#day night light sensor
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witherby · 6 months ago
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What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication
-🍨
I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.
The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1
Masterlist is Here!
⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️
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It starts with a cough.
"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"
"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."
"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"
"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.
"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."
"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."
"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.
Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.
Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.
The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.
At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.
"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."
"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.
"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."
He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.
"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."
You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.
"You okay?" He asks.
"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."
"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."
"Okay...stay?"
Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...
"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."
--
It turns into a fever.
"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."
"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."
"I will, thank you. Take care!"
Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.
He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"
After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.
"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.
"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."
You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.
"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.
"Hot," you say, "sleepy."
Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.
"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"
You shake your head. "Not hungry."
"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"
You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.
"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."
"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."
"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"
"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"
"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."
You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.
--
It gets worse.
Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.
When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.
Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.
"BABAA!!"
The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.
"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."
"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"
"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."
Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.
"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."
"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.
"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."
Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.
"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.
"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"
"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.
The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.
"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."
"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."
Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.
"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."
"But I —"
"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."
Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.
In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.
"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."
"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."
The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.
The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.
"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."
"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.
"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."
"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."
"On Father's life," he insists.
Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...
The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.
"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."
"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.
Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.
He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.
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nemo-writes · 3 months ago
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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three
(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)
⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.
⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.
⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next
✦ word count: 2.7k
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The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:
Left at 05:01 yesterday.
Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?
Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl. 
They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date‑stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.
Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.
The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.
You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs. 
Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.
“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.
“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.
Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.
Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening. 
You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.
The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear. 
The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:
Purple again. My favorite.
You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.
Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.
Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.
Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.
It’s Jack.
Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?
The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:
I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?
Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?
He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful. 
Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.
Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.
An apology, you decide, should be edible.
You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window. 
When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags. 
The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.
Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.
. . .
You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges. 
Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”
You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”
He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”
You nod once. “End of shift.”
He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale. 
You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched. 
Except—no. Something’s wrong.
The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off  and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.
A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar: 
That was great, thanks pretty girl.
The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.
A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp. 
Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.
Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”
You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.
You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.
“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.
You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”
She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.
Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.
The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.
You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.
You collide before either of you can brake.
Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.
“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall. 
“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”
Then she sees your face.
Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.
Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.
Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”
You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet. 
You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.
Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet. 
She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.
“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”
It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.
“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”
A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.
“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway. 
You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.
Not gone. But held.
Held by hands stronger than your own.
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fellominaarcher · 3 months ago
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then you're the best part — Giselle x fem!reader
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↳ Fic type: oneshot
↳ Content warning: FLOOOFYY & healthy relationship & maybe a little boring
↳ main m.list | æspa m.list
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Beep.
The front door chimed softly—someone had just keyed in the passcode. A click followed, the door unlocking, then the motion sensor light flickered on as someone stepped inside.
Pink-haired and exhausted, Aeri Uchinaga toed off her sleek YSL boots at the threshold, sighing as she sat for a moment on the step just past the genkan. The weight of the day—rehearsals, meetings has finally slid off her shoulders. What time was it now? She checked briefly. 1:03 AM. Too late to be out, but too early to sleep on an anniversary night like this.
Boots off, bag down, she stood and stretched, already hearing faint sounds from the kitchen—pots clinking, water running, familiar domestic noises that belonged to her girl. Y/N was still up, naturally. She was always the night owl of the two, often awake until 3 or 4 AM, either cooking, dancing in socks, or binge-watching some horror show she’d rewatch a million times.
"I'm hooomeee," Aeri called out in a sing-song voice as she passed the kitchen, waving lazily even if she wasn’t sure Y/N saw it. She headed straight to their shared bedroom.
From the kitchen, Y/N’s voice rang out, playful and warm, “Okay-ieee, go shower, lady!”
Aeri chuckled under her breath, already feeling lighter.
Outside, a gentle midnight rain fell. Not heavy. Just that calm, rhythmic kind—the kind of rain that makes you want to curl up in bed or slow-dance barefoot in the living room.
Soft footsteps pattered against the wood flooring behind her. Then, two excited barks.
Aeri smiled without turning around. “Cooper!” she cooed, kneeling just in time for her beloved Sheepadoodle to crash into her arms, tail wagging so hard it thumped against the walls.
“Someone missed me,” she giggled, letting the dog lick her cheeks and chin as she scratched behind his ears. “You’re such a good boy, huh?”
She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.” She tried to sound motherly to a dog.
She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.”
She gave him one last pat before grabbing a towel from the closet, already peeling off her shirt and jeans as she stepped further into the bedroom. Bare-shouldered and flushed from the heat inside the apartment, she padded into the bathroom after removing her makeup in a quick routine. The mirror fogged up fast as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water hit her tired muscles and wash the day away.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Y/N was focused. Her hands moved with practiced ease, slicing tofu into perfect cubes, then pushing them gently into a bubbling pot of kimchi jjigae. The soup was thick and red, made with love—aged kimchi, green onions, tofu, thinly sliced pork belly, and a dash of sesame oil for extra depth.
The rice cooker dinged in the background. Hot steam poured out as she opened it, scooping fluffy white rice into matching ceramic bowls. Everything was almost ready.
This wasn’t just a late-night craving. It was their third anniversary. Three years of being together—through comebacks, rumors, camera flashes, and stolen vacations. And though Aeri had been booked all day and couldn’t make it home until now, Y/N didn’t mind. She never did, not when it came to Aeri.
Sipping her Coke from a wine glass just for the vibe, Y/N started plating the side dishes with care.
And then enter Cooper.
The Sheepadoodle padded into the kitchen like he owned it, blinking up at her with that innocent, curious look he always wore. Y/N paused, mid-reach for a spoon, and blinked back. It was a full-on staring contest.
And just like that—like a light bulb clicking on—Y/N grinned.
A mischievous little idea formed in her mind, curling up like steam from the soup. “Come here, Cooper,” she whispered, crouching down and motioning to him like a cartoon villain who’d just hatched a plan. “Let’s do something before your mommy comes back.”
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Fresh out of the shower, Aeri felt like a brand-new person. Her long pink hair was loosely gathered