just like before.

A jolt of white blue electricity, emanating from her fingertips into Beom’s skin, Illuminating his patterns. Y/N slowly took her hand away, watching the boy’s patterns rippled, amalgamating with the white blue light.

‘How did you…’ Beom stood abruptly, splaying his hands, flexing his fingers. ‘My patterns, they… You made them shine.’ He looked utterly stunned.

‘Um… I don’t know?-’

‘My head!’ Beom raised a shaky hand toward his forehead. ‘I can’t hear him. I can’t hear Gwi-ma. How is that possible?’ His eyes snapped to Y/N, yet there was not an ounce of malice in his gaze.

‘I’m still me, but I can’t hear him! Do you think he could still call me back? Does he still have control over me? I have GOT to tell the others.’ Beom hurriedly pulled out his phone, typing away a message possibly to a groupchat of the Saja Boys.

‘No, wait. Don’t’ Y/N grasped at Beom’s wrist. ‘You can’t tell them. If Jinu finds out, he won’t be happy.’ She reasoned, whilst lowering Beom’s hand.

‘That's true… He still wants his memories erased. You’re right.’ Beom nodded, sitting back down, placing his phone back in his pocket.

‘But how did you do it? Is it permanent?!’ He rambled on eagerly, like a puppy that had just found a new toy.

‘I’m not sure honestly. I mean, I was meant to be a hunter but… I can’t manifest a weapon. Maybe it has something to do with that?’ Y/N raised one eyebrow, turning her hands to splay her palms. She scrutinized each line on her palm, wondering if she could control whatever it was.

‘Well whatever, I’ll keep your secret Y/N.’ Beom softly wrapped his hands around Y/N’s and lifted her left hand. ‘Just promise me you won’t think too badly about Jinu?’

Y/N looked up, bewildered at the sudden mention of Jinu.

‘He’s not actually a bad person. He just… He wants to forget his mistakes. I know it seems selfish but it’s been four hundred years. Jinu barely talks to us about it. I think that's what’s slowly eating away at him.’ Beom explained, releasing Y/N’s hand and leaning back on his chair.

‘I think he just has to accept his actions. But it’s easier said than done. His mistake cost him his family. The rest of us didn’t actually leave anything behind, so we don’t understand how he feels.’ Beom continued, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t help that he hears Gwi-ma the most. He’s been with Gwi-ma the longest so Jinu’s already so heavily under that old man's influence.’ 

‘I see.’ Y/N let out a short snort. ‘But I don’t think he’s going to talk about it with me to be honest. He very clearly hates me.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Beom looked floored, as if this were a new revelation.

‘Um, hello? He insults me whenever he sees an opportunity? He never smiles around me and lets not mention that he accused me of being fake.’ Y/N rolled her eyes, slumping down in her chair.

‘Jinu’s just like that. He’s blunt and prickly, but that's how he protects himself, and us. But, Y/N I think, he doesn’t hate you. He genuinely thinks you're talented! And, he was the first one by your side when you collapsed last night on the street.’

‘Huh..’ 

‘Yep! Jinu doesn’t hate you.’

Y/N was about to retort as the elevator dinged happily, the doors revealing three of the boys, the same ones as before.

‘Huh, where’s-’

‘AH HAH.’ Abel cried out, flinging the stairwell door open. ‘See? I can make it up the stairs at the same time. I'M A BEAST.’ 

‘Oh honey…’ Y/N stifled a chuckle behind her fist.

Part 4

Tag list: @ajunoiseee @silverklaus @thesimppotato11 @devilchicc @imlost-sendhelp @tumblblob @arieslucy @maybeethan69 @t4naiis @6demonica9 @suzieq1948374 @katzline @justyourlocalfriendlydinosaur @1950schick @myjerseygirlblog @sky2lar @itsjustkhaos @nevermorekisses @valeriele3 @yoongi-tunes @reibelhearts @satansdaughter123 @iheartyourgrandpa @justanindiangirl12 @uniquecutie-puffs @xyndyn @akiqvq @brightestflame @vivian-555 @oscars-wifeyyy @maybeethan69 @violetraccoon-4 @kanaes-world @chaos-inperson @ermespop @hisashifrey @venommie @booakaisha @lyunsafebubble @mimiu3usoft @doodle-with-rhy @lycemagee @sightofaghost @polinazavialova @singlepringle4you @reallynotsoconfident @confusedparticle @blackstar-gazer @gl00muraaii @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @marley1773 @poem-bee @girlypopmymelody @deyshayk14 @mysticalpandora @crescent-z @mothraantics @baby-bread-in @bubbabobabubbles @needsleep3000 @strayharmony943 @frootloopscos @briceericeee @n1ght5h4d3-24 @portrait-ninja @yucanbmylxdy @tatsuri-zomushiki @zoeyella1-4 @tanspostsblog @pixiedustaddictsblog @smoophie @leaheclipse @st3f13ily @odessa-is-my-queen @kyouzki @truth-snake @centavosmisteryoso11cent1 @dragongirl642 @moonymoo1 @cocastyle

[kukinkrim]

Hiii💗

I was wondering if you could do headcannons of the Saja boys with a demon s/o that’s a little weirdo? Like maybe she has a very odd hyper fixation like embalming, poisons, spirits, etc. She could be a little eerie looking, still pretty but theirs just something off. Maybe one of the boys hears their fans bashing the reader on her interests or appearance and instantly shut in down publicly?

the tales of five demon boys & their delightfully disturbing lovers

saja boys x gn!demon!reader (separate)

note: they ended up longer than i inteded TT i'm getting used to writing hcs, sorry!

jinu + a spirit-whisperer s/o

when jinu first met you, he was convinced you were possessed. like actually.

demons are evil and weird—he included, of course, he has his own fair share of hobbies. but you were different

you would mutter in latin to the air and say things like “don’t step there—he hates being walked through.”

sometimes you would stop mid-conversation to stare at something in the air and say, “can you not breathe down my neck right now?”

jinu can't see them, which makes it all the more scary.

how can a demon be scared of ghosts? he doesn't know.

but jinu fell inlove still.

and your spirit friends actually, genuinely, liked him.

their approval gives him pride, like he was asking your parents to court you.

jinu thinks your quirks that humans deemed 'weird' were what made you all the more beautiful.

he never found you weird.

not once. not even when you left cups of tea in the hallway and whispered to empty rooms like you were tucking invisible children into bed. if anything, it made the world feel less lonely.

most people said the word ghost with fear in their voices.

you said it like family. and jinu was welcomed into that little family of yours.

jinu had grown used to hearing you talk to the air. to them. like bakunawa, the ancient spirit who refused to sit unless the tea was boiling, steam hissing. or gertrude, an old lady, who hovered around his lover like a protective auntie, brushing your hair when you fell asleep.

sometimes, he’d catch glimpses—just shapes and flickers of movement. but it was your stories that brought them to life.

he'd make you tea and listen. no judgment. he listens and gets to know the spirits you were so fond of.

because in your world—between the living and the dead—you were never alone.

and neither was he. h had grown to love them, too.

but it was only a matter of time before his fans knew of your existence. not that he was hiding you deliberately, but kpop fans were just whole other level of nightmare to control.

he wasn’t even sure how they found you.

regardless, the storm hit fast.

your face was everywhere, and the nickname "spirit freak" was trending.

“they need help.”

“jinu’s dating a that freak??”

“is he being posessed because why them? that's so creepy.”

“someone check his house for ouija boards.”

the worst ones weren't just mocking. they quickly turned violent. threats. doxxing. they managed to catch wind of your cellphone number and blew up your notifications with nonstop threats that made you feel disgusted.

mortals were scarier than ghosts; demons, even.

they didn't faze you, of course. you are a decade older than the rest of this sorry population. you wouldn't stoop so low as to dignify their taunts with any more response—you don't care much.

but jinu cares alot more than you realized.

he didn’t go online. he didn’t tweet, didn’t post, didn’t stream.

everyone thinks it's because he was weighing his options. that, or he finally woke up from this 'nightmare' of a relationship—according to his fans.

but what the public didn't know was that he spent three weeks studying defamation laws, cybercrime statutes, digital harassment ordinances. he skipped meals to do his research thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned.

he compiled every tweet, every handle, every traceable threat; especially those that were sent to your phone.

when the lawsuits dropped, the media exploded

“Multiple Pride Fans Facing Court Action from SAJA BOYS's Jinu’s Legal Team.”

he didn’t post a statement.

he didn’t need to.

his silence did all the talking.

abby + an embalmer s/o

you're a 10/10 but owns 5 vintage embalming kits and a preserved raven in your entryway.

when abby first visited your home it smelled like clove oil and faint formaldehyde.

abby once asked if that was a perfume, only to be surprised of the answer.

the shock wore off quick, though, because he didn't really understand what it really is and what it was for. "what's a floramahehaye?"

abby actually likes your job. he doesn't care about humans so it didn't really faze him when you knew of your occupation and hobbies.

if anything, he would volunteer sometimes when you're studying about human anatomy.

mostly because his abs, his proud and joy, fascinated you so much.

he's very smug about it actually.

as a demon, you spent most of your early existence buried deep within the earth’s crust, surrounded by a screaming fire lord and lava rivers and imps who couldn’t didn't have anything more to do than wallow in despair. you didn’t like hell—everyone doesn't. it was too loud, too hot, too full of shame. but you were used to it.

until you started watching humans.

they were delicate. complicated. tender. they lived fast and rotted faster.

you wanted to understand them.

so, naturally… when you were given the chance to stay on the surface, you took a job where you could open them up and study what they left behind.

embalming was never about death. to you, it was about learning. it was preserving. honoring the shell left behind.

your coworkers thought you were a little off. not that you would blame though. your uncanny precision, your fascination with each organ’s texture, your absolute indifference to that iron smell—but you never let it bother you.

and abby doesn't too.

your first time meeting, you were shamelessly staring and he absolutely drank that attention up.

he was unnaturally pretty. not like “idol pretty,” more like if the concept of youth itself hit the gym. broad shoulders, pretty mouth, lashes long enough to dust a corpse’s cheek, and those godsent, chiseled, mouth-watering abs.

you didn’t mean to fall in love.

and when you once murmured your confession, “i wonder what your heart looks like outside of your ribcage,” he just grinned and said, “kinda sweet. kinda terrifying. i'd give it to you if i could, though.”

he never made you feel like a freak.

so when fans found out who you were. when your job, your calling, became the butt of every joke online—it crushed him.

it started with a leaked photo. you, in your lab coat, smiling serenely as you adjusted a body’s jaw. it was taken out of context and plastered everywhere.

“abby’s lover is a corpse freak???”

“THEY HANDLE DEAD PEOPLE FOR FUN.”

“what happened to dating normal people.”

“wouldn't be surprised if abby's dead one day with an open stomach lolol. what a freak."

the comments weren’t just cruel. they were invasive. some found your workplace and showed up outside, calling you all the names on the book.

you nearly lost your job.

abby didn’t wait for the PR team to draft an apology. apology for what? he wasn't sorry for loving you. he ignored the company meetings taht called to him for damage control.

and three days later, at the next fansign, he arrived wearing a tight white t-shirt.

on the front, in bold red gothic lettering: "EMBALM ME, MOMMY."

and on the below it is a large, flattering photo of your face—taken when you weren’t looking. probably in your embalming room. you had a scalpel in one hand and a slight smile on your lips. you looked beautiful.

mystery + a poison-obsessed s/o

your kitchen looked like a potion lab. bottles of liquid with caution plastered all over them.

your kisses sometimes tasted like bitter almonds or lemon balm.

you have a garden in your backyard solely for growing herbs.

you labeled your garden beds like “mild paralysis” and “emotional support toxicity."

he liked it.

sometimes he’d join you, fingers brushing yours as you crushed petals into paste.

mystery: you drank WHAT?

you, grinning: only a sip. i just wanted to know if it numbed my tongue—turns out, it does!

true to his name, he would sometimes ask you to let him taste some of them too

mystery wasn’t sure when it became normal to wake up to the smell of crushed wolfsbane and jasmine tea.

he just knew that when he saw your apron covered in petal dust and your fingers stained faintly green, it felt like home.

you were strange.

you were a poisoner.

not an assassin—just a curious one. a demon with a flair for toxicology and herbal pharmacology. you’d been alive for centuries and tasted everything from heavenly herbs that made angels cry to the extract of a root so potent it made your vision turn sideways for a week.

he once caught you licking a leaf, then calmly scribbling down symptoms in a leather-bound notebook.

“just tingling this time,” you had mumbled, smiling.

mystery stared at you for ten full seconds before croaking out, "honey, you ingested… all of that?!”

you just blinked, head tilting slightly. "it was for science. science tasted kind of burning though."

he nearly died of a heart attack. not from your herbs—just you being you.

but did he ever stop you? no.

he was mystery, after all. and you? you were every dark thrill he never knew he needed.

you were careful, really. but one photo of your windowsill garden—specifically the belladonna and monkshood—somehow surfaced on a gossip account. then someone dug deeper and found your blog; a poison-for-research journal filled with herb tests, absorption rates, even antidote recipes you’d developed yourself.

the internet of course lost its mind.

some fans began speculating even the smallest things like his energy drinks having odd colors and were convinced you were poisoning him slowly.

#SaveMystery

“that freak is literally feeding him poison!”

“they're a murderer, i swear.”

mystery read them out loud with a deadpan face. "they're not exactly wrong though," he comments as he zooms in on a picture his fans posted of his 'odd drink.' "you put wolfsbane here, right? they're exaggerating though. didn't kill me."

you squinted at the picture he was holding up. "oh that? that's just vitamins.”

mystery blinked. "what?"

you chuckled. "you think i'd feed you something dangerous? you big goof. they're all vitamins. ever wondered why your skin is glowing and you're healthy as a baby?"

"what."

mystery felt betrayed that you didn't poison him like he believed you did. in fact, he's so butthurt about it he decided to rant about it on his live.

in the garden, pretending to be sad as he expressed how he was deeply hurt by his lover's actions, ignoring his angry fans that flooded his comments—all the while you were working in the background with your frilly apron, tending to your garden.

"you're all wrong. they aren't poisoning me. in fact, i found out rhey've been sneaking vitamins and immunity boosters into my food this whole time, and i, frankly, feel betrayed that my glowing skin is natural.”

you peeked from behind him, holding something in your hands.

“this one’s elderberry and magnesium. want it in your smoothie?”

he nodded solemnly. “yes, please.”

the fans had long since stopped trying to protect mystery because he clearly doesn't want it. who whines on live about not being poisoned by their lover?

romance + dollmaker s/o

he met you during a fansign when you showed him a picture of your next doll project: the saja boys.

creepy button eyes and sewn mouths, unfinished, but still creepy

thought it was a prank.

realized it wasn’t and said, “nice detail on the jawline.”

perhaps the mini doll of himself that you made was cursed, but it hangs on his bags permanently.

the thing actually purred and he was elated.

he brags about it to his members.

romance had always been used to fans doing bold things. letters written in blood (food coloring, hopefully) life-size cardboard cutouts of him left at hotel lobbies, one girl even proposed with a ring pop.

but nothing—and he means nothing—could’ve prepared him for you.

you arrived at the fansign table dressed sweetly enough, nothing out of the ordinary. fans likes dressing uo for these occassions, it wasn't anythinf new. but what you placed in front of him had romance.exe malfunctioning.

it was a doll. a creepy, uncanny-valley doll. big head, button eyes, sewn lips, and somehow… his exact jawline...?

“is this… me?” romance asked, blinking, and you nodded, excited. “yes! and here’s the rest of your group, but j spent the most time on you. i even added your tattoos!”

at first, he thought it was a prank. maybe, there was joke he missed.

but then you pulled out stitching diagrams. color palettes. handmade clothes. and you started yapping and you just looked so passionatr about it that he couldn't even bring himself to say anything bad.

he eyes the doll, fiddling with its hair. it was very real. and kind of creepy, he swore it would start walking if left in a room alone. but also… he's shockingly flattering?

“i look nice here, actually,” he said, grinning. “perfectly captured my jawline.”

romance hadn’t stopped thinking about you. the dolls were weird—but you weren’t. besides, anyone who paid that much attention to his features? yeah. he doesn't mind one bit.

you were dating quietly, secretly. he loved visiting your apartment—shelves lined with little haunting faces, half-stitched limbs, eyes in jars waiting for placement. dors he find it creepy? absolutely. but your focus, your joy, your pride in every weird little creation?

he loved that even more.

you once handed him a tiny version of himself. a keychain doll. “for luck,” you said. and he has it always, ALWAYS, hanging on his bags. he swore the mini-romance purred when it sat beside the mini-version of you on his nightstand.

if it was a curse, he’d never felt more lucky.

one day, during a casual vlog in his apartment, fans noticed something in the background.

two dolls.

not just any dolls. your dolls, but they didn't know that yet. it was very clearly a couple's item. one of him and one of… someone else. a striking resemblance to a photo they'd seen from an obscure art account.

the internet did its thing.

within hours, fans had connected the dots. your etsy store. your blog with antique doll restorations. they even managed to dig up the blurry photos of you behind him on some vlogs he had carelessly posted.

“that freak collection is dating romance???”

“THEY PUT HIS SOUL IN A DOLL, GUYS.”

“those dolls probably blink at night.”

“they're gonna curse the whole group. watch.”

the hate was immediate and brutal. they called you everything from creep to witch.

the hate had been building for days. rumors of your “witchcraft,” the conspiracy threads claiming you’d stolen romance’s soul and trapped it inside a life-sized doll made of bone dust and silk; they flooded comment sections with hex emojis. fans even speculated you had a whole graveyard in your apartment.

romance merely lets them bark. he let them foam.

and then he announced a solo comeback.

no teaser. no album name. just a picture of his new merch on his account.

on a worn velvet armchair sat the doll. rhe very first one you made. slumped slightly, hands on its lap. it stared directly at the camera.

the photo captures every detail of the doll that he called mini-romance. on his heart was an embroidery of your name in red thread.

"she made me with her hands. now you can hold a piece of me too. preorders now open."

baby + an s/o that loves haunted artifacts

this one? wasn't fazed in the slightest.

he actually liked accompanying you to go store hopping, even if most of the stores you visited were eerie.

he hels you arrange them sometimes.

he would even help you with installing shelves for your little trinkets.

he once caught the porcelain hand on your desk waving at him and he waved back.

baby’s been many things in life. a demon, idol, walking disaster with a voice like sin—uh... that's kinda it, to be honest. but scared? never.

so when he started dating you, the only real shock wasn’t your hobby… it was how into it he got.

your apartment looked like the aftermath of a haunted estate sale—crucifixes, ouija boards sealed in glass cases, dolls missing one eye but “don’t worry, she sees just fine,” and shelves of jars with things inside he doesn't to ask about.

your prized possession? a cracked music box from the 1800s that played by itself at 3 a.m. every third thursday.

“it’s a spiritual warning,” you explained sweetly.

he blinked, shrugging his shoulders as he holds the music box carefully. “well, the melody kinda slaps. mind if i sample it for our next song?"

baby genuinely loved your weirdness.

you’d get excited explaining where your “possessed” trinkets came from, describing the terrifying rumors around each one. he’d nod along, snack in hand, letting you ramble for hours like you were narrating a true crime doc he was deeply invested in.

“this mirror’s from an asylum that burned down.”

“dope.”

“if you stare into it too long, you see your past life.”

“bet mine was hot too.”

baby was actually one of the members who was pretty open about your relationship, which is no wonder why everyonr had been questioning his sanity the moment they first discovered your love for weird and creepy things.

at first, he ignored it. it didn't matter what the public said anyway, he didn't care about them. it didn't seem like you cared either.

“is baby okay?? that room is CURSED.”

“i swear i heard someone singing inside the bathroom.”

“his lover is a witch. or a demon. or both.”

“SOMEONE GET HIM OUT OF THERE.”

but a particular request from you made him sigh. you asked, innocently, so gently, if you could show his fans your trinkets so they wouldn't be so scared.

so, thats why he found himself setting up in the middle of your living room.

the live started with a low hum.

not from the camera, but from the background. something in a jar on that third shelf was vibrating. which is something that happens everyday. the chat doesn't know that though and they were going absolutely nuts.

omg is that the haunted jar?? WHAT IS THAT NOISE who let baby go live unsupervised again IS THAT A DOLL IN THE BACK why is it BLINKING

then baby appeared onscreen—grinning, holding his phone like a microphone. he waved lazily. “sup.”

behind him, your famously haunted living room was in full display. crucifixes, preserved bones, jars that kept rocking about, and many more things that the chat didn't want to see.

he stepped back, then gestured off-camera. “okay, listen up. i brought someone.”

you stepped into view, sheepishly waving at the camera.

baby leaned into the frame again, eyes narrowed in a glare. "they're going to show off their favorite artifacts and your only job is to clap and say good things. you're going to play nice, got it?”

then he retreated to the back, letting you have the spotlight while he crossed his arms, glarimg from behind you.

“okay, babe. show ‘em your favorites. i'll be back here, not getting possessed. probably.”

you brightened.

“okay! first—this is tobias, my favorite mirror.”

[athenalvss]

WHAT DID YOU BUY? (Bruce Wayne!)

Summary: there is a problem in the surveillance system and Bruce isn't responding to the league's messages, so they go looking for him at Wayne Manor.

pairing: Bruce wayne x wife!reader

note: idk I liked the idea of bruce's wife being a bombshell, I'm seriously thinking about doing some sort of series on this topic

open request - Bruce wayne masterlist - hot wife serie

"You know, I don't think he's in trouble," Hal said, arms crossed, staring at the enormous gate of Wayne Manor. "Maybe one of his kids knocked something over on the computer and made a mess."

"Exactly!" Barry exclaimed, pointing at him as if he'd just solved a mystery. "And here we are, ringing the bell like two idiots."

There was strange interference in the global surveillance system. The Tower's sensors indicated a jammed signal coming directly from the Batcomputer. Diana was the first to send Bruce a direct message, one, two, three times. No response.

"It's weird" she had said.

"It's Bruce Wayne" Hal replied. "Weird is normal."

So they decided to act. Better safe than sorry. In less than a minute, they were in Gotham, standing at the entrance to the mansion.

"And Alfred?" Hal asked, ringing the bell again. "He always opens quickly."

"Maybe he's on vacation? Seeing the Caribbean?" Barry offered. Hal glared at him.

Diana, standing with her arms crossed, said nothing. Her expression was serene but alert.

Soft footsteps echoed behind the door until it opened, was this heaven?

You opened the door. You were barefoot, wearing a black silk robe loosely tied at the waist, the fine fabric leaving little to the imagination. Your hair was loose, a little messy compared to how they usually see you, and it fell over your shoulders. Your eyes were a little glossy, as were your lips, and you had that soft voice they'd already known... but never so closely.

"Is something wrong?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, as if the sight of two League members at your door wasn't at all strange.

It took Hal three seconds to blink. Barry made a sound that didn't sound human. Diana, thankfully, took back control. "Is Bruce available? There was a glitch in the Batcomputer signal. We're trying to contact him."

"Ah... yeah, I guess," you said, reaching up to straighten your robe, which clearly didn't help anyone's concentration. "I was using the Batcomputer... Bruce wanted to get me a present, and the computer there is really fast. Luckily, I was able to buy the lingerie I wanted."

Barry rolled his eyes at the ceiling as if that would save him. Hal blinked twice. Nothing changed. You were still there. In that robe. In that voice. With that damn confidence that made everything feel even worse. How could you talk about lingerie shopping in front of them so casually?

"And you shut down the system?" Diana asked, with the calmness of someone already accustomed to these situations.

"Maybe" you acknowledged with a half smile, lowering your gaze for just a second. "I'm not a big fan of Bruce's operating system. I shut everything down, and well... apparently I blocked an entire global surveillance network."

"And Bruce?" Diana asked, just as calmly.

"He went back to sleep" you replied. "He was up late... work stuff. You guys understand."

"Work, for sure" Hal repeated, without thinking.

You raised an eyebrow. "What else would we do until late, Hal?"

Hal opened his mouth to reply, but Barry jabbed him with an elbow so hard he nearly knocked him off balance. “Nothing! Nothing! You were probably working. You guys… do that. Work. A lot. All the time,” Barry said, his smile strained, his ears red to the roots.

Diana sighed with a hint of resignation and began to enter the house without waiting for further authorization. "We better check quickly. We don't want to interrupt... Bruce's rest."

"Oh, don't worry," you said sweetly as you moved away from the door frame. "He doesn't sleep much."

Just then, Bruce appeared at the top of the stairs. Shirtless. Hair all messed up. And a glare straight at Barry and Hal. "What are you doing here?"

“We thought you were in danger,” Barry said, seeming to evaporate.

Bruce stepped down slowly, crossing his arms. "I'm not in danger. What's in danger is your continued presence in this house."

You giggled, walking casually toward him. You stopped beside him and smoothed his hair, not caring about any witnesses.

"Sorry, love, I opened the door for you. I thought it was Alfred."

Diana, flawless as ever, continued, “The Batcomputer showed a signal of interference. You weren’t responding. We came to make sure you were okay.”

Bruce took another step down. His eyes slid toward you. “Was that you?”

"I'm sorry, love. I accidentally locked everything" you said, your voice so sweet any other man on the planet would have melted.

"So you've decided, what did you buy?" Bruce asked, before his brain could intercept the impulse.

You turned your head slowly, with a lethal smile. "Lingerie. Do you want to see?"

Bruce simply raised an eyebrow. “Jordan, Allen. Three seconds.”

"We're leaving now!" Hal said, pushing Barry toward the door with a desperation unworthy of a Green Lantern.

"Thank you for your hospitality! Sorry for existing!" Barry said, tripping over a rug.

The door slammed shut. The echoes in the hallway hadn't yet died away when Bruce let out a deep sigh, tired but clearly resigned to his fate.

You laughed softly, and before you could say anything, he had already taken you by the waist and lifted you up in his arms with that naturalness that always left you breathless. "Shall we go back to bed, Mr. Wayne?"

"Not until you show me what you ordered from Paris, Mrs. Wayne."

[ssahotchnerr]

Begging and pleading for reader hosting a dinner for the team since they just finished a rough case. No one knows her and Hotch are together, but start getting suspicious when he just?? Knows where everything is in the apartment?? Like he’s been there before??

right at home

i loveee a classic the-team-is-finding-out 🤭 cw; fem bau!reader, established relationship, mentions of food and drinking, fluff <3 wc; 1k

Sometimes, a little team bonding was the only thing needed to recover from a tough week.

After a brutal case that left everyone with a bad taste in their mouth, you jumped at the opportunity to host a gathering at your apartment. It was clear no one wanted to go home just yet; the darkness of the case hung over your heads and made the idea of being alone so soon unbearably daunting.

It wasn't anything extravagant, coming straight from the jet; ordering delivery from a local cafe - a slight, healthier alternative to  the usual takeout consumed on cases. Forgoing formal seating at your kitchen table and instead crowding on the carpet around your coffee table, a movie playing in the background, offered a casual and comfy atmosphere.

Sitting next to Aaron, you wished you could lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe out some of the weight clinging to your ribs. You were glad the team was comforted by being together, but all you needed was Aaron. Only him and then you would be able to put this case in the past.

Plus, it's been a few days since you’d been physically affectionate. Long days in the precinct and out in the field made finding a private moment impossible, and with the team unaware of your relationship, it was impractical to do so much as hold his hand without being behind a closed door.

Little did they know, his overnight bag lay discreetly in your bedroom.

As if he could hear your thoughts, his eyes found yours, a gentleness to them as he silently checked in. Your own eyes briefly softened, relaying that you were fine.

"I'm so happy you all made it home to me unharmed and all in one piece." Penelope commented, her eyes flashing with relief. "Thank good gracious that's over."

"You and us both baby girl," Derek answered, dipping a veggie in some dressing. But as condiments with a thin consistency often did, it dripped off his piece of celery and onto the carpet before he could bring it to his mouth.

He grimaced, an apology in his eyes as they shot to yours. "Shit, I'm sorry mamas."

You waved it off, bringing your knees up to your chest and hugging them. "No worries. Nothing a bit of carpet cleaner can't fix."

"I got it." Aaron didn't hesitate, scrambling up and heading to your hall closet.

The quiet hum of conversation continued on. But after a moment, JJ’s expression shifted; a flash of confusion appearing so abruptly, it was impossible to miss.

How did Hotch know where you kept your cleaning supplies?

"JJ?" Emily asked, her wine glass pausing at her lips. "Something wrong?"

"No." She tentatively shook her head, but her eyes stayed on you, searching your face as if trying to read the things you weren’t saying.

And you weren't saying much. Oblivious to JJ's stare, you weren't acting out of the ordinary at all - taking a sip of your drink, eyes flickering back and forth amongst the conversation. But as Aaron re-entered the room, your face lit up the smallest amount. He handed the carpet scrubber to Morgan, and reclaimed his spot next to you.

You looked relaxed, happy.

Aaron did as well. Too relaxed and too happy, as if he felt at home.

JJ did, however, nudge Emily with an elbow. One that read: start paying attention.

"Morgan, make sure you-"

"I know how to clean a carpet, Hotch." Derek bantered quickly, causing a smile to tug on the ends of Aaron's lips, cheekily looking in your direction as a laugh escaped you. Satisfaction pulled onto his face.

Emily's eyebrows rose. Oh.

The next instance that brought questioning, you all had congregated to the kitchen - another round of drinks for some. As Emily distributed the wine, Aaron took it upon himself to help you rinse off dishes and put them away. Handling it in advance, and saving the two of you time later.

As far as the rest of the team was aware, this was the first time you’d had any of them over. Usually, everybody would meet at Dave's house (mansion, he would correct) or eat out at one of the many establishments populating DC.

But Aaron acted with practiced ease. He didn't ask you where something belonged, no lost expressions filled his face as he tried to determine where something maybe belonged. He just knew.

Spencer's eyes followed him, weighing all the variables. Sure, your dishes were in the closest cupboard to your sink; logically that made sense. Rather convenient, a quick and easy unload, especially given at your height. Was it common sense, or prior knowledge?

But what did he know? Genius or not, he’d never been good at reading subtle cues like those.

Aaron's hand even brushed the small of your back as he passed - something that could've easily been dismissed as a casual, friendly gesture - the kind people make when squeezing by. But there was a quiet familiarity to it, a natural ease, as if he'd done it countless times before.

-

"Are you heading out too?" Dave asked Aaron, his eyes narrowing at him in suspicion. It had gotten late, and everyone had begun streaming out - grabbing coats and tossing goodbyes left and right.

Meanwhile, Aaron lingered quietly in the background, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wall with his arms loosely folded. There was no urgency in his posture - just a calm stillness, as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere in particular to be.

"Why wouldn't I?" Aaron feigned confusion, suddenly debating putting his shoes on to make it more believable.

But he was soon distracted by you - giggling wildly as Penelope refused to release you from her tipsy embrace. Your laughter echoed through the room, unbothered and bright, as JJ - her ride home - attempted to unlatch her from you. Aaron's lips lifted in an almost-there smile.

"Mhm." That answered that. Dave smirked, a wise and knowing glint in his eyes. "Hope you two have a good night."

[cheftsunoda]

Okay hear me out: we have a Leclerc reader who is a teenage (15 or 16) and she's always struggled with mental health with the pressure of school and being charles's little sister so she thinks she has to be up to his level and he finds out? like he see's the I am sober app on her phone or see's the s-h scars on her wrists??

i got you— cl16

charles leclerc x !younger sister reader

written blurbs

being charles leclerc’s little sister was never easy. not because he made it hard — he never did. charles loved you like the sun loved the sea—endlessly, naturally, without question. but the world… the world had its expectations. and they pressed down on you like gravity. at sixteen, you were already tired. of school, of whispers, of always being almost enough. the grief for your father sat heavy in your chest, a quiet echo no one talked about anymore. and while charles raced across continents, worshipped by millions, you were quietly falling apart. this is the story of how he came home. how you broke. and how, piece by piece, he helped you find your way back. not to perfection. not to the old you. but to something softer. something true. to the version of yourself that still wanted to live.

(a/n) : hi my love. i hope you are doing okay. if anyone out there is struggling, just know that you are not alone. i am here and as long as i am here — each and everyone of you will have someone who loves and cares for you. reach out if you need, my messages are always open:)

obvious warnings of sh (not explicit), grief and depression.

—

You knew the moment you stepped into school this morning that it was going to be a hard day. You could feel it in the way your limbs dragged, like gravity had grown stronger overnight just to pull you under. The halls felt too loud, every laugh a little too sharp, every glance a little too lingering. You kept your head down.

It’s always the same, isn’t it? You walk through the corridors like a ghost, existing more in other people’s whispers than in your own skin.

“Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Bet she thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“You’d think she’d be prettier. Or smarter.”

They don’t even try to be quiet anymore. You’re used to the weight of expectation — not just theirs, but your own. The constant, impossible pressure to be enough. To live up to a name that feels too big for you. You’re sixteen and already tired of trying to be someone you’re not sure you ever could be.

You get a math test back in second period. 72%. The number circles your mind like a shark. You can barely focus on the rest of the class because all you can hear is the dull throb of failure. You should have done better. You should always do better. Because if you don’t, then who are you, really?

Not him. Not Charles. He wins Grand Prix. He speaks five languages. He makes people cry with national anthems and overtakes. You just… exist. Quietly. An echo of someone more important.

By the time you make it home, the house is too silent. It’s always silent lately. Maman is keeping her salon open late. Arthur’s busy. Charles is—well, he’s somewhere on the other side of the world, racing. Smiling for cameras. Waving to crowds. And you want to be happy for him, you really do, but sometimes you wish he’d see you.

Just once. See how much you’re slipping.

You drop your backpack at the door and collapse onto the couch for a moment before dragging yourself to your room. You sit at your desk and pull out your journal. It’s the one Charles gave you when you turned fifteen, with soft leather and your initials stamped into the cover. He said you had too many thoughts to keep inside. Said writing might help. You try. You write a sentence. Then cross it out. Then another. Rip out the page.

You can’t get it right. The words won’t come the way you feel them, and even your sadness feels like a failure.

The walls start to press in, then.

A thick kind of loneliness settles over you — the kind that feels like it could swallow you whole and no one would even notice. You press your hands into your lap, try to breathe. Try to be strong.

But you don’t feel strong. You feel like glass. You get up quietly, like you’re underwater. Like you already know where this is going. The drawer slides open with a soft hiss. You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then the noise in your mind wins out.

You just want it to stop — the pressure, the noise, the constant sense that no matter what you do, it’s not enough. You’re not enough. You’re the girl behind the driver, the afterthought, the kid sister who smiles in photos and disappears afterward.

It’s not about pain. It’s about silence. About needing something real to remind yourself that you’re still here. That you’re not completely invisible.

Afterward, you sit curled on the bathroom floor, your sleeves pulled back down, your journal beside you like a witness you never wanted.

You want to tell someone. You want someone to see you. But you don’t know how to ask. So instead, you cry quietly into the crook of your arm, trying not to make a sound. As if even now, you’re trying not to be a burden. And outside your window, the sun sets softly over Monaco, like it doesn’t even know you’re breaking.

—

You must have fallen asleep at some point, head resting against the wall, the journal open but blank on your lap. But when the door clicks open downstairs, your heart stutters. Maman.

You wipe your face quickly, instinctively, as if you haven’t been crying for the past hour in silence. As if she won’t know the moment she sees you. You’ve always been soft in her hands — too transparent to hide anything for long.

You hear her heels on the floorboards, her purse dropping onto the kitchen counter, keys jangling against the door. Then quiet. You hold your breath. But then, soft footsteps on the stairs. Not rushed. Not loud. Just… steady. Measured. Like she knows.

Your door opens without a knock. And she stands there — tired eyes, hair pinned back messily. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes flick over you quickly. The red around your eyes. The tremble in your shoulders. The way you’re still trying to pretend you’re fine.

“Ma chérie,” she says, voice a whisper.

You look away. Your throat burns. It would be easier if she was angry. If she demanded answers or told you you were being dramatic. But she doesn’t. She just kneels beside your bed and reaches out.

You let her take your hand.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, but your voice breaks, and the tears come again — hot and slow, running down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting for this moment to fall.

“I know,” she says gently, brushing hair back from your face. “You don’t have to explain right now.”

She guides you up with a soft tug, and you follow her without thinking. The hallway is dark, the house quiet. You pass Charles’ empty room — the door still open from the last time he stayed — and then you’re in her bedroom.

She helps you into bed like she did when you were little, like you were six years old with a fever and needed her there just to breathe right. She doesn’t ask about the journal. She doesn’t ask why your sleeves are so long. She just lies down beside you, pulling you close with one arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

Her heartbeat becomes your rhythm. Steady. Unmoving.

“You don’t have to be anything more than who you are,” she whispers against your hair. “And you are enough, ma petite. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

You don’t answer, but your hand curls into the fabric of her blouse, clutching it like a lifeline.There’s a silence between you, but it’s not heavy this time. Not full of guilt or shame. Just quiet. Gentle. And after a while, your breathing slows. Your muscles ease. The tears stop.

You fall asleep to the sound of her humming a lullaby you haven’t heard in years — something she used to sing to Charles when he couldn’t sleep before races. Tonight, it’s for you. And for the first time in days, you don’t feel so alone.

—

The light filters in through the pale curtains, casting a soft glow over your mother’s bedroom. For a moment, you’re not sure where you are. You blink up at the ceiling, unfamiliar and familiar all at once — the scent of lavender, the quiet hum of traffic outside, the weight of warmth beside you.

Then you feel it. Fingers in your hair. Gentle, looping around strands and brushing them back.

You turn your head slowly and find Arthur lying on top of the covers next to you, sideways, his cheek resting on a pillow, his hand still tangled in your hair.

He offers a crooked little smile. His eyes are tired too, but kind. Always kind.

“Maman had some errands,” he murmurs. “She asked me to stay with you. So I did.”

You swallow, throat dry, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Your body feels heavy, like it’s been fighting all night in your dreams.

Arthur lets his fingers fall away, folding his hands beneath his chin.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks gently.

You nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Fine.”

His brows lift just slightly, the way they always do when he knows you’re not being honest.

“Really?”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. He’s always been quiet, always the observer — the one who notices even when you think no one’s looking. Maybe it’s a Leclerc thing, you think. The ability to see too much.

“You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not,” he says softly. “Not to me.”

Your chest tightens. You look up at the ceiling again, the morning light suddenly feeling too bright.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You hear the slight shift of the mattress as he turns onto his back, lying beside you the way he did when you were younger and afraid of thunderstorms. He doesn’t push.

Instead, he says quietly, “I used to lie too, you know. When I was your age. When Papa died.”

You blink hard.

“I told everyone I was okay because Charles was already holding too much. And Maman cried every night. I thought if I just smiled through it, maybe it would go away.”

Your breath catches.

“It doesn’t,” he continues. “But it gets lighter when you let someone carry it with you.”

You turn your head to face him again. His eyes are on the ceiling now, fingers resting between you, not quite touching but close enough that all you’d have to do is reach.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, before you can take it back. It slips out like a secret that’s been clawing at your throat for days.

Arthur finally looks at you again. “I know.”

He doesn’t ask what you’re scared of. He doesn’t need to. He just shifts closer and tugs the blanket higher over both of you. Then he links your pinkies together under the covers, like a silent promise.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he murmurs.

And for the first time that morning, you let yourself breathe.

—

You hear the front door open before you even leave your room. The unmistakable thump of Charles’ suitcase being dragged inside, the jingle of keys, and then his voice — soft, lighter than usual.

“Bonjour?” he calls out into the quiet house.

Your heart lurches.

You haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. Three weeks of pretending you were okay through texts and rushed phone calls, of sending him little thumbs-up emojis when he asked how school was going. Of telling him you were “tired” and “just busy.” Of lying — not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know how to let him see the truth.

Now he’s here. And suddenly, you don’t know where to put your hands.

You step out into the hallway slowly, pulling the sleeves of your jumper down further even though the air in the apartment is warm. Too warm. Your palms feel damp.

Charles rounds the corner just as you reach the top of the stairs, a soft smile already on his face. He opens his arms immediately.

“Ma petite.”

You let him hug you, burying your face into his shoulder. He smells like travel — cologne and airport air — but under it is something familiar. Something safe.

He holds you for longer than usual.

“I missed you,” he says into your hair, voice low.

You nod against him. You don’t trust your voice not to crack.

When he finally pulls back, he holds you at arm’s length. His eyes scan your face — the quiet exhaustion around your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders. You’re still smiling. You think it looks convincing enough. It usually is.

But his gaze flickers down to your sleeves.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, he gives you a soft nudge toward the kitchen. “Come on. I brought croissants. The good kind. Not the sad airport ones.”

You follow him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

The kitchen smells like orange peel and sunlight, like Maman had been burning a candle again. Arthur’s gone — probably out running errands or giving you space. Charles sets the bag of pastries on the counter and opens the fridge.

“Want juice?” he asks casually.

You nod.

He pours two glasses, then hands you one and leans against the counter across from you. For a moment, you both just eat in silence. The kind of silence that feels full — not awkward, not rushed. But you know Charles. You know when he’s watching.

When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He nods. But his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different in them now. Something cautious. Careful. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“I saw Maman this morning,” he says. “She looked worried.”

You take another bite of croissant to avoid responding. Your hands tremble slightly as you set it down.

“She didn’t say much,” he continues. “Just asked me to spend time with you today. Said you could use your big brother.”

He’s fishing — but gently. Not accusing. Not pushing.

You offer a small smile. “I always need my big brother.”

Charles smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment before speaking again, voice low.

“You know I’ll always be here, right?” he says. “Even if I’m not always… here.”

Your chest tightens. The words are too kind. Too understanding.

“I know,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker once more to your sleeves, but he still doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out, gently resting a hand over yours on the table.

“I’m not going anywhere today,” he says. “Just you and me.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold it all in forever.

—

third person pov

Charles closes the door to his apartment with a quiet click, exhaling slowly as he drops his keys in the bowl near the entryway. The weight of the day settles into his shoulders — not from the flight, or the media duties, or the late night debriefs from earlier in the week, but from something heavier. Something more complicated.

Something he doesn’t yet know how to name.

“Mon cœur?” Alexandra’s voice calls from the living room, light and expectant.

He finds her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, glasses perched on her nose and a book open in her lap. Her face softens when she sees him. She sets the book down immediately.

“You’re back early,” she says, rising to her feet. “Everything okay?”

Charles nods, but the gesture lacks conviction. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I saw her,” he says quietly.

Alexandra’s hands move to his chest instinctively. She doesn’t need to ask who he means. “How is she?”

Charles exhales again — slower this time. “I don’t know.”

He pulls away slightly, just enough to look her in the eye. His voice drops, heavy with something tight and aching.

“She’s not herself. Quiet. Closed off. Wearing long sleeves even though it’s twenty-six degrees.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She smiled, but it didn’t feel real. You know when someone’s smiling just so you won’t ask questions?”

Alexandra nods, the crease between her brows deepening.

“I offered her croissants,” he continues, trying to chuckle but failing. “She barely ate half of one. She kept looking at the table like she didn’t want to be there.”

Alexandra leans against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been distant with me too,” she admits quietly. “I thought maybe it was just me. I texted her a few days ago to come shopping — you know, our usual little girls’ day — and she turned me down.”

Charles looks up sharply. “She never turns you down.”

“I know.” Alexandra swallows, her voice suddenly softer. “She said she wasn’t feeling well. That she had schoolwork. But it didn’t sound like her. She didn’t even use emojis.”

Charles lets out a low breath, sinking onto the couch beside her. “I hate this.”

“She loves you, Charles,” Alexandra says gently. “She’s just hurting. And whatever it is… she doesn’t know how to bring it to you yet.”

He nods slowly, staring ahead at nothing. “I keep thinking—what if I missed something earlier? What if she’s been like this for months and I’ve been too busy giving interviews and chasing podiums to notice?”

“You’re doing your best,” Alexandra says firmly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve always loved her more than anything. That’s never been the problem.”

Charles finally looks at her, eyes a little glassy now. “She’s my little sister. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“And you still can,” Alexandra whispers. “You still will. But you can’t fix something she hasn’t shown you yet. You just need to keep showing up.”

Charles swallows hard and nods, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep trying until she lets me in.”

And Alexandra leans her head on his shoulder, heart breaking a little — for him, for YN, for the weight she’s carrying in silence.

They sit there quietly, wrapped in the kind of love that doesn’t fix things right away — but waits patiently outside the door, hoping it will be opened.

—

back to 2nd

It’s just past noon when your name is called over the classroom speaker. Heads turn. You keep yours down as you pack your bag, already bracing for the whispers and stares. Your stomach twists — no one said you were being picked up early. No one tells you why. You step out into the sun and blink against the brightness. And then you see her.

Leaning against the school’s front gate, sunglasses perched in her hair, arms crossed casually — Alexandra. Smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi, love,” she says, voice soft, like she already knows to be gentle with you. “Hope I’m not pulling you out of anything too thrilling.”

You blink in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I called Maman this morning. Got permission to borrow you for the afternoon. Thought we could use a little break.”

Her eyes scan you quickly. Noticing the sleeves. The weight in your shoulders.

“Nails?” she offers. “And pastries after?”

You almost say no. The idea of trying to hold a conversation, of pretending you’re okay for hours — it feels like too much. But then there’s something in her face. Something quiet and kind. She’s not asking for smiles. She’s just… here.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

The nail salon she takes you to is tucked into a quiet side street. It smells like citrus and lavender and something clean. The chairs are soft and the lights are warm and low, not too harsh.

Alexandra picks a pale lavender shade for herself. You scan the shelves and choose a soft, muted blue. Something calm.

“Good choice,” she says. “It reminds me of that cardigan you wore in Milan. You remember? The one Charles hated because it had tiny clouds on the buttons?”

You almost smile. Almost.

You sit side by side in silence while the technicians begin. She talks a little — about one of her heels snapping mid paddock walk, about a stray cat that keeps showing up on her terrace, about how Charles nearly fell asleep standing up at a media day.

She doesn’t ask anything heavy. Just lets the air fill with soft things. You don’t say much, but you don’t pull away either. Your shoulders loosen, barely, and you rest your hands in the warm water when she motions for you to relax.

It’s not peace, but it’s close.

Afterward, she drives you to a little patisserie near the harbor. You’ve been here before, but today it feels different — quieter, like the world has been turned down a few notches just for you.

You choose a raspberry tart. Alexandra gets two madeleines and a tiny espresso. You sit by the window, watching people pass with their sunglasses and shopping bags and lives that seem light.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just breaks off a piece of her pastry and nudges the plate toward you, even though you have your own.

Then, finally, her voice comes — soft, like it doesn’t want to spook whatever part of you is barely holding it together.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?”

You stare at the spoon in your hand. You want to lie — it’s easier. You’ve done it a hundred times already. But the way she says it — sweetheart — makes your chest ache.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She hums, stirring her espresso with one of those tiny spoons you’ve always liked. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. She just lets the silence be soft.

“I miss you,” she says, after a moment. “The real you. Haven’t seen her in a little while.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting a little, but you blink it away.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

“I know,” she replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you believe her. Even if you don’t say everything — even if the hurt is still sitting heavy in your chest — for a little while, sitting across from her with raspberry on your tongue and sunlight on your hands, you feel like maybe you’re still reachable. Like maybe someone is holding a light for you. Just until you can find your way back.

—

The air is too heavy in your bedroom. Too still.

Even with the window cracked and your favorite playlist humming quietly in the background, the walls feel like they’re pressing in, like they know all your secrets and they’re tired of holding them.

So you slip on your sneakers, grab a hoodie, and step outside without telling anyone.

Monaco at night is quieter than people expect — empty streets lit by golden lamps, a kind of soft glamour lingering in the rain-washed pavement. You walk without thinking. Past shuttered cafés and quiet fountains, past the old bookstore where Charles used to buy your Christmas gifts. Your sleeves are pulled over your hands, head down. The hood shadows your face.

It starts to rain slowly. First just mist, then light droplets that cling to your eyelashes and dampen your sweater. You don’t turn back.

Some part of you thinks: Maybe this is what I deserve.

Another part whispers: No. You’re just tired.

The sky is dark, the kind of navy that swallows stars. A car turns the corner down the street — quiet, expensive, too familiar.

You barely glance up until the headlights flicker, and then a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“YN?”

You freeze.

The car pulls over fast. The window rolls down. It’s Charles.

He’s in a hoodie, hair messy like he’s been running his hand through it, worry written all over his face. His eyes are wide when they meet yours.

“What are you doing?” he says — not harsh, not angry. Just… scared.

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to. The rain picks up, drizzling down the back of your neck, cold against your skin. You feel your breath hitch, your throat tighten.

Charles is already out of the car.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scold.

He just moves to you, quick but careful, and holds his hand out. Palm up. Open.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.”

You stand there for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves, chest full of something tangled and aching. But then — you take his hand.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders instantly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

The passenger door swings open and you slide inside, shivering.

Back behind the wheel, Charles glances at you. The rain is tapping on the windshield, steady and slow.

“I couldn’t find you earlier,” he says quietly. “Maman said you went for a walk. But it was dark. I just… I had this feeling.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I wasn’t running away,” you whisper. “I just needed to breathe.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time. The sound of the engine hums beneath the storm, the city lights painting golden streaks across the wet roads.

Then, just before he pulls back onto the street, Charles speaks again — barely louder than the rain.

“You can always come to me, you know.”

You don’t respond. But you reach over, just slightly, and your pinky brushes against his on the center console. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word — but he lets it stay there. And somehow, even in silence, you feel like you’re not so alone anymore.

—

By the time Charles pulls into the underground garage, the rain has slowed to a mist. It still clings to your sleeves, your hair, the corners of your thoughts. You don’t say much as he walks beside you, but he keeps a hand lightly on your back — not to push, not to control. Just to remind you…I’m here.

You expected him to take you home. But instead, he swipes his key card and leads you into his building.

“I thought… maybe a change of scenery would help,” he says, voice hesitant. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.”

You blink at him, unsure of what to say, but you nod. You’re too tired to protest. Too tired to fight the softness he’s offering you. When the elevator doors open, the smell of cinnamon and chamomile greets you first.

Then Alexandra — standing just inside the apartment, barefoot in one of Charles’ hoodies, her hair tied loosely back. The moment she sees you, something in her face melts with quiet relief.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says gently, stepping forward.

You shift awkwardly, rain still dripping off your sleeves, chilled to the bone — but she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around you, warm and steady.

“I made you some tea,” she murmurs against your damp shoulder. “And I laid out some clothes for you. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I put options.”

Her kindness wraps around you like the blanket you didn’t know you needed.

You nod into her. “Thank you.”

Charles disappears into the kitchen, giving the two of you space as Alexandra guides you down the hallway, her hand gentle at the small of your back.

“I put everything in the guest room,” she says, her voice light but careful. “You can shower, or just change if you want. No pressure.”

The room smells like lavender and clean cotton. On the bed lies an oversized sweater, a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a folded towel. Your favorite tea sits on the nightstand, still steaming.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Take your time,” Alexandra says. “We’re just out here. No questions, okay?”

You nod again. And this time, you mean it. When you re-emerge twenty minutes later, dry and warm and tucked into her clothes, you find them both on the couch. Alexandra looks up first and smiles. She pats the space between her and Charles. You sit. Not quite leaning into him. Not quite pulling away.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You give the smallest shrug.

“Different.”

He smiles faintly. “Different is a start.”

Alexandra tucks her legs beneath her, watching you both with eyes full of something quiet and protective.

“We can just sit,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. Not unless you want to.”

And so you sit. The tea is warm. The lights are low. Charles stays close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, and Alexandra’s hand rests near yours on the blanket — not touching, just there. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you don’t have to carry everything alone. Just for tonight, it’s okay to rest.

—

The next night, Charles wakes you gently just after dinner, voice quiet and warm.

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

You don’t ask where. You just nod, pull on a hoodie and sneakers, and follow him out into the Monaco evening. The rain has passed, leaving the streets damp and glimmering beneath the streetlights. The air smells like salt and stone.

You drive for a while in silence. He plays soft music — nothing distracting, just background to the hum of the tires and the thoughts neither of you say out loud. When he turns off onto an old road near the cliffs, you know where you’re going before he even parks.

You haven’t been here in years.

The overlook isn’t anything special to anyone else — just a narrow gravel path with a wooden bench, half-overgrown with ivy. But to you and Charles, it’s sacred. The place Papa used to take you both on Sunday mornings. Where he’d sit with a thermos of coffee and hum old songs, pointing out boats and clouds and the kinds of things that don’t matter to most people but meant everything to him.

And to you.

Charles kills the engine. He doesn’t move to get out right away.

“I come here sometimes,” he says, still staring out the windshield. “When I feel like I’m losing him.”

You look at him — really look at him — and something in your chest cracks.

“I feel like he’s already gone,” you whisper. “More and more every year. Like I forget what he sounded like. Or how his hands felt.”

Charles doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for your hand.

You sit on the bench together, wind cool on your face. The sea stretches endlessly below, dark and alive. Monaco twinkles behind you, but it feels far away here. Safe. Still.

“I’m not okay,” you say suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet.

He turns toward you, brows drawing together — not in confusion, but readiness. He’s been waiting for this. Letting you come to it yourself. You take a shaky breath.

“I miss him so much, Charles. I still can’t believe he’s gone. I think about him all the time and no one talks about it anymore, and I’m still stuck there. I feel like I’ve been frozen since he died.”

Tears start to fall, quiet at first.

“And then there’s you,” you go on, a sob catching in your throat. “You’re so good. Everyone loves you. Everyone expects you to win, and you do. You’re everything they want, and I’m just—”

You stop. Gasp a breath. The words press harder now, rising to your lips like they’ve waited long enough.

“I hurt myself,” you say suddenly. “I didn’t even mean for it to happen at first. I just… I needed something. Something I could control.”

Charles stills. His entire body goes quiet beside you, like the wind itself has paused to listen. But his hand doesn’t let go of yours. He just tightens his grip.

“I thought maybe if I could feel something else, I could stop feeling everything,” you whisper. “It’s not… it’s not a cry for attention. I don’t even want anyone to see. That’s why I hide it. I hate that I even did it.”

Your voice breaks. “But I did. I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Charles doesn’t speak for a moment. You think maybe he’s frozen. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. But then— He pulls you into his arms. And you break.

You scream into his chest. Loud, guttural, the kind of sound that doesn’t care who hears. It’s not graceful or controlled. It’s rage and grief and heartbreak. You feel your whole body shake, your fists gripping his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. He holds you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers over and over again. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels endless. Like years of pain pouring out of you, all at once. Your throat is raw, your lungs burn, your hands ache from clenching. And still — Charles holds you.

When you finally go quiet, chest hiccupping with shallow breaths, he leans back just enough to brush your hair out of your eyes. His own are shining with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall.

“You are not a failure,” he says firmly. “And you are not ruining anything. Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely.

“You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re sixteen, YN. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You look at him through blurry eyes. “But everyone expects me to be.”

“Well,” he says, voice soft and sure, “they’re wrong.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “You’re the bravest person I know. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not the grief. Not the pain. Not the scars.”

You shake your head, tears falling again, softer now. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to let us help.”

And in that moment — on a quiet cliffside, above the sleeping sea and under a wide-open sky — you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe him.

—

It still feels strange, sometimes — walking into that softly lit room, sitting on the couch with the box of tissues always slightly too close, and knowing you’re supposed to talk about the hardest parts of yourself. But lately… it’s been getting easier. You don’t cry every time. You don’t flinch when you speak your truth. You don’t hide your hands anymore.

The weight’s still there, but it doesn’t crush you the way it used to. It sits beside you now. Familiar, but manageable. And that — that’s progress.

Today, you arrive a little early. You know Charles will call in any minute. Even with it being a race weekend, even with his schedule bursting at the seams, he hasn’t missed a single session since you asked him to come.

The first time you whispered, “Will you be there?” he said yes so fast it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

And he’s kept that promise every single time. Your therapist smiles at you gently as she sets her notepad down, just as the screen of her tablet lights up.

Your heart softens at the sight of it.

When his face appears, he’s wearing his race suit, zipped down just a little, his hair damp like he’s just come from a meeting or a track walk. His background is chaotic — PR people walking behind him, someone calling his name — but his eyes are only on you.

“Salut, ma fille,” he says, that gentle voice that always feels like home. “You okay?”

You nod, tucking your legs up on the couch. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiles — a real one. The kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.

Your therapist asks how the past week has been, and you talk. Not because you feel like you have to, but because you want to. Because little by little, you’re starting to understand yourself. Starting to forgive yourself. Starting to heal.

You talk about sleeping better. About journaling again. About the day Alexandra took you shopping and you didn’t feel like a burden. About how you caught yourself smiling in the mirror and didn’t immediately look away.

Charles doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his image flickering a little on the screen but his focus never shifting.

When the session ends, your therapist thanks you both and signs off, but Charles stays on for a moment longer.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “I’m so proud of you, YN.”

You swallow hard, blinking back tears — the good kind, the kind that come from being seen.

“I’m starting to feel better,” you whisper. “Not all the way. But… I don’t hate being here anymore. I don’t hate being me so much.”

Charles presses a hand to his heart on the screen.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “Not just being around you. You. The real you.”

And you smile — small, a little shaky, but real. “She’s coming back.”

He nods, eyes a little glassy now. “Tell her I said welcome home.”

You laugh under your breath, and for the first time in months, you believe the worst may truly be behind you.

—

You haven’t been to a race weekend since before everything broke. Back when you were still pretending well enough for it to fool people. Before the long sleeves. Before the silence. Before the weight in your chest made the world feel like it was closing in.

But now—now it’s different. It’s not perfect. You’re not cured, or whatever people like to think when the crying stops. But your feet feel steadier. Your breath comes easier. Your thoughts are quieter.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you want to show up for someone else. You want to show up for him.

So when Alexandra asks gently, “Would you want to come with me to Austria this weekend?” you don’t hesitate.

You say yes. Not because you owe him anything. But because you remember the way he held you at the cliff. The way he sat through every therapy session — even if he was halfway across the world, squeezed into a media pen with earbuds tucked beneath his race suit. The way he never once made you feel like you were too much.

He was there. Always. And now, you want to be too.

The paddock is loud, alive with color and movement. Engines rumble in the distance. Journalists, engineers, VIPs — all buzzing around like clockwork. You grip Alexandra’s hand a little tighter as you walk through the gates, your badge swinging gently from your lanyard.

No one really notices you — you’ve made sure of that. Hat low, hoodie up, sleeves pushed up now without fear. You didn’t want the cameras, the noise. Just him. Just Charles. He doesn’t know you’re here.

You’re tucked behind one of the hospitality walls when he walks by — completely in race mode, jaw set, focused. Alexandra nudges you gently.

“Go,” she whispers. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

Your heart pounds. You take a few steps forward, just past the edge of the McLaren garage, and call out —

“Charles?”

He turns immediately. And freezes. His face goes still in a way that almost breaks you. His eyes widen, disbelieving. He doesn’t move for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined you. Then he’s running. Straight to you.

He pulls you into a hug so tight you almost lose your breath, your face buried into his chest, his hands trembling slightly where they hold the back of your head.

“You’re here,” he says, voice already thick with emotion. “You’re really here.”

You nod, tears already burning behind your eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. And to say… thank you. For everything.”

He pulls back, but only just — enough to look you in the face, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers.

“Yes, you did,” you breathe. “You stayed. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You sat through every session, even when you were in a different country. You never made me feel like I was a burden. You made me believe I could come back.”

His eyes shimmer. He’s not trying to hide it.

“I meant it,” he says. “Every word. I’d do it all again.”

You manage a shaky smile. “I’m doing better. I promise.”

He hugs you again, even tighter. “You’re not just doing better. You’re incredible.”

You laugh against him. “You’re going to mess up your suit before quali.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately. “Let it wrinkle. Let them fine me. This—” He pulls back to look at you again. “This is everything.”

Alexandra snaps a quiet photo behind you — the two of you wrapped up in each other, tears on your cheeks, Charles’ smile cracked wide with love and pride. Later, after qualifying, he’ll post it. And the world will love it. But this moment — this one right now — is just for you. For the sibling who never stopped loving you, even when you couldn’t love yourself. For the girl who almost didn’t make it — and now stands, whole and healing, at the edge of the grid.

—

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, dub-con/non-con themes, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

series masterlist

The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments. 

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission. 

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative 

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“�� сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

[makeitworse]

enjoy the silence

raising the baby w junho ! ⠀⚠︎ SPOILERS BELOW

after years of tunnel vision on tracking his brother down, untangling the rotten truth that’s left him sleepless— junho expected anything but this to be inho’s final statement. a baby girl, left with nothing but a player number and the bloodstained prize money.

was this inho’s child, trusted to her uncle to raise far away from her father’s true life? or perhaps this was a stranger’s child, saved by any surviving humanity left in the pits of his older brother’s heart? this poor girl, brought into the world amidst the circles of hell itself, and junho didn’t even know how to hold her properly.

he’d called his mother in a panic, stammering with the baby wailing in the background as if the building was on fire. though it was decades ago, his mother went through this twice, so it was muscle memory helping him out.

there wasn’t an explanation he could offer her though, since he hadn’t even wrapped his head around it himself. all he could say was that she wasn’t his, and she needed to be in the care of someone who knew what they were doing— even if the weight of her cradled in his arms had his heart beating like there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

you met junho in a grocery store: poking your head around the aisle when you heard panicked whispers and a baby blabbering. junho was cradling her awkwardly, squinting at the shelves like the baby formula was written in hieroglyphics— looking like he was two seconds from bursting into tears himself. you approached him with an amused smile and soft voice, offering a helping hand that he’s been forever grateful for since.

you lulled her with gentle rocks, demonstrating it to junho and then explaining how to pick out the right food. all the while, he can’t stop gazing at you in awe like you’ve got a golden halo above your head. he could not stop thanking you for your help— and one thing after another, you’re sat at a café after he insisted on treating you to a coffee (and his girl to a babyccino, per your suggestion).

junho’s extremely transparent with you, also to his own surprise. you figured as much that he was a single father who’d been raising the baby by google searches— but you’re taken aback when he admits that the child was bestowed upon him by his brother (“long story” he’d said) and not his own.

you can tell he’s been absolutely lost, dark circles under his eyes and unkempt hair. so when you offer yourself up to helping him navigate parenthood, he looks at you like he’s fallen in love on the spot. maybe he did.

and it’s not out of pity for him. it’s because you can see the exhaustion in his eyes— how he’s putting in all the effort to something he doesn’t even understand. and how he looks at the baby, like he’s terrified to fail her.

you become a regular at his apartment complex. at first, visits were just practical— feeding tips, changing diapers, practical how-to-parent tutorials. but the rhythm becomes something more natural, something without the need for a schedule.

you don’t pry: you don’t ask where she came from or why he has her when he needs this much guidance. but junho opens up anyways— slowly, one story at a time, like each one sheds a burden off his shoulders.

he doesn’t intend to fall for you, but it’s hard not to. you make things feel normal again. you don’t press about the past. you care for this baby like she may as well be yours. and he adores that about you.

the love sneaks up on him: during quiet dinners after you helped him rock her to sleep. through the way his stare lingers at your hands when you caress her. without realising he’s suddenly saying our girl in conversation with his mother. when she asked what you are to him, that’s when his mind had a blank.

somewhere between late-night movies after putting her to bed, that’s when it happens. a kiss on the couch. junho’s hand trembling slightly against your cheek. guilt’s written across his eyes, but so is relief. and you don’t pull away from him. you leaned in. (mindful not to wake her in the other room, of course)

junho is so painfully clueless, but he's all heart. he watches youtube essays on parenting like he’s preparing for a police exam. he keeps a list of her favourite foods in the notes app. neatly folds her laundry like it’s pure silk. you tease him, but it makes your heart ache how deeply he cares.

he always insists on being the one to rock her to sleep, even when it takes an hour. claims it “helps her trust him.” but you know it’s just as much for him, too. the first time she gets a fever, he doesn’t sleep. just sits beside her crib and watches her breathe, one of her little palms wrapped around a calloused finger.

he still carries the weight of everything he’s done. still wakes up some nights soaked in sweat, heart racing. but now he’s got you next to him. you don’t ask question, just hold him. massage his scalp while he shudders in your arms.

when his girl first blabbered an “appa”, he froze. stares at her like she split the sky open. then he excused himself to cry in the bathroom. with the life he was living before he met you both, he didn’t have the time to dream of starting a family. and now that he’s got one, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

🧸 mlist · taglist 〃 note. drinking for junhee tn

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @ferrarifinnick @loveesiren @madebybec @avsarchivez @frontwomann @szonyix6277 @namgyooner @thanosspills

[trinity15]

CATWOMAN

Lando Norris x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

Summary: Lando's friends set him up on a blind date with a girl he apparently has nothing in common with until she starts talking about her four cats.

To my cat and Lando girlies (me ✋😔). Special mention to my cats Kimi and Max. I came up with this after recalling a conversation I had with my father about what drivers names you could give a cat.

masterlist

The date couldn't be going any worse. Two months ago his friends had convinced him that they had the perfect girl for him, and now that she was in front of him and the date was almost over he wasn't so sure about it.

She was pretty, for sure, but they where the complete opposite and the situation was becoming more and more akward. Lando was beginning to wonder why he had accepted Max's idea.

On the other hand, Y/n was defenitelly calling Pietra once the date was over to tell her that she appreciates her effort but that the date had been an absotute dissaster.

Two months before the date, Y/n and Pietra had met after not having seen each other for a long time. Pietra had told her friend that she had something very important to tell her. They went to a café and just sat down to talk.

"Y/n I have an idea" Y/n's face changed. Pietra was the typical person who always thought of something that didn't make sense, but says it anyway. She was Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls in real life, but Y/n loved her anyway and she would always be one of her best friends.

"Tell me your idea Pietra" Y/n smiled at her and her friend's eyes lit up. She was excited to tell her her idea and she really hoped that Y/n would accept her proposal.

"Hear me out, a blind date" Y/n frowned, confused. A blind date? What did Pietra mean by that? She knew she had crazy ideas, but she'd expected anything but that.

"A blind date? But you're already dating Max!"

"No, silly, a blind date for you. Besides, I've got the perfect person for you" Y/n wasn't very convinced with the idea but she could only accept because her friend looked excited and deep down she was curious to know who was the person Pietra wanted to set her up with. "Ah, but don't talk about Formula 1, and don't mention your cats either".

Now, sitting in front of none other than Lando Norris, she understood why Pietra had said that. She knew perfectly well who he was. Y/n had loved Formula 1 since she was a child and still followed the sport. Nor was she surprised that her date was Lando. She knew perfectly well that Pietra's boyfriend, Max Fewtrell, was Lando's best friend. What she didn't expect was to be paired with him.

They were both equally silent. Y/n had been forbidden by Pietra to talk about the only thing she had in common with Lando: Formula 1. And on the other hand, to Lando, Max had warned him that if he mentioned his work, his date would get bored and leave, which he was very wrong about, but he didn't know it.

They had tried to talk about movies, she liked rom-coms, but he liked action movies. They had also mentioned their favourite food. She loved sushi, he hated fish. She had tried to tell him a couple of anecdotes, which Lando had listened to attentively as he searched his mind for some experience of his own that didn't involve Formula 1, but it was impossible. Formula 1 was his job, it was also part of his day to day life. It was his entire life. And it was also a forbidden topic of conversation on this date.

"Fuck it," Lando thought. If the date was already sucking he wasn't going to risk much if he mentioned the sport, after all, it couldn't get any worse. The girl had really charmed him physically and had a sweet way of talking, it annoyed him that he didn't have anything in common with her because he had liked her.

"Do you know what formula one is?" Lando threw out the question. He expected either a fake answer saying she didn't know anything so he would start talking to her about it or she would start telling him it was a boring sport and that it was just cars running around in circles. However, her answer surprised him.

"Yes, of course. I've been following the sport since I was a little girl." She did know what Formula 1 was and still watched it, which meant she knew who he was.

"So you know who I am?"

"Yes, I know who you are. Do I have to tell you your whole biography or is that enough?" She had said it as a joke, a sarcastic comment to lighten the mood, however it had sounded edgy and Lando had frowned. "Sorry Lando, I have a weird humour and sometimes it seems like I'm being very rude."

Lando shook his head downplaying it so Y/n wouldn't worry. "So you do like it? It's just that Max told me not to mention it because you'd get bored" Y/n laughed. A light, genuine laugh. It amazed her how Max and Pietra had been able to conclude that she and Lando would be a good match and not know one of the few things (or the only one) they had in common.

"Pietra just told me not to mention it, and not to talk about my cats either. I've lasted long enough, it's usually the first thing I mention." Now Lando was curious, he wanted to know more about her cats and why Pietra hadn't let her talk about them.

"What about your cats?" The question seemed to cheer her up, because when Lando looked at her her eyes had begun to sparkle with excitement. That brought a sincere smile to his lips.

"I have four cats and they're all named after Formula 1 drivers." Lando raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled even wider. The joy and enthusiasm in Y/n's words was infectious.

He was mentally thanking himself for bringing up that topic of conversation because, the once awkward date had now become very entertaining and he didn't want it to end.

Lando leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, attentive to what Y/n was saying. "It all started with my first cat. I adopted him when he was a kitten and since he was running everywhere I named him Kimi after Kimi Raikkonen."

"So you decided that since one was named after a driver the rest were too?" and as if Lando was inside her mind he formulated the next thing she was going to say in the form of a question. Y/n smiled and nodded before continuing.

"Yeah well, sort of. Then I adopted Max, he already had that name when I adopted him and I took it as a sign." Lando's smile didn't disappear, let alone Y/n's enthusiasm.

He had earlier planned to skip dessert to leave as soon as possible but now he was calling the waiter to bring them the menu and pick one. Anything to keep Y/n talking. "Wait, pick a dessert and then tell me more about it."

Y/n asked the waiter for a brownie and Lando ordered a cheesecake. The waiter returned almost immediately and left the plates on the table.

"As I was saying, then I found a kitten in a dumpster. She had just given birth and was malnourished. I took her and her kittens to the vet." Lando's face took on a worried expression. He had always loved animals, and it made him very sad to hear such stories. "The cubs didn't make it through the night, but the mother was recovering," Y/n continued as she ate her dessert.

"Did you adopt her?" It was a rhetorical question, she was telling him about her cats, of course she adopted her, but Lando just wanted Y/n to see that he was actually paying attention.

"Yes. She's the only girl cat I have. Her name is Senna, after Ayrton Senna."

"And the fourth one?"

"The fourth one, I adopted him because a friend's cat had kittens and she couldn't keep them. I called him Chilli." Lando frowned. Chilli? No one's called Chilli on the grid. Wasn't that a meal?

"Chilli?" he asked.

"Yes. Carlos Sainz is called Chilli, weren't you one of his best friends?" Y/n joked and Lando replied with a sarcastic laugh, but with a smile on his face.

"So they are called Kimi, Max, Senna and Chilli?" Y/n nodded. Lando could tell how happy it made her talk about her cats. "And why aren't any of them named Norris?"

"Okay I didn't know you were so self-centered" Y/n jokingly replied to him. "Maybe the next cat, who knows."

In the end the date ended well and they agreed to go on another one, maybe in the end they could be a good couple as Pietra and Max had thought. They both decided not to tell their friends anything, to tell them that the date had been a disaster and then, if they ended up being something, then tell them, to see their reaction.

5 months later

ynusername 🔒

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietrapilao and more

tagged: lando

caption: Norris and Norris (special appearnce of Max and Senna in the second slide and Chilli in the last one)

lando i know they're all missing me right now liked by author

pietrapilao excuse me??

maxfewtrell "the date was horrible" bullshit

pietrapilao when where you planing on saying anything??

pietrapilao where's my boy kimi?

ynusername you know he's camera shy

I would appreciate it if you could leave me a comment saying if you liked it. 🧡

taglist: @anamiad00msday @op81s-sweethOe @scentedrosa @h-rtsnana @ilovemeni @n3versatisfied @linnygirl09 @imdyinghelpplease @jaydensluv @love4rami @halleest

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚒𝚌’𝚍 𝚞𝚙 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it’s just you, paige and a camera you forget is there

You’ve done this a hundred times—more, probably—but today feels different.

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of LED panels and the occasional creak of your chair as you adjust your posture for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your assistant, Em, is in the editing bay making last-minute tweaks to the intro roll, but you can still feel her watching you through the glass with that knowing grin. She’s already teased you enough this morning.

“You’re fixing your hair again,” she says into your earpiece, voice crackling through the comm. “It looks fine. You look fine. Stop.”

You roll your eyes and shoot a sarcastic thumbs-up at the one-way glass, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks.

Fine isn’t good enough today.

Because today, your guest isn’t just a guest. She’s the guest.

Paige Bueckers.

And yeah, sure, you’ve interviewed top tier athletes before—Megan Rapinoe, Candace Parker, even Serena Williams via video call once—but something about Paige is different. Maybe it’s the way she plays like poetry in motion. Maybe it’s how she carries herself—quiet, thoughtful, deadly on the court and disarmingly soft off of it. Maybe it’s just the damn smile you’ve seen in a hundred slow motion TikToks that fans lovingly post after every Dallas Wings game.

Or maybe, more realistically, it’s that you’ve had a crush on her since UConn, and you’re two hours away from sharing a couch and a mic with her for an hour straight.

“She Scores” has always been your passion project. What started as a niche podcast in your college dorm now pulls millions of listeners every week. You’re known for being sharp, knowledgeable, casually flirty without being pushy, and for asking questions no one else thinks to ask. But beneath all the polish and prep, you’re still just a massive women’s sports nerd who gets giddy when you get to sit down with the athletes who shaped the game.

You run through your notes again—childhood, UConn, transition to the W, off-day hobbies, rapid fire—but you already know you won’t stick to them perfectly. You never do. The best conversations happen when you let things drift. You’re just hoping you don’t drift too far into Oh my god she’s so pretty, stay normal territory.

Em buzzes back in.

“Just got word—she’s on her way up.”

You freeze for a beat, then rise from your chair and take a deep breath, brushing invisible dust off your vintage Lisa Leslie hoodie. You’re wearing sneakers that cost too much and jeans that hug just right, and your hair has been sitting at an intentional degree of messy for the past hour. Cool. Collected. Professional. Mostly.

The knock at the door is soft. You turn as your producer opens it, and there she is.

Paige Bueckers.

And she’s early.

You didn’t expect that.

She’s dressed in a simple grey zip-up and black sweatpants, no makeup, hair pulled back into a loose bun. Effortlessly beautiful. A little taller than you imagined—though that might be the sneakers. Her eyes meet yours, blue and steady, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says, voice quieter than you thought it’d be. “I’m Paige.”

As if you didn’t know.

You step forward, trying not to radiate pure gay panic. “Hey! Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. And you’re early, which automatically makes you my favorite guest.”

She laughs, short and real. “I was scared of LA traffic. Got lucky, I guess.”

You offer her water. She takes it. Her fingers brush yours for a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

“You good to hang out in the green room for a bit?” you ask. “We don’t record for another half hour, but I figured it might be nice to talk first. Get comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and your heart taps out a Morse code you hope doesn’t show on your face.

You lead her to the smaller side room off the main studio, a cozy space with a worn leather couch, some plants that are somehow still alive, and shelves lined with sports memorabilia—signed basketballs, framed jerseys, candid photos with former guests. She walks past the wall and pauses when she sees the signed Sue Bird jersey.

“You’ve had Sue on here?” she asks, blinking.

You grin. “Yeah. She wore that jersey the first time we talked. She signed it after I beat her in a game of HORSE.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “You beat Sue Bird in HORSE?”

“Well, technically, I distracted her by asking about her some dumbass question, but a win is a win.”

She smiles again—wider this time—and sinks into the couch, folding one leg under herself.

“So, do I get the same treatment?” she asks. “You gonna ambush me with personal questions?”

“Nope,” you reply, sitting across from her. “I already know pretty much a lot. Twitter’s been over that since the UConn days.”

She groans softly, tipping her head back. “God. Twitter knows too much.”

You watch her for a moment, just… existing. Relaxed. Present. And you realize she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys small talk for its own sake. But you also don’t want to jump right into deep questions.

“You nervous?” you ask instead. Simple. Honest.

She shrugs. “A little. I’ve seen your podcast before. You don’t really let people off the hook.”

You smirk. “That’s true. But you’re in good hands.”

She looks at you, and something flickers between you. Not full-blown tension yet, but something.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. You’re stalling, which is dumb. You never stall.

“You wanna run through the outline real quick?” you offer. “Just to know what’s coming.”

She tilts her head. “Or… we could wing it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Winging it with a podcaster is dangerous, Bueckers.”

“I like dangerous,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You catch it. You catch everything.

“Well,” you say, standing, “let’s give the people what they want.”

She follows you back into the studio, her presence magnetic even in silence. Your team starts final checks—lighting, mic levels, camera angles. You settle onto the couch next to her, not too close, not too far. You adjust your notes, but your hands aren’t shaking.

Not anymore.

She turns to you, just before you go live.

“You good?” she asks.

It’s simple, but the way she says it—grounded, like she sees you—settles something in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her eyes. “You?”

She nods once. “Let’s do it.”

The red light is on, the music fades out, and you smile into the mic.

“Welcome back to She Scores, the podcast that unapologetically talks all things women’s sports—from buzzer beaters to backdoor cuts and everything in between. I’m your host, and today… listen. You already know. I don’t even need to hype this up but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You turn your body slightly, just enough to face her.

“Joining me in the studio is a certified bucket. UConn royalty. NCAA Player of the Year, ESPY winner, national champion, and now… Dallas Wings rookie and all-around media mystery—Paige Bueckers. Paige, hi.”

She’s already smiling, eyes wide and slightly amused. She leans forward, adjusting the mic with practiced ease.

“Hey. Wow. That was… a lot.”

You smirk. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Just… you made me sound way cooler than I feel.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you tease. “Making legends sound approachable.”

She lets out a little breath, like she’s trying not to smile harder than she should. Already, the chemistry crackles—not obvious to the untrained eye, but fans at home are going to pick up on this. Especially the ones with compilation and edit accounts.

“So how does it feel?” you ask. “The WNBA. First season. First media tour. Sitting across from me. Try not to be overwhelmed.”

She laughs again, easing into her seat. “It’s surreal. All of it. Some days I wake up and still feel like I’m on a college schedule. Like I’m supposed to be running sprints at 6AM.”

“Trauma.”

“Literal trauma,” she confirms, mock serious.

You nod. “We’ll get into UConn trauma in a second. But first, let’s take it back. Way, way back. Minnesota. Hopkins. Little Paigey. What’s your first basketball memory?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “I think I was maybe three? My dad had this mini hoop in our living room. The kind that’s too low for anyone over four feet tall.”

“Unfair advantage,” you interject.

“Exactly. But I remember shooting on that every day. He taught me how to pass. We’d play these one on one games—he’d let me score just enough to keep me hooked. And then when I finally beat him for real, I cried.”

“Wait, you cried?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost sheepish. “Like ugly cried. I didn’t know what to do with the win.”

“That’s deeply poetic,” you say. “Beating the person who taught you. The origin story of a future number one overall pick.”

She shrugs, but she’s glowing a little. “I just liked the sound of the ball going through the net. I still do.”

There’s a moment there—small, golden. You don’t rush it.

“You talk about that sound like it’s music.”

She glances at you. “It kinda is, right?”

Your smile deepens. “See, this is why I’m glad this isn’t a live podcast. People would already be tweeting unhinged things. Like we’re flirting.”

She laughs, but there’s something in her eyes—a flash of interest, maybe curiosity. “Are we?”

“Dunno,” you say, flipping a pen between your fingers. “We’ll let the comment section decide.”

She leans forward a bit more, playful. “Dangerous game.”

“I like dangerous,” you echo, and there it is again—like you’re circling something neither of you fully plan to name. You redirect, but only slightly. “So when did it get serious? Like, serious serious. When did Paige Bueckers go from ‘cute kid with a mini hoop’ to ‘national recruit and Gatorade Player of the Year’?”

Her smile fades into something more grounded, thoughtful.

“Probably middle school. I was playing up against older kids. My coaches were honest with me early—they told me I had potential, but I had to want it. Like, really want it.”

You nod, sipping from your water as you watch her speak. “And you did.”

“I did,” she says. “I still do. I don’t think that’s ever changed.”

You scribble something in your notebook, not because you need to, but because you need to look away for a second. The way she talks—low, deliberate, with that quiet confidence—makes it a little hard to keep your cool. You’ve interviewed charismatic people before. But Paige? She’s that rare mix of humble and magnetic. The kind that makes you forget you’re working.

“Talk to me about Hopkins,” you say. “You were a walking headline by, like, freshman year.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh. I was also a walking awkward phase.”

“You and every lesbian born in the early 2000s,” you reply.

She laughs, covering her mouth for a second. “I didn’t even know back then—”

“Oh, sweetie,” you say, deadpan. “We all knew.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you outing me on my own episode?”

“Absolutely not. But girl, be so for real right now.”

“Wow,” she says, laughing, “this is targeted.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Just doing my journalistic duty.”

The banter flows, faster now. She’s open, unguarded. You ask about pressure, expectations, media narratives. She gives measured but honest responses. You don’t grill—never do—but you go deep, and she meets you there.

You click your pen like it matters, but you’re not taking notes anymore. Not really. You’re just watching her speak—fluid, honest, careful in a way that doesn’t hide anything but still keeps a part of her close to the chest.

“So, let’s talk about it,” you say, leaning back in your chair, mic close to your mouth. “The elephant in the room.”

Paige raises an eyebrow, amused. “There’s an elephant?”

“There is,” you nod seriously. “Its name is Geno Auriemma.”

She laughs—light, warm, fond.

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, we’re gonna go there,” you grin. “Because we’ve talked about Minnesota, we’ve talked about middle school, we’ve talked about how you terrorized local basketball courts by age twelve. But I want to know—why UConn? Why Geno? You had offers from literally everyone.”

She exhales slowly, as if this is a question she’s answered before but never gets tired of answering.

“I think... deep down, I always knew.”

“Why though?”

“The legacy,” she says first. “The culture. The players who came before me. It wasn’t just about playing at a top program. It was about pressure. UConn has this... weight to it. You don’t go there unless you’re willing to be great.”

You tilt your head, lips curling.

“So you just wanted to be surrounded by greatness?”

She smirks back. “Yeah. Kind of like right now.”

You cough, trying to cover the grin that breaks out too fast.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you flirting with your host mid answer?”

“You started it.”

“Very unprofessional. I’m literally just doing my job.”

“And doing it very well,” she says, with zero hesitation.

You blink. The room feels warmer. Or maybe it’s just you. You pull it back together, even if it takes effort.

“Okay. Back on track before I combust,” you mutter. “UConn. Talk me through it. Year one. Year two. Everything.”

She exhales again, a little softer now.

“It changed me,” she says simply.

You let the pause settle. “How?”

She looks at the ceiling, then down at her hands, fingers lightly curled in her lap. “I think there’s this myth that when you get to a place like UConn, you arrive fully formed. Like, you’re already who you’re supposed to be. But I wasn’t. Not even close.”

You nod, gently. “None of us are at eighteen.”

“I was scared,” she admits. “I was confident on the court, yeah. But everything off it? The pressure. The expectations. The comparisons. It messed with my head.”

There’s no pity in your expression—just knowing. You’ve watched too many athletes burn out under the same spotlight.

“I got hurt, too,” she continues. “Sophomore year. That knee.”

Your voice softens. “I remember.”

“Everyone remembers. It’s weird, you know? Being reduced to a timeline. ‘Six weeks out. Six months. A year. Will she be back for March? Is she ever gonna be the same?’ I stopped being a person and started being... a question.”

You don’t rush in with sympathy. You just let her have the silence. She fills it naturally.

“But I had people,” she says, voice gentler now. “My teammates. The trainers. Geno.”

“What was he like through that?” you ask. “Because people love to paint him as this gruff, yelling machine.”

She grins. “He is. But also... he listens. When you let him. When I was quiet—too quiet—he noticed. And he pulled me aside one day after practice. Didn’t yell. Just said, ‘I know it sucks. But you’re still here. That matters.’”

You write that quote down before you realize you’re doing it.

You glance at her again, and she’s watching you with a kind of cautious ease, like she’s not used to people writing her words down without turning them into headlines.

You smile. “You grew up at UConn.”

She nods. “I really did.”

“Who was your rock while you were there?”

“Azzi,” she says immediately.

There’s a new kind of stillness in her voice. Familial, rooted, undeniable.

“Azzi was—she is—one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met,” Paige continues. “Like, I’d be on the couch recovering and she’d come in from shooting for two hours and say, ‘Want to play Uno?’ Like it was nothing.”

You laugh. “What’s the Uno score between you two?”

“Oh, I stopped keeping track when I realized she cheats.”

“She what?”

“Allegedly,” Paige adds, eyes twinkling.

You grin. “I’m putting that in the episode title. ‘Paige Bueckers Accuses Azzi Fudd of Cheating at Uno.’”

“She’s gonna kill me,” Paige laughs.

“She’ll love it.” You hesitate. “It sounds like you really leaned on her.”

“I did,” she says. “But not just for the injuries or the hard stuff. For the little stuff too. Like, post-game takeout orders. Netflix recs. The stupid stuff that makes it all feel normal.”

“And what about team chemistry?” you ask. “Because from the outside, that UConn squad felt... locked in. Like you’d die for each other.”

“We would’ve,” she says softly.

You’re quiet for a beat. “That real, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we had our fights. We had our off days. But we always knew how to come back to center. I think that’s what made it work.”

You sit in that. The weight of it. The warmth.

“What was the moment you knew,” you ask slowly, “that you weren’t just good—you were built for this?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mouth moves around the air like she’s sifting through time.

“There was a game my junior year,” she says. “We were down at halftime. I’d missed, like, seven shots. Geno told me I looked like I forgot who I was.”

You smile at the phrasing. “Classic.”

“Yeah. But it hit me. Because he was right. I’d let doubt take over. So the second half, I didn’t think. I just played. And I think I had, like... seventeen points in the third quarter alone.”

You whistle. “That’s not just playing. That’s poetry.”

She shrugs. “That’s UConn.”

You glance down, heart still tight from the way she said all of it—like she left pieces of herself behind on that court.

“You ever miss it?” you ask gently.

She nods, quick. “All the time.”

“What do you miss most?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The routine. The locker room. The smell of old sweat and bad jokes. Running suicides and pretending not to cry. Group chats about who forgot to bring their shoes. You know—real team stuff.”

“God,” you murmur, laughing, “that’s weirdly specific and deeply nostalgic.”

She grins. “It’s the stuff no one sees that sticks.” You nod again, feeling it. You’ve never been a college athlete, but you’ve been on enough sidelines to understand how those echoes live in you long after the lights fade. “And I trusted my gut when I went there. I still do.” You lift your gaze. Her voice drops, just slightly. “It’s never let me down.”

Your breath hitches.

Something about the way she says it—low, unwavering, not for show—cracks open a tiny place in you. You mirror it without thinking.

“I know what you mean,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a beat. Neither of you look away. Neither of you speak. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, not forced. Just... full.

If Em were in the room, she’d throw something at you. If your editor were watching live, they’d be marking timestamps for clips. You only break the stare because you have to. Not because you want to. You glance down at your notes, which might as well be written in a foreign language now. Nothing on the page matters as much as the thing still buzzing between you and her. When you look back up, Paige is watching you like she’s been doing it the whole time.

You clear your throat. “Well. That was a moment.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

“I think I blacked out.”

She laughs, soft and low. “You should trust your gut more.”

You smile, a little breathless. “I think I just did.”

The mics are still rolling. But it doesn’t feel like they’re there.

You ease into the next part of the conversation with practiced grace, but inside, your heart’s still caught on that last moment. The weight of her words. The look that didn’t blink. You’ve had sparks with guests before, but this… this isn’t a spark. It’s a slow burn, one you feel blooming low in your chest, rising like tidewater. Dangerous. Delicious. And entirely unprofessional. But you’re past the point of pretending you don’t enjoy it.

“So,” you say into the mic, voice steadied by muscle memory more than calm, “we’ve talked childhood. We’ve talked college. Let’s talk now. Dallas. Big city. New team. WNBA life. What’s that been like for you so far?”

Paige shifts in her seat. She’s a little more relaxed now—arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly spinning the cap of her water bottle. She smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s... a lot,” she admits, almost laughing at herself. “There’s no other way to say it. It’s fast. Like, faster than I expected. Not just the game—though the speed of the league is insane—but everything. Schedules. Flights. Practices. Media. I feel like I live out of a suitcase now.”

You lean forward a little, eyes on her. “No more dorm room comfort zones.”

“Exactly. I miss knowing where everything is. My spots. The routine. But this—this is pushing me. It’s making me grow. I like that.”

“Tell me about the team,” you say, pen loosely tucked behind your ear, even though you’re not using it anymore. “Because that’s not just any locker room. You’ve got Arike. You’ve got DiJonai. That’s some serious personality to walk into.”

She laughs, head tilting back for a second. “It’s wild. In the best way. Arike’s got this energy that’s just... loud in the most joyful, chaotic way. She’ll walk into practice already roasting everyone. And DiJonai is the most stylish person I’ve ever met. She’ll show up in a full fit at 8 a.m. like it’s fashion week.”

You grin. “Do you feel like the rookie?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling again. “They keep me humble. Arike made me carry her bag once just because I beat her at a shooting drill.”

“That’s hazing.”

“She called it character building.”

“Same thing.”

“She’s lucky I like her.”

“You like them both?”

“I do,” she says, with warmth that feels earned. “It’s different from college. You don’t have that built-in family right away. You’ve gotta prove yourself. Earn their trust. But they’ve been really supportive. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

“Do you mess up a lot?”

She shrugs. “I think everyone does. But I try to learn fast.”

“And leadership?” you ask. “You were the leader at UConn. Now you’re the rookie again. How’s that shift been?”

She hesitates—just enough for you to catch it.

“It’s humbling,” she says after a beat. “At UConn, people looked to me. Now I’m learning to speak less, listen more. It’s weird, finding your voice again. In a new system. A new city.”

You nod. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a good job here.”

Her eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got presence. And you don’t dodge the real stuff.”

A pause. Not long, but full. Charged.

“I think that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all week,” she says, voice low.

“Maybe I’ll try to beat it before we’re done.”

“Now that’s dangerous,” she says, echoing the phrase from earlier, lips twitching at the edges.

The air between you pulls tighter, warmer. You push forward before it swallows you whole.

“All right,” you say, clearing your throat like that’ll clear the heat in your chest. “Walk me through a day in the life of Paige Bueckers. Not game day. Just... a random off-day in Dallas.”

She exhales like it’s a relief to shift gears.

“I wake up late,” she admits, eyes flicking to yours like she’s confessing a crime. “I’m not a morning person unless I have to be. So maybe 9:30, 10?”

“A rebel,” you murmur.

She smiles. “I stretch. Journal sometimes. Depends on the mood. Then maybe a walk. I like walking. Especially in new places.”

“City walks? Nature? What’s the vibe?”

“City. I like the noise. Headphones in. No destination.”

You hum. “You people watch?”

“Always.”

“And the music?”

She smirks. “What do you think I listen to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “Oh, we’re flipping the interview now?”

“Just curious,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye. “What does your gut tell you?”

You lean back, arms crossed, mock-thinking.

“You strike me as an R&B girl,” you say. “Smooth, layered, a little introverted. You’ve definitely got some SZA in rotation. Maybe Summer Walker. Some old Alicia Keys when you’re feeling dramatic.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed.

“But,” you continue, slowly, “I also think you secretly listen to sad Taylor Swift songs on planes.”

That does it. She laughs so hard she folds in on herself, hand over her mouth.

“I—how did you—”

“I knew it,” you say, victorious. “You’re a ‘Clean’ or ‘The Archer’ type, huh?”

She’s still laughing. “You don’t miss.”

“You are the archer,” you tease. “Careful aim. Hidden feelings. Lowkey brooding.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re exposing me.”

“You exposed yourself, Bueckers.”

She grins. “You’ve been studying me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just doing my homework.”

“Dangerous,” she repeats again, softer this time.

You catch her gaze, and there it is—something wordless passing between you. Not scripted. Not planned. Just real.

Em’s voice crackles in your ear piece again, distant but amused, “Tell them to get a room.”

You cough. “Sorry, my producer says we’re flirting too hard.”

“Is she wrong?” Paige asks, still smiling.

“Isn’t that for the audience to decide?”

You both laugh. But it’s different now—layered. Knowing. You glance back down at your outline and realize, again, that you haven’t touched it in ten minutes.

“Any hobbies?” you ask, lighter now. “Other than walking with your headphones in and contemplating your entire emotional landscape through sad pop lyrics?”

She groans. “Stop.”

You grin. “Never.”

“I read,” she offers, regaining composure. “Mostly sports bios, but sometimes fiction. Stuff that lets me disappear a little.”

“And when you want to reappear?”

She looks at you, half-tilted smile, eyes softer. “I guess… I come back to things like this. Conversations. People who see me.”

You weren’t ready for that one. You blink, breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you say, voice suddenly a little unsteady, “hi.”

She mirrors your tone. “Hi.”

And for the third time in less than an hour, you forget entirely that there are cameras on.

You lean back into your chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“All right,” you say, tone shifting into something more playful, “you’ve survived the deep dive. You’ve given us poetry, heartbreak, growth arcs. But now it’s time for the real journalism.”

Paige raises a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no.”

“Rapid fire round,” you announce, adjusting your mic dramatically. “No overthinking. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. You ready?”

She nods slowly, suspicious but smiling. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Favorite cheat meal.”

“Chick-fil-A. Spicy deluxe.”

You fake a gasp. “Problematic and spicy. Bold choice.”

She snorts. “Gotta be honest.”

“Pre-game ritual?”

“Getting lost in the music. Right sock on before the left.”

“Superstitious or just vibing?”

“Superstitious. Like, irrationally.”

You make a note. “We’ll revisit that in therapy.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“Biggest pet peeve?”

“People chewing with their mouths open.”

“That’s fair. What are you bad at?”

There’s a pause, a beat longer than expected. She licks her lips, almost shy.

“Texting back,” she admits.

“Oh?” You lean forward, faux serious. “We’ve found the flaw.”

“Hey,” she says, defensive but laughing. “I read them! I just… don’t reply. Or I do, like, in my head. It’s a problem.”

“You know,” you muse, “that’s dangerous behavior for someone flirting on a podcast.”

She meets your gaze, eyes gleaming. “Who says I won’t reply to you?”

The silence after that is louder than anything you’ve recorded today.

You raise your brows, smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. “We’ll circle back.”

She grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You break eye contact because if you don’t, you’ll fall face-first into it again. Instead, you shuffle your notes, breathe slowly, and shift the tone with practiced ease.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “can I tell you something?”

Paige blinks, surprised by the sudden turn, but nods. “Yeah.”

You rest your elbows on your knees, fingers laced loosely. The studio feels smaller now, intimate. Like the lights have dimmed without anyone touching a switch.

“I started this podcast in my college dorm,” you begin. “Borrowed mics. Blankets tacked on the walls for soundproofing. No sponsors. No following. Just… this need to make space for women’s sports. For athletes who were always doing the most and getting the least attention.”

Paige’s expression shifts—softer, listening in a different way.

“I was mad,” you continue. “That no one was talking about it. Mad that I had to dig through forums and niche blogs to find out when a W game was airing. Mad that girls were breaking records and getting two seconds of coverage between football updates.”

You glance at her, and she’s not smiling anymore. She’s just watching you, gaze warm and unwavering.

“So I built this,” you say. “One episode at a time. And now we’re here. You’re here. And it means a lot.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to respond. Just lets it breathe.

Then she says, quiet and sincere, “Thank you.”

You look up. “For what?”

“For doing it,” she replies. “For caring. For showing up. For giving people like me space to be more than stats and soundbites.”

It hits you harder than you expect. You swallow, nod.

“Sometimes it feels like yelling into the void,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I hear you.”

And God, the way she says it. Like it’s not just about this podcast. Like she sees more than you’re willing to show. Like she’s been listening to you, even before she stepped into the studio.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You’re the first to shift, eyes flicking down to your notes. But your voice is soft when you ask the next question.

“All right. Last one. No pressure.”

She leans back a little, sensing the shift. “Hit me.”

“What’s something people always get wrong about you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Paige’s gaze drops to her hands, fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle again. She breathes in slowly, then out.

“That I’m always put together,” she says finally.

You don’t speak. You just let her keep going.

“I think people look at the highlights and the press and assume I’ve got it all figured out. That I’m calm. Collected. That I don’t break down. But I do. A lot. I get nervous. I overthink. I put so much pressure on myself it sometimes feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins a little at the edges.

“I smile through it, because that’s what people expect. But inside? I’m scared all the time. That I’m not enough. That I’ll mess up. That they’ll stop believing in me.”

You nod, slow. “That’s real.”

She exhales. “Yeah.”

You glance at her, and your tone gentles even more.

“Me too,” you say.

She turns toward you.

“I get nervous before every interview,” you admit. “Even now. Especially now.”

Her brows lift slightly. “With me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re… more than I expected.” That makes her smile again. Small. Honest. “You’re doing great,” you tell her.

“So are you,” she replies, and something shifts again in the air—like a curtain pulled back, or a room getting quieter when someone important walks in.

The lights haven’t changed. The mics are still on. But everything feels different. You don’t need to say anything else. You just sit in it. Together.

You’ve never wanted an interview to end less.

It’s not just that the episode’s been good—though, objectively, it’s been one of your best. The pacing, the banter, the rhythm. The intimacy that crept in somewhere around the midpoint and never left. It’s all been magnetic. Electric. Like your favorite kind of story, the one you fall into so deeply you forget you’re holding the book.

But time’s up. You feel it before Em signals it in your ear. Before the last question fades into a silence thick with things unsaid.

You tap the edge of the mic once and clear your throat, voice calm but low.

“Well… that’s gonna do it for today’s episode of She Scores.”

Paige’s eyes are still on you, softer than they were an hour ago.

You glance at her, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth.

“Paige Bueckers, thank you for coming through, for sharing your story, and for ruining all other guests for me from this point forward.”

She laughs under her breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it,” you say, more serious now. “This was special.”

She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“I had fun,” she says.

You nod once, throat tightening for some reason you don’t have time to name.

“I’m your host,” you say into the mic, still looking at her, “and if you need me, I’ll be rewatching this episode on mute just to study eye contact.”

She lets out a full laugh—quiet, disbelieving, charmed. You don’t break the stare.

“And as always,” you finish, voice slow and warm, “thanks for listening. We’ll see you next time.”

The red light clicks off.

The studio doesn’t move right away. It rarely does. Your crew’s used to your pacing, your cadence. They let the moment breathe. But eventually, lights dim to neutral, camera arms swing away, and a few muted voices pick up as people begin unplugging cables and shutting down feeds.

You lean back in your seat, drawing a slow breath.

She stretches her legs slightly, then looks over at you. “That went fast.”

You nod. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

She stands first. You do the same. Neither of you rushes.

Em walks past the set, holding a half-rolled cable over her shoulder. She catches your eye and smirks. You ignore her.

Paige lingers by the couch, hands in her pockets, looking around the studio like she wants to memorize it.

You don’t say anything. You just watch her watching everything.

After a beat, you walk over and gesture toward the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She nods. “Cool.”

You step into the quiet hallway side by side. The air’s cooler here, and the low hum of fluorescent lights follows you down the corridor until you reach the side exit near the green room. You stop there, under a small overhead light. It's soft. Pale. Like a halo waiting to happen.

Paige turns slightly and leans back against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool brick, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good at this,” she says.

You tilt your head, amused. “The podcast?”

She shrugs. “All of it. This space. The way you talk to people. It feels... safe.”

That takes the wind out of you a little. In the best way.

You take a small step closer.

“You made it easy,” you say, voice low.

She smiles again. Not wide. Just real. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then—without a word—she pulls out her phone and holds it toward you, screen lit up on the contact page.

“In case I need help prepping for interviews,” she says. You take the phone, eyebrows raised. “Or something like that,” she adds, teasing but quiet.

You type in your number, thumb hovering for a second before you hit save. You don’t add an emoji or anything extra. Just your name. Clean. Simple. But your heart’s not moving simple. It’s skipping. Tripping.

You hand the phone back and she looks at it for a second, nods once, then locks the screen and slips it back into her pocket.

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” you echo.

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just unfinished.

You don’t hug. You don’t say too much. You don’t have to.

She opens the door and steps out into the early evening light. You watch her walk down the path toward the lot—hair catching gold from the sunset, one headphone already in.

She doesn’t look back.

But you stay there, standing in the doorway, your hands tucked into your pockets like maybe they’ll keep you from feeling too much.

A moment later, Em walks up behind you, pausing in the doorway.

She glances at Paige’s retreating figure. Then at you. “You are so down bad.”

You exhale. Slow. A smile cracks the corner of your mouth.

“I know.”

You don’t deny it. You just watch the door swing slowly shut, and try not to already miss her.

It’s just past 8:30 p.m. when a knock comes.

You’re on your couch, bare-faced, in sweats, hair tied up in a lopsided bun. The post-interview high has settled into a quiet hum in your chest, the kind that doesn’t want to fade but also can’t be sustained. You haven’t eaten yet. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The remote’s resting on your stomach. You were debating rewatching the episode clips Em already sent you—Paige’s soft laugh on loop, her eyes lingering on yours like there was more she wasn’t saying.

You haven’t even touched your phone. You’ve been too afraid to find out whether she texted or didn’t.

The knock happens again.

You freeze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery, not friends, not—

No.

No way.

You rise slowly, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and pad barefoot toward the door.

When you open it, you forget how to breathe.

Paige Bueckers is standing on your doorstep, backlit by the hallway’s overhead glow, a bunch of wildflowers in one hand and two overfilled grocery bags in the other. She’s wearing joggers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair down, glasses slightly crooked, like she threw the whole look together in a rush.

You stare.

She blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, dumbly.

She lifts the flowers a little. “So… I might’ve told Em I wanted to see you again and she might’ve given me your address.”

You narrow your eyes. “That little traitor.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘She’s down bad so don’t mess this up.’”

You groan into your hand.

“You’re not the only one,” Paige adds, laughing.

You step back and open the door wider. “Get in here before someone sees you and sells the story to DeuxMoi.”

She steps inside. You take the grocery bags from her hand, eyes scanning their contents—pasta, wine, garlic bread, salad mix, two pints of ice cream, and a suspiciously expensive-looking block of parmesan.

You blink. “This is… a lot of food.”

“I panicked,” she admits, cheeks pink. “I was going to ask you out for dinner tomorrow, but then I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s—God, it’s not weird. It’s really not weird.”

“Good.” She shifts the flowers in her arms. “Because I was kind of already halfway here when I realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You reach for the flowers. “Consider me asked. And saying yes.” You pause. “Like… yes, yes.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little breathless.

You grin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both barefoot in your kitchen. She’s stirring the sauce while you try, and fail, to open the bottle of wine. Soft music plays from the speaker you usually reserve for sad Sunday cleaning sessions.

There’s flour on your cheek, red sauce on her hoodie sleeve, and an entire salad still untouched in a bowl because the two of you got distracted talking about pre-game pump up songs and you accidentally brought up her Rookie of the Month highlight reel with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I knew you watched that ten times,” she teases, hip bumping you lightly.

“I was doing research.”

“For what? Your dreams?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She sets the spoon down and turns to you, leaning her hip into the counter. “This is nice.”

You nod, heart thudding against your ribs. “It is.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not uncomfortable—just full again. The kind of silence where things settle without losing spark.

Then she tilts her head.

“I didn’t want the night to end,” she says, voice lower now. “After the podcast. I kept thinking about everything I didn’t say.”

“Like what?” you ask, careful not to move too fast.

She meets your gaze. “Like how I didn’t want it to be just one interview. Or one conversation. Or one night.”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer, the space between you narrowing to something charged.

“I know we’re both busy,” she murmurs. “Schedules. Travel. Different States. Media stuff. But I wanted you to know that I meant it—when I said you made me feel safe. Like I could be myself.”

You swallow. “You were yourself.”

“Because of you,” she says, no hesitation.

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness in her voice. Her hand brushes yours on the countertop.

“So,” she says softly, “if this is just dinner, that’s okay. But if it’s something more—if it could be more—I’d like that.”

You don’t speak. You just lean in and press your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut, everything inside you humming.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper.

Her fingers graze yours, then hold.

Outside, the city keeps moving—cars passing, lights blinking, lives rushing past. But in your kitchen, time slows down. The sauce simmers. The wine breathes. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.

[cressidagrey]

The Drawer

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  There is a drawer in Felicity's mind.

Warnings and Notes: Some more context for the Silverstone chapter, also some insight into Piastri family dynamics in this verse. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

There was a drawer in Felicity’s mind that no one knew about.

Not Oscar.

Not Bee.

Not even the professors who used to stare at her as if she were a marvel or a mistake.

Certainly not her parents, who had made her intelligence the defining trait of her existence, before they realised it also made her uncontrollable.

It wasn’t metaphorical. Not really. She’s always seen her thoughts as architecture—corridors, rooms, switches—and that drawer? It was real.

Smooth metal. Coded lock. Hidden behind a panelled wall, so even she had to work to reach it. She built it young, instinctively, the moment she realised how much of her mind was terrifying.

Not just brilliant.

Terrifying.

Because she knew what she was capable of.

Not just the soft brilliance people praised her for—solving equations on the train, reading journals like bedtime stories, explaining mechanical stress tolerances to a three-year-old. That was the friendly kind of smart. The kind people could admire without being afraid of it.

It was a drawer in the deepest part of her brain. Filled with truths she never let surface. Scenarios she’d played out but never spoken. Numbers she’d crunched just to see how far she could push a system, a structure, a person.

She didn’t like the contents.

Not because they were monstrous. But because they were possible.

A drawer full of the things she could do.

And that was the thing.

Felicity could do so many things.

She could write a paper that would fundamentally reshape the way the world viewed mechanical cognition. She could dismantle institutions in six bullet points and a spreadsheet. She could design systems so precise they would make countries pivot. She could break things. Build new ones. Rewrite rules.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew how dangerous it was to hold too much power in your head.

That was the terrifying part about Felicity’s mind. Not just that it could solve things. But that it could predict them. Build them. Unbuild them. Break a system with a smile, bend rules until they screamed without ever technically snapping them.

The drawer held plans she’d never use. Arguments she’d never make. Responses sharp enough to cut and leave no scar. Equations that could manipulate systems most people didn’t even know were rigged. Ideas that could change industries—ruin them, in some cases—if she ever let them out.

She never had. She never would.

Because Felicity, for all her brilliance, for all the terrifying elasticity of her mind, had made a choice very early on:

Kindness.

Kindness as rebellion. Kindness as resistance. Kindness not as softness, but as control.

It would be easy—so easy—to weaponise what she knew. 

To be cold, untouchable, triumphant in the way the world sometimes worshipped people who were sharp enough to draw blood. 

But Felicity had grown up under that weight. 

The genius child. 

The gifted girl. 

The one with the test scores that could split atoms and the eyes that saw too much. She had seen how quickly awe turned to fear. How quickly people began to see you as other.

So Felicity failed the IQ tests. Not failed, exactly—but she answered just enough incorrectly. 

They’d tested her, of course. Again and again.

She’d made sure to get a few wrong every time.

Not because she couldn’t get them right.

But because she’d already figured out what perfect scores meant.

Perfect scores meant more pressure.

More isolation.

More adults speaking about her instead of to her.

More expectations that stole her childhood before she could claim it.

So she let the number drop.

She missed the logic trap here, the pattern extrapolation there.

Felicity learned how to underperform just enough to be labelled brilliant, but not inhuman.

Even now, as an adult, she sometimes wondered what her real number was.

And then forced herself not to care.

160.

It was the number she gave when someone asked. A score high enough to seem impressive. Low enough to still feel human. 

Kind of. 

Even Oscar didn’t know the rest.

He knew she was clever. Knew she could rewire an engine with her eyes closed, design systems on paper napkins, debug code while stirring a risotto. Knew she’d earned a PhD while raising a toddler. Knew she could predict tyre degradation better than some engineers.

But he didn’t know the extent.

She never let him see it all.

Not because she didn’t trust him. But because she needed one place in the world where she wasn’t being measured. Where she could be small and ordinary and barefoot in the kitchen, with flour on her hands and Bee at her hip.

Oscar made space for that version of her. Never asked for anything else.

He called her brilliant sometimes, but always like it was a secret he was lucky to know.

Still, the drawer remained. Locked. Heavy.

Felicity could open it any time. Could unspool every thought, every possibility, every blueprint. She had the capacity to reshape things in her image—universities, companies, ideologies.

But Felicity didn’t want that.

She wanted to plant tomatoes and teach Bee how to read tire degradation charts. She wanted to place mosaics on the bathroom wall and write love notes into the margins of Oscar’s travel calendar. She wanted to bake bread and be left alone.

Sometimes, she worried what people would think if they really knew.

If they saw how far her mind stretched. If they knew the truth behind the quiet way she lived.

She wondered if they’d be afraid of her.

So she kept it hidden. Chose love. Chose patience. Choose not to win every argument, not to finish every sentence, not to prove every point. Choose not to be the sharpest thing in every room.

She built a life where brilliance could live without needing to bare its teeth.

Even Oscar—her Oscar, the one person who saw her fully—didn't know the contents of the drawer. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

Because he didn’t love her for what she could do.

He loved her for who she chose to be.

And that mattered more than any number ever had.

Felicity Piastri could break the world if she wanted.

But she'd rather raise one small girl to love it instead.

***

Oscar wasn’t stupid.

He’d never been. Not about her.

From the outside, maybe it looked like Felicity lived simply. That she liked soft things and quiet days, and teaching their daughter how to make pancakes shaped like brake callipers. 

Maybe it looked like she’d set her brilliance aside—like she’d traded academia for motherhood, engineering for sourdough starters and thrifted overalls.

But Oscar had seen it.

Oscar had known for a long time that Felicity was smarter than she let on.

Her intelligence wasn’t a secret—she had a doctorate, after all, and could explain things to Bee that most engineers would struggle to unpack for adults. She could read technical sheets like bedtime stories, fix electrical issues in the garage with a sigh, and beat him at chess in nine moves while stirring dinner on the stove.

Oscar knew Felicity was brilliant.

Not in the casual, top-of-the-class way most people used the word. Not even in the terrifyingly competent, engineer-who-fixes-cars-better-than-his-mechanics kind of way.

Felicity’s mind was something else entirely.

Felicity remembered everything.

Not just formulas or wiring diagrams or where she’d last seen his keys (spoiler: it was always where he swore they weren’t). 

Felicity remembered things with the kind of clarity that felt almost impossible. Entire pages of textbooks from university, word-for-word. The serial number of a broken dishwasher part she’d glimpsed once six months ago. The lyrics to a song Bee had sung in a kindergarten play, she only rehearsed at home once.

It wasn’t something she ever bragged about. Felicity didn’t do that. But Oscar had seen the way it worked, the way her eyes would go a little distant when she was accessing something buried in a mental archive no one else could reach. Like she was pulling open a drawer in her head and retrieving exactly the right file.

But there was something else. Something beneath the brilliance she allowed the world to see.

What most people didn’t realise—what even her own professors hadn’t figured out—was that Felicity Piastri was smarter than she let on.

It wasn’t that she lied. It was that she edited.

She softened the edges. She chose quiet, every time. She let other people win arguments she could’ve dismantled in seconds. She smiled through conversations she could have rerouted, rewired, rewritten.

Oscar saw it. In the way she paused before answering a loaded question. In the way she hesitated before explaining something complex, like she was calibrating, gauging how much truth to give. In the way she’d sit silently for long moments before asking a single question that dismantled the entire problem.

It was in the way she sometimes stared at a problem—not with confusion, but with hesitation. Like she already knew the answer. Had known it five minutes ago. But was weighing whether or not to share it.

It was in the way she let other people think they’d found the solution first. The way she edited down her thoughts into bite-sized pieces, digestible, unthreatening. The way she built space for others to keep up, even when she could’ve sprinted ahead.

Oscar saw it. Always had.

She never talked about it directly. Never told him the full of it. But he’d seen flashes. Once, early in their marriage, she’d rewritten the firmware on Bee’s baby monitor after it glitched. Not patched. Rewritten. In an hour. While breastfeeding.

Oscar had seen her write equations upside down on napkins. Had seen her reprogram Bee’s tablet because the parental controls were inefficient. Had watched her make an engineer go quiet with a single, softly-phrased observation.

She did it all while wearing thrifted cardigans and cutting the crusts off sandwiches.

But Oscar saw.

He never asked what else she was capable of. Didn’t want to know the limits—if there even were any. It wasn’t fear. Just reverence.

Because she never used it as a weapon. Never used it for leverage. Never made him feel small.

She could’ve built empires. She chose to build a home instead.

And Oscar thought that was the most terrifying, awe-inspiring thing of all.

He’d seen the shape of her mind in the way she mapped out their life. The way she always knew when he’d be tired before he did. The way she tracked logistics and race schedules, cross-referenced nutrition plans and school rosters and still found time to replace the smoke alarm batteries before he remembered they even existed.

He saw it in Bee, too. That fierce little spark that Felicity somehow guided with both freedom and quiet structure. Like she knew how to give Bee the right questions before she ever offered the answers.

And her memory… the older they got, the more years they layered onto each other, the more he came to realise: it wasn’t just impressive. It was intimate.

Because Felicity didn’t just remember numbers and maps, and measurements.

She remembered him.

Things he’d said in passing, half-asleep or distracted, that she somehow tucked away like treasures. The fact that he hated the sound of crinkling chip bags. That he liked exactly twelve raspberries in his porridge. That he didn’t like being touched when he was overstimulated after a bad race — but he did like having her nearby, just within reach.

She remembered the stories he only told once. The ones he hadn’t even realized were important until she brought them up again, years later, gently, like holding something fragile.

She remembered the colour of the shirt he wore the first time he kissed her.

She remembered all the versions of him — even the ones he tried to leave behind.

Sometimes, Oscar thought about how exhausting it must be. How heavy it must feel to carry everything. To have a brain that never let anything go. 

Oscar had always known she was something more. That brilliance was only the surface. That Felicity could see things others didn’t, feel patterns before they existed, stretch logic so thin it became poetry.

She never showed it all. Not even to him.

But he saw it anyway.

In the way she rewrote financial models to stabilise their family income. In the way she adjusted Bee’s lessons mid-week because she sensed boredom before Bee could say the word. 

In the way she rewired the battery system of his sim rig because she didn’t like the voltage drop, and did it while talking to Bee about the life cycle of stars.

Oscar knew.

He just never said so.

He never said anything. Never pushed. Never asked.

Because he knew—deep in his bones—that Felicity had spent her whole life being treated like a resource. A phenomenon. A marvel to be studied, dissected, and showcased.

He would never do that to her.

What she needed—what he gave—was safety. Space. The freedom to be clever without being dissected for it. The right to choose gentleness without being underestimated.

So he didn’t pry. Didn’t press.

He just held her hand when she needed grounding, listened when she muttered equations under her breath, and kissed her temple when she got that look—that distant, calculating look—before she blinked it away and smiled at him like she hadn’t just solved something the world didn’t even know was broken.

Felicity never showed him the drawer.

She didn’t need to.

Because he already knew what she kept inside it.

And he loved her anyway. Not in spite of it. But because she’d chosen him—and Bee—and love and bread and softness, over every sharp and brilliant thing she could have unleashed instead.

Her mind wasn’t a party trick. It wasn’t a tool. It was an act of love, the way she wielded it.

She used it to take care of the people she loved.

To take care of him.

Oscar wasn’t blind.

She was brilliant. Always had been.

But the most remarkable thing about Felicity wasn’t her mind.

It was the fact that she could’ve been anything—could’ve ruled rooms, reshaped industries, rewired entire schools of thought—and she’d chosen this.

Chosen him.

Chosen Bee.

Chosen tomato plants, and mosaic tiles, and quiet, ordinary joy.

She chose kindness. Again and again and again. 

And he respected the hell out of it.

Because Oscar knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if Felicity ever opened that drawer—if she ever stopped pulling her punches, if she ever decided to stop choosing kindness—then the world would bend.

[no-144444]

Hi! I'd like to request an Oscar Piastri x fem!reader SMAU mixed with an imagine where after they've dated for a while Oscar starts to become more relaxed and maybe even a little careless about him showing reader affection in public😏😏

changed man

꩜ summary: 3 times you realised oscar had changed, and 1 you understood why

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! singer! reader

꩜ a/n: thanks for requesting!

Red Flag on track

You’d noticed a change in Oscar in recent weeks. It was… strange. Oscar didn’t change much. He liked his hair a certain length (no matter how much you begged him to let it grow), he had his favourite clothes and rarely bought new ones, and he liked to be private. 

You thought an invasion of his privacy would make him retreat further, make him even more shy in front of cameras and fans alike. A few weeks ago, paparazzi had taken a picture of Oscar and you kissing, essentially announcing to the world that you two were together for real. It had upset you both, you wanted to tell them when you were ready. They took that from you, and it sucked. You thought it would mean going back to secret rendezvous and no more Grand Prixs.

But Oscar surprised you, as always, and he didn’t. He started kissing you in the paddock, holding your hand, hugging you during a red flag. It was maddening. It was whiplash. 

He walked up to you smiling, fresh out of the car with a red flag out on track for a bad crash, but thankfully, everyone was alright. The garage was buzzing, P1 for Oscar, P2 for Lando, a battle to ensue in the next 5 laps, rain pissing down everyone's necks. He had more than enough data to look at, and knew he still had a race to win, so what was he doing here? His hands circled your waist before you knew what was happening, and his head rested on your own as he talked to Tom over your head. You just stood there, shocked. You could even see his mum in your periphery, raising an eyebrow. You gave her a confused look back, and she just smiled and pulled out her camera to snap a picture of the moment. 

He squeezed your waist. “You alright?” he whispered over the noise in the garage. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was getting water/ sweat all over you, so he leaned in closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you nodded. What the fuck is going on? You asked yourself. He must’ve picked up on it because he couldn’t stop smirking at the people walking by, pretending not to watch you two. He whispered directly into your ear. “You’re beautiful,” and left to get back in the car. 

You felt a bit light-headed. 

The Instagram posts

oscarpiastri

spanish gp

liked by youruser, nicolepiastri, landonorris, and 567,245 others

oscarpiastri Great weekend, thank you for the support from everyone, onto Montreal! @.youruser

comments

youruser always here to support :) -> oscarpiastri and thank god for that :)

user52 i love how he adds in a picture of her even though it doesn't make sense

user44 we stan an obsessed king

lewishamilton kids these days

user909 my goat wins again, in life, and in f1

user77 omg did we all see the way he kissed her when he won -> user321 fr i was like damn get a room you two

user907 i'm in love with Y/n -> oscarpiastri same

user3434 oscar piABStri

user456 bring back sexualising men plz

youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, noahkahan, and 3,425,423 others

youruser bit of osc, bit of friends, and two of me :) (shoutout oscar for being my photographer!) @.oscarpiastri

comments are limited.

oscarpiastri Always :)

oscarpiastri

liked by youruser, landonorris, nicolepiastri, and 598,354 others

oscarpiastri Solid weekend, awesome gig, onto the next! @.youruser

comments are limited

youruser photographer osc strikes again! -> oscarpiastri too good a subject

youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, hattiepiastri and 4,340,982 others

youruser omfg italy u have my heart please don't give it back @.yourfriend1 @.yourfriend2 @.hattiepiastri @.nicolepiastri @.ediepiastri @.maepiastri

comments

oscarpiastri offended tbh -> landonorris sybau -> oscarpiastri jealous -> landonorris pissed off that you constantly parade your relationship in my SINGLE face -> youruser firstly, love you oscar, secondly, I HAVE A FRIEND FOR YOU LANDO PLEASE TEXT ME -> landonorris Y/N Y/L/N I LOVE YOU MORE THAN HE DOES THANK YOU SO MUCH -> oscarpiastri yk I hate you both

hattiepiastri we love a girls trip -> oscarpiastri we HATE a girls trip -> ediepiastri shut uppppp

ediepiastri my perfect angel baby -> youruser my perfect stylist angel baby

nicolepiastri Love you! xxx -> youruser love you more!

user32 oscar be like 'i lost something once'

user312 his sisters ganging up on him? gagged!

user931 lando being desperate is insane

user131 i'm actually so single omfg.

oscarpiastri

liked by hattiepiastri, youruser, leonbridges, and 1,284,408 others

oscarpiastri Y/n appreciation post, so proud of how the tour is going and how beautiful the music sounds. Love you @.youruser

comments

youruser omg osc what is this -> youruser this is too sweet -> oscarpiastri i'm just proud of you :)

landonorris I love how he rubs it in my face that i'm single like holy shit dude, maybe i should take you out next race -> landonorris FUCK THAT SOUNDED WRONG -> landonorris I mean like crash into him not bring him to dinner or something -> landonorris Well actually idm we usually get dinner together on sunday nights sooooo -> youruser girl this is embarrassing sit down.

user48 i'm actually running in front of a train THEY'RE SO CUTE YOUR HONOUR

user31 get yourself a man who makes an appreciation post for NO REASON like omg love me next please

user890 i want them both

user532 parents

user21 holy shit she's gorgeous and talented i can't even hate her

user803 how did he bag her i'm in shock -> hattiepiastri that was me when he brought her home the first time -> nicolepiastri hahaha! me too! -> youruser awww fanks guys :) -> oscarpiastri i love how everyone thinks i have no rizz -> youruser omg i'm going to vomit u did not just unironically use rizz -> hattiepiastri we don't think it, we know it, this is an example :|

3. Kissing in tyre closets

He won again, and he was admittedly insatiable. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was the half-bottle of champagne he drank, maybe it was just you, sitting in the corner of the garage so quietly and looking so fucking beautiful, but he knew he wasn’t going into a debrief without at least a kiss, but hopefully a bit more. 

He grabbed your hand and you assumed it was to walk you off to the car, promising he’d see you later once his media was done, but he didn’t. He looked over his shoulder for a split second and walked right into the tyre storage, pushed you up against the door once he’d closed it, and kissed the fuck out of you. You gasped into his mouth immediately, taken aback by his forwardness, and downright dirty tendencies. Though, that was quickly turned into a groan when his tongue pushed into your mouth, and his arms wrapped tightly around your middle, holding you against him like he couldn’t get enough. He smirked into the kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck, his plan working perfectly. God, kisses with you were intoxicating. 

“So pretty,” he broke from your lips to continue their attack on your neck. “Could see you from the top step, so beautiful,” he practically whined as his hands drifted to the hem of your shirt. You gasped. 

“Oscar Jack Piastri-” you started, but he was looking at you with those pleading eyes, the ones he knew drove you insane. 

“Please?” he added, and your resolve was broken. Your t-shirt was on the floor and his hands were already making quick work of your bra. 

Then a bump on the door. You both stopped, like how you would back at school when you realised you’d be murdered for being in the boys dorms and it was already lights out, with a teacher at the door ready for room checks. He went bright red, though disappointment coursed through his veins. He helped you get dressed as you tried to forget this moment, almost melting into a puddle of shame. Finally, Oscar opened the door, giving an oscar-worthy performance of pretending the door was stuck. Fat chance his mechanic believed it, but he couldn’t give a fuck, he was already hard and he had a press conference 5 minutes ago. 

“Wait for me, yeah?” he whispered, sending you in the direction of his driver’s room. “I’m not finished.” He added with a wolfish smirk. 

What had gotten into him? 

The explanation

You genuinely didn’t know what to do with yourself, here he was after years of being private, posting random photos of you in his race week dumps, hugging you during red flags, and not being embarrassed when you were found in the tyre closet, seconds away from being fully naked. 

“What is going on?” you asked one day, your legs strewn across his lap as you lay on the couch, scrolling through his instagram, trying desperately to make sense of his sudden personality switch. He dropped his phone onto his lap and turned to you, confused. “Where’s Oscar and what have you done with him?” 

He let out one of those real Oscar laughs, and you couldn’t help but smile. “What?” he chuckled, rubbing up and down your legs. “What do you mean?” 

You groaned into a pillow. “Ugh, you know what I mean! I kisses in public, and the hugging me during a red flag, and the nearly fucking indecently exposing myself to a member of your team!” you scoffed when he laughed. “It’s not funny!” you playfully kicked him, but he just caught your foot and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your calf. He was so gentle sometimes, it blew your mind.

“I love you,” he shrugged. “I was talking with my mum over the break and she said I don’t physically touch you a lot, and she’d noticed physical touch was your love language. She just… told me to do it more,” he explained. “Do you not like it?”  You loved it, every single second of it. Sure, it sometimes resulted in embarrassing moments or stupid pictures of you being posted on the internet, but you loved it. You grinned. “I love it,” you admitted, though you knew it would result in endless teasing. He opened his mouth to speak but you kicked his shoulder again. “Shut up.”

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

This chapter is mainly Romance (Rae oriented!) This one is a bit of a filler episode so I have a feeling that you might not enjoy this one as much but nonetheless, HAVE A GOOD READ!

Breakfast was actually quite nice. Jinu had brought back some hang-over soup, whilst Romance brought back some coffee. To top it all off, Mystery slipped Y/N a sweet bread that she had been craving since a week ago. The spicy soup was able to help her wake up, and Jinu had placed a cup of water on the table inconspicuously to Y/N’s ignorance.

‘Okay well, this has been nice but I have to go.’ Y/N unlocked her phone to a notification from the Huntr/x group chat, asking her if she could supervise the upcoming live recording of Golden.

‘What? But you said we still have to practice to be perfect.’ Romance protested immediately, standing with his arms crossed. 

‘Romance-’

‘Rae. My name is Rae-Jin but just call me Rae.’ He breathed, sitting back down in his chair with a whump. 

‘You’re abandoning us to go hang around Huntr/x?’ Jinu rolled his eyes, looking as if Y/N had greatly offended him.

‘Need I remind you that technically I abandoned them for you lot?’ Y/N raised a single eyebrow, hands on her hips in an imposing stance. ‘Besides, you all just need to practice choreo and singing. That’s all you guys.’ Y/N shrugged, picking up her keys and swiping her notebook and phone. She checked her belongings making sure everything was in order. 

‘You’ll call us if something comes up?’ Jinu said, taking Y/N’s phone from her easily, punching in his number and drop-ringing it.

‘Huh, no password? That's not safe Y/N.’ The leader furrowed his brow, trailing off as he handed Y/N’s phone back to her. 

‘And ghost writing music for a demon boy band is?’ Y/N cheeked, nudging him with her shoulder playfully.

‘Touché.’ He let out a soft smile, as Y/N turned her back to grasp a bottle of juice on the table.

‘Hey, I’ll call you guys if anything comes up okay? Keep practicing! I’m gonna go to work.’ Y/N waved as she headed towards the open elevator doors, taking a swig of her drink, replying to a work text.

‘Stay safe!’ Beom called out as the elevator doors closed.

The boys were left in silence, staring at the closed metal doors. Each of them were thinking the same thing.

‘She’ll be ok, right?’ They all asked in unison.

‘The Honmoon is getting weaker, which means that demons will become more prevalent. I don’t know if it’s safe for her to be out there on her own.’ Abel turned to the group, arms crossed over his chest, his compression shirt stretching.

‘I mean, when we first tried to take her soul, it didn’t work. Maybe she’s unaffected by demon powers?’ Mystery reasoned, trying to reassure the group.

‘I’m not one for taking chances, and we just got our producer. What are we going to do if something happens to her?’ Jinu concluded, slipping off his barstool smoothly. 

'Besides, even if they don't take her soul, they can still harm her physically.' Rae shook his head, dissatisfied with Mystery's reason.

‘If she’s with the demon hunters, then shouldn’t she be safe?’ Beom reasoned, pointing out the truth. ‘Maybe we’ll wait for her call?’

‘I think one of us should stick with her, but stay out of sight. Just to be safe.’ Jinu countered, looking disgruntled.

‘I’ll do it.’ Abel offered easily, shrugging his shoulders.

‘No, we need you for choreo. You're the strongest but most of us haven’t got it down perfectly yet.’ Beom shook his head, looking disappointed. Each of the boys felt the urge to follow Y/N, but on the other hand, they wanted to make sure they did justice to Soda Pop, as their debut stage.

‘Rae, you go. You’ve got everything down almost to a T. Report back if you hear anything, make sure you use your phone. I didn’t acquire them as decorations.’ Jinu sighed, waving Rae off, knowing that the pink haired man was already half way out the door.

‘He’s gonna just jump down the stairs in demon form isn’t he?’ Beom asked, looking at Jinu.

‘Mhm.’ Mystery nodded along, as the stair door swung shut with a clank.

‘Aw rats. Why didn’t I think of that this morning?’ Abel whined, slapping a head on his forehead.

‘I don’t know man. You act so stupid at times but we all know you’re not.’ Jinu laughed, slapping Abel on the back.

‘Lower expectations and then deliver the minimum so people are impressed. That's how I got by dear Jinu.’ Nodding cheerfully while holding a thumbs up.

‘Hey.’ Jinu called over a shadowy blue figure, prowling its way from under the marble kitchen island. ‘You’ll watch over her too. Come find me if she runs into anything that could be dangerous.’

The creature purred in agreement, rubbing its blue head against the leg’s over Jinu before sinking into the ground, wearing a small gat on its head.

‘Alright, let’s get back to work. Y/N said she thought we had to work on the verses a bit more.’ Jinu clapped his hands, ushering his friends back into position.

‘I thought it didn’t matter what Y/N thought.’ Mystery snickered, pulling his arms into his beginning position.

‘Whatever. Let's take it from the top.’ 

–

Meanwhile, Y/N had gotten into a chauffeured car, scribbling the lyrics of Takedown in her notebook. The girls were currently in an interview, expressing how Golden reflected each of their own journeys in life. She flipped between pages, pondering if she should start, What It Sounds Like as well. Y/N wasn’t sure if movie logic actually applied in this world, seeing as this was her new reality. 

She decided to also write down the lyrics of What It Sounds Like as well, just in case.

Honestly, since Y/N had received her memories, she’d felt bad for the girls. It wasn’t their fault Y/N had never been invited to anything. She was admittedly, rather anti-social. If people didn’t try to initiate conversation, she would sit there and do her own thing. Y/N wasn’t afraid to be alone with her thoughts as they were usually filled with lyrics and working on her next beat for the girls. Besides, most of the issues were rooted in Celine’s upbringing of Rumi. The girls weren't the ones keeping her away, it was herself and her own insecurities.

‘We’ve arrived Miss L/N.’ The driver spoke, severing Y/N’s train of thought.

‘Thank you sir! Have a good day!’ Y/N called into the car, before swinging the door shut. Y/N rang up Bobby, hoping that he’d pick up. It was still relatively early in the afternoon.  

After a short conversation, Y/N was brought to the back entrance of the studio, given a staff pass and ushered into the dressing room of Huntr/x.

‘Y/N!’ Sorry we didn’t tell you about launching Golden..’ Rumi smiled sheepishly, looking remorseful.

‘It’s alright, I wrote it so you guys could sing it anyways.’ Y/N shrugged, giving Rumi a forgiving smile.

‘You look like you haven’t been sleeping well.’ Mira stood from her chair, walking closer to Y/N, bringing a hand to grip the ghost writer's chin.

‘Have you been staying up late? Y’know that's bad for you.’ The lean girl sighed, rummaging through her bag for eye cream and handing it to Y/N. The still sleepy girl took it gratefully, smearing some of the cream under her eyebags.

‘Were you up late writing a new song?’ Zoey bounced on the spot, her spacebuns bopping along with her.

‘Uhh, kind of!’ Y/N agreed, looking down at her notebook. Technically, she had been writing a new song. Both for Huntr/x and the Saja Boys. Was it bad that she was helping the Saja Boys at the moment? She had been able to slip Beom and Abel away from the manipulative whispering of their former master but…

Was it permanent?

Was it even real?

‘Five till rehearsal guys! Let’s get the ball rolling!’ A studio executive’s voice called out, clapping their hands authoritatively.

‘Rumi, wait. Can I talk to you?’ Y/N gently grasped the wrist of the purple haired girl.

‘Yeah what’s up?’ Rumi beamed, nerves abuzz from the imminent performance.

‘Rumi I-’

‘Come on Huntr/x lets show them how it's done, done, done!’ Bobby yelled, pushing all the girls off into the stage recording area.

Y/N winced, watching the girls get herded off.

‘Y/N! We’ll talk later okay? Wait for me!’ Rumi called back, using both hands to imitate a megaphone.

‘Okay!’ Y/N called back, feeling a cold shiver creep through her pores, raising the hair on her arms. Y/N broke into a cold sweat, shaking slightly as she took her place in a back corner, hidden away from view. 

‘You’re cold.’ A voice whispered, placing a jacket over Y/N’s shoulders.

‘Wha- Romance?’ Y/N spun around, the newly placed jacket on her shoulders billowing around her. Romance’s pink hair was tied up, tucked into a hoodie, his pink bangs peeking out. His face obscured by a high collared shirt underneath. Behind him was… Jinu’s blue tiger? It gave a low rumble, its pupils dilating at the sight of Y/N.

Aw, it was wearing a tiny hat! It was Jinu's demon familiar. Huh, was he concerned for her?

Nah, couldn't be.

‘It’s Rae, and also, before you say anything, this was Jinu’s idea.’ Rae murmured, pulling the jacket firmly around Y/N once more. ‘Come on, let's get your arms through. Can’t have our writer getting sick.’ 

‘Thanks…’ Y/N flushed slightly, a soothing warmth spread over her skin, caught off-guard by the domestication of the act. The opening bars of Golden began to fill the studio, Y/N recognising her song, snatched her eyes from Rae’s lavender, grey eyes. She felt soft fur under her fingertips as the blue tiger rumbled quietly, circling Y/N’s legs.

Rae however, kept his eyes on Y/N, moving to stand next to her, as Y/N watched the girls with intent. 

‘Y’know, I can dance and sing too. They’re nothing special.’ He huffed, slightly perturbed by Y/N’s lack of attention.

‘Hm? Yeah I know.’ Y/N laughed, breathlessly, relenting to Rae’s tiny tantrum. ‘I’d say you’re the best dancer out of the group other than Abel.’

‘Hmph, well Abel was a swordsman for the Emperor. He can adapt to these rough boyish dances.’ Rae flipped his hair casually.

‘I was a court dancer. I performed Jeongjae for royalty. Rae gave a cocky smile, awaiting Y/N’s praise.

The girl gave him a double glance, taking in his tall stature and elegant limbs. It was clear that the boys were all able to dance, however Rae was right. He possessed a certain amount of grace that the rest of the boys made up for with vigour.

‘Huh, I can see it. When I was watching your group practice, you were quite eye-catching.’ Y/N gave him a reassuring smile, gently stoking Rae’s ego.

The pink haired man gave a hum of satisfaction, nodding in approval before the sound Y/N had dreaded pierced through the studio.

Rumi’s voice had faltered.

Y/N stepped forward instantly but her wrist was caught.

‘Where are you going.’ Rae furrowed his brow.

‘I have to talk to her. Rae, I’ll see you when I get home okay?’ Y/N wrapped her other hand around the boy’s wrist, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

Rae’s grip loosened, momentarily stunned by Y/N’s fleeting touch allowing her to slip out of his grasp.

‘You okay?’ Mira placed a hand on Rumi’s shoulder, as the girl in the centre cleared her throat.

‘Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. Let’s take it again! From the top!’ Rumi pointed, walking back to the starting position.

Y/N dug her fingernails into her palm, watching the performance start again from the beginning. A hand gently prised her fingers out of her palms, silently smoothing out her fingers. Y/N turned slightly, seeing Rae’s familiar hoodie next to her for a second before he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

‘I’m done hiding, now I’m shining like I’m born to b-’ Rumi coughed, the music cutting off instantly.

‘Uhm, Rumi? Are you okay?’ Bobby stepped forward. ‘Do you need some water?’

‘I just need five. I’m gonna take five.’ Her eyes were wide, hands covering her throat.

Protests arose, complaints flew across the room.

‘What?’

‘Five? We go live in ten minutes!’

Y/N hurriedly followed Rumi, power walking behind her.

Rumi slammed the dressing room door open, panting heavily as she ripped off a part of her costume. She practically tore off her jacket, staring into the mirror.

‘Rumi!’ Y/N caught up, running toward the trembling girl. She spotted the girl, leaning over the vanity, chest heaving.

‘Y/N… My voice…’ Rumi gasped, trembling as she touched her neck.

‘Rumi listen I know-’

‘Y/N I…’ She shook, her hands pulling up her jacket. 

‘Rumi, I know about your patterns.’ Y/N closed the door behind her calmly, walking toward the panicking girl carefully.

‘How-’

‘You never want to go to the bathhouse with Zoey and Mira. You always wear long sleeves, no matter the weather, and Celine gets this weird look on her face when she talks about demons and your mother.’ Y/N rattled off, guiding Rumi to sit down with her.

‘They used to just be on my arm. My shoulder. But they’re spreading, Y/N look.’ Rumi shakily pulled down the zipper of her collar, revealing the crawling line of purple patterns.

‘Y/N, how am I supposed to fix the world, fix me, when I don’t have my voice?’ She buried her face into her hands, ‘Why now? When I’m so close?’

‘Rumi-’

‘WHY?!’ Rumi roared, her voice a timbre that she’d never heard before. The shout rippled scarlet red through the room, like a drop in a calm surface of water. The red lines flashed through the city, as the girls gaped at the scene through the window.

Rumi let out a choked gasp, turning to Y/N in horror.

‘Y/N listen, I’m not one of them. I’m not a-’

‘Rumi.’ Y/N slipped off her seat, kneeling in front of Rumi. ‘I know you’re not a demon. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She placed her hands on Rumi’s shoulders. 

‘You knew? And you’re not afraid?’ Rumi’s eyes were welling with tears of fear and uncertainty. ‘You don’t think I’m a monster?’

‘Yes. I knew and I know you're not a monster. Rumi, the only time I'm afraid of you is when I’m standing in between you and Kimbap okay?’

‘Okay.’ She sniffled, letting out a watery laugh.

‘Look. Rumi, I know you released Golden because you thought it would speed up the process.’ Y/N looked up at Rumi through her lashes, giving her shoulders a squeeze.

‘…’

‘And another thing…’ Y/N gave a sheepish smile. ‘You really should tell Mira and Zoey. They’re your family. If you put it off, it’ll be harder for them to understand why you never told them.’

‘But what if they treat me differently.’ Rumi shook her head, holding onto Y/N’s hands. ‘Celine has always told me to hide my patterns. That nothing would change until I turned the Honmoon gold.’

‘Celine was wrong. Look at me, I know you. You aren’t a bad person, your patterns are a part of who you are.’ Y/N stood up, prompting Rumi to stand with her. ‘I see you for who you are Rumi, a huntress who happens to have patterns. You may be part demon, but that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.’

Y/N squeezed Rumi’s hands, giving her a rueful smile, ‘I’ve been told that some humans act more like demons than demons themselves. You aren’t defined by the world, Rumi. You’re defined by your actions.’

A single tear slid down Rumi’s cheek, caught by Y/N’s thumb as she brushed it away.

‘Do you really think I should tell Mira and Zoey?’

‘Without a doubt.’ 

Rumi inhaled a long breath, brushing away her unshed tears, smudging her eyeliner.

‘Okay. I’ll do it tonight.’ Rumi slipped back on her jacket. ‘Can you be there when I do?’ 

‘Yeah, of course!’ Y/N brushed off Rumi’s jacket, zipping up the girl’s collar. ‘But first, we’re gonna go get some kimbap. Come on, let's go.’ She grinned, dragging Rumi out of the room, toward the back exit. A puff of purple smoke revealed Rae, as his silhouette became visible in the corner of the room, where the girls had just left.

‘A hunter that's part demon?’ Rin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the open door. 

–

By the time Y/N and Rumi had made it back to the Huntr/x tower, the sun had long set. Rumi was carrying a plastic bag of Kimbap and Y/N was carrying a bag of tteokbokki. They were discussing how to break the news to Mira and Zoey, deciding that they would have to make sure Celine was not around.

As the doors opened, Mira and Zoey rushed toward the girls, enveloping both in a hug.

‘We were so worried when you both disappeared.’ Zoey’s voice was muffled by Y/N’s clothes.

‘Are you both okay?’ Mira was frantic, spinning Rumi around, checking for wounds. Zoey was circling Y/N with eagle eyes.

‘We’re okay.’ Rumi laughed, placing a hand on her group member’s shoulders. ‘But I do have something I have to talk to you both about.’

‘But first, is Celine here?’ Y/N cut in, looking around the room with a raised eyebrow.

‘No, she left a while ago, we didn’t tell her about what happened.’ Zoey shook her head.

‘Okay, you guys should probably sit down for this.’ Y/N gestured towards the couch.

‘What is it?’ Mira and Zoey sat down, leaving Y/N and Rumi standing.

‘Well, first of all, I’m sorry. I’ve been keeping a secret.’ Rumi began, clasping her sweating hands together. ‘Well there's no easy way to say it so I’ll just show you. 

The leader of the girl group slowly took off her jacket, revealing her arms, littered with purple lines, jagged and jarring.

‘I have-’

‘You have patterns?’ Zoey blinked confusedly. 

‘Huh. Not what I was expecting.’ Mira’s eyes were blown wide.

‘Yes, Celine said that my father was a demon. I’ve had these patterns since I was born but Celine always says-’

‘We are hunters. Voices strong. Your flaws and faults must never be seen.’ Both girls repeated, mocking Celine.

‘Yeah… So, that's why I always kept these hidden. So that you wouldn't think I was a monster.’ Rumi ended, her voice breaking.

‘Oh Rumi…’ Zoey rushed towards Rumi, grasping at her hands. ‘We know you’re not a monster. You’re our family.’

‘She’s right, and I understand why you didn’t tell us.’ Mira also stood, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder. ‘Being told you have to hide who you are for years definitely takes a toll on you mentally.’

Y/N smiled proudly, watching the girls come to terms with their new information. 

It made sense that they were understanding. In the movie, they had already encountered Jinu and several other barriers before Rumi’s revelation. It was no wonder Zoey and Mira were scared. 

‘Y/N helped me tell you guys.’ Rumi stepped aside, grabbing Y/N’s hand from behind her. ‘I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you but…’

‘I knew that you guys would understand.’ Y/N nodded, stepping forward. ‘And I think I have a song for you guys.’

‘Really? Already?!’ Zoey looked excited, grabbing her own notebooks.

‘Yeah, I actually used a lot of what you’ve said, from your own stories. Have a read and see if you like it.’ 

The girls read over and each teared up.

‘How do you put into words how we feel so well?’ Rumi sniffled, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

‘The scar’s a part of me. Darkness and harmony. My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like?’ Mira muttered in awe, ‘We don’t pay you enough do we?’

'Uh, actually I get a royalty on all your songs so... I'm actually living pretty comfortably.' Y/N laughed.

After agreeing to come up with the demo for What It Sounds Like that night, Y/N had taken a car back to her area. Remembering to thank the driver as she stepped out.

'Your hunter friend is part demon?' Y/N was greeted by an angry looking Jinu as she exited the elevator into her apartment.

'Uh, am I in trouble?' Y/N looked around, confused by the reaction of the room. All the boys seemed to be... upset?

Next

Tag list: @ajunoiseee @silverklaus @thesimppotato11 @devilchicc @imlost-sendhelp @tumblblob @arieslucy @maybeethan69 @t4naiis @6demonica9 @suzieq1948374 @katzline @justyourlocalfriendlydinosaur @1950schick @myjerseygirlblog @sky2lar @itsjustkhaos @nevermorekisses @valeriele3 @yoongi-tunes @reibelhearts @satansdaughter123 @iheartyourgrandpa @justanindiangirl12 @uniquecutie-puffs @xyndyn @akiqvq @brightestflame @vivian-555 @oscars-wifeyyy @maybeethan69 @violetraccoon-4 @kanaes-world @chaos-inperson @ermespop @hisashifrey @venommie @booakaisha @lyunsafebubble @mimiu3usoft @doodle-with-rhy @lycemagee @sightofaghost @polinazavialova @singlepringle4you @reallynotsoconfident @confusedparticle @blackstar-gazer @gl00muraaii @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone

@marley1773 @poem-bee @girlypopmymelody @deyshayk14 @mysticalpandora @crescent-z @mothraantics @baby-bread-in @bubbabobabubbles @needsleep3000 @strayharmony943 @frootloopscos @briceericeee @n1ght5h4d3-24 @portrait-ninja @yucanbmylxdy @tatsuri-zomushiki @zoeyella1-4 @tanspostsblog @pixiedustaddictsblog @smoophie @leaheclipse @st3f13ily @odessa-is-my-queen @kyouzki @truth-snake @centavosmisteryoso11cent1 @dragongirl642 @moonymoo1 @cocastyle

@pandaquick @emberswithers @raineandcl0uds @lonely-nerd-sodaholic @fantasyhopperhea @thesehandsarerated-e @mel3484 @sweetprincesscomputer @itoshiism @doodle-with-rhy @itsberrydreemurstuff @airwolf92 @sweatydazeshark-blog @anteroz @maryloudiaries @anything-and-everything-here69 @moosshroom @sleepyallthetimedontknowwhy @seung185 @sashagaming1012 @confused-smol-fan @dinoplantsghost @prettylittlelavvy @rory1939 @luffysprincess @bethleeham

@julianne1024 @rauvolfioideae @asakiyu @junebuggz @esposamultifandom @celesteelysia @prorpy @nonetheartist @historygeekqueen @anonymoustext @jamaicanqueen007

[rafecameronssl4t]

Rafe's son being his mini me, treating his momma like a queen.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJSNxu-sMWb/?igsh=cHN5ZnBsd2RpMjd1

Like a Queen || Dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: this was so cute to write ty for the request!

Warnings: none just fluff!!

Word count: 840

MASTERLIST (dad!rafe au masterlist)

The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the backyard, filtering through the trees and glinting off the pool water. The sound of soft splashing filled the air, along with the occasional delighted squeal that only ever came from your 5-year-old son.

You watched from the patio chair, legs tucked beneath you and a book open in your lap—though you hadn’t read a single page in ten minutes. Because your eyes were on them.

Rafe stood waist-deep in the water, his wet hair pushed back, tanned skin glistening under the sun, and the wide grin he wore was reserved for only one other person besides you: the little boy that was, without a doubt, his exact copy.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, even the dimples. A tiny hurricane in board shorts and way too much confidence for someone who couldn’t tie his shoes right the first time. “Okay, now go show her. Exactly how I showed you, alright?”

Rafe said, ruffling the boy’s hair before lifting him up out of the water and setting him near the shallow edge. Ralph grinned with the same mischievous spark his father always had, then bolted across the yard, little wet feet slapping against the concrete as he ran toward you.

“Mama!” You barely had time to set the book aside before he was launching himself into your arms, damp and giggling and wiggly. “What is it, sweetheart?” you asked, wrapping the towel around his tiny shoulders, brushing his wet bangs away from his forehead.

“I gotta do what Daddy says,” he announced, puffing out his chest proudly. “’Cause Daddy said you’re a queen. And queens get treated real nice.” You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest, tears almost rising from how sudden the sweetness hit you.

“Oh, did he now?” “Uh-huh.” Ralph climbed onto your lap as best he could, propping his chin on your shoulder and patting your cheek like he’d seen Rafe do a thousand times. “That’s why I’m gonna open the car door for you every time. And you don’t ever gotta carry groceries. And Daddy says real boys say ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘you look real pretty today.’ So…”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “You look real pretty today.” From the pool, Rafe chuckled, arms folded over the pool’s edge as he leaned there, watching the two of you. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said with a smirk. You shot him a fond look, brushing a kiss to Ralph’s head. “You’re raising him right.”

Rafe walked over, water dripping off him, and crouched beside your chair, brushing his hand along your arm and planting a kiss to your temple. “No,” he murmured, gaze flicking from Ralph to you. “We are.”

Ralph squirmed in your lap and reached up to grab Rafe’s face between both his small hands, smooshing his cheeks together. “Daddy’s gonna marry you again one day.” Rafe laughed. “Again? What do you mean again?”

Ralph looked between you both like it was obvious. “’Cause when I marry my girl, I’m gonna do it every year so she always feels special. Right, Mama?” You met Rafe’s eyes, both of you speechless for a moment. “Right, baby,” you said softly, heart nearly bursting.

“That sounds just right.” Rafe leaned in and kissed you gently, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone before murmuring, “You made me soft, y’know that?” “Not soft,” you teased. “Just finally living up to that golden boy reputation your mom wished you had.”

Ralph made a gagging noise at the kiss and scrambled off your lap. “Eww! Okay, I’m going back in the pool—no more kissing!” You both laughed as he bolted toward the water again, slipping a little but catching himself.

“Mini-me, huh?” you mused, wrapping your arm around Rafe’s shoulders as he sat beside you. He rested his head against your thigh, arm curling around your knees. “Yeah,” he murmured, watching his son with a softness you never got tired of.

“Only better. ‘Cause he gets to grow up knowing how to love right from the start.” And you knew then, as Ralph jumped into the pool and shouted for his dad to watch, that you were exactly where you were meant to be—with the boy who worshipped you like a queen, and the man who taught him how.

[dollyfiles]

how do you think rafe would react if reader got a little self conscious or shy after sex, and tried to kinda hide from him?

cw: fluffy, shy!reader, soft!rafe, post sex, teasing, comfort

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

your breath was still shaky, lips parted, chest rising and falling in soft little waves beneath rafe as the room settled into a quiet hum. his fingers were still splayed against your waist, and he hadn’t quite moved yet. his forehead was resting gently against yours, hair falling into his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

you blinked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushing into a soft pink shade. and then, without a word, you turned your head to the side, your hand flying up to cover half your face. “hey,” rafe said, still breathless, his voice low and warm. “what’s this about?”

“n-nothing,” you mumbled, trying but failing to wiggle out from beneath him. “just… stop looking at me like that.” you whined. “like what?” he asked, a smile already tugging at his lips. he leaned in closer, purposely making it worse, brushing his nose along your cheek. “like i’m obsessed with you?”

“ugh,” you groaned, burying your face into the pillow. “rafe!” he chuckled, slow and amused. “what? is it illegal to admire my insanely gorgeous girlfriend after i fucked the shit out of her?”

“stop talking,” you whined again, voice muffled by the pillow. your ears were pink now too. he rolled to the side finally, just enough to give you space, but his arm never left your waist. “you’re cute when you get all shy. i didn’t expect that.”

you peeked at him through your lashes, still red-faced. “can’t handle this. too much.” he smiled then, fingers grazing your sides. to which you gave a little squeak and buried yourself deeper under the covers.

“too much?” he teased, dragging you closer, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “poor thing. should i tone it down? want me to pretend i’m not completely ruined for anyone else now?” you swatted at him weakly from under the blanket, voice high and embarrassed. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re beautiful,” he shot back, not missing a beat. “and you make this little face right after cuming all over my dick that’s gonna be stuck in my head for the rest of my life.” your hand flew out from the covers to smack him again, but he caught it easily, intertwining your fingers. but his grip was gentle.

“seriously though,” rafe said after a moment, voice softer now, “you don’t have to hide. not from me. not ever.” you didn’t say anything for a second, just laid there with your heart pounding too loud in your chest. then, slowly, you peeked out again, hair a mess, cheeks still warm.

“you mean it?” you asked quietly. “yeah,” he said, brushing his thumb along the back of your hand. “i mean everything. the way i look at you? the things i say? you’re… everything to me, y/n.”

you blinked a few times, trying not burst out into the biggest cry, and then rolled toward him with a sigh, your arms sneaking around his waist as you buried your face in his warm chest.

“you ruin me when you say stuff like that, ray” you mumbled against him. he grinned, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. “good. now you know how i feel every time you smile at me.”

the two of you lay like that for a while, no pressure, no expectations. just quiet breathing, warm skin, and fingers tangled together. you still felt a little shy, but under your boyfriend’s steady hold, it didn’t feel so scary anymore.

finally, you looked up at him again, “don’t ever stop looking at me like that.” you whispered. “never could,” he said, with a wink. “trust me, you’re the only thing i want to look at for the rest of my life.”

tags: @inbred-eater @dearapril @littlelamy @bradshawed @raahosh @cherrygirlfriend @inspiredangel @bluemerakis @nemesyaaa @rafekisser @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lacyydollette @et6rnalsun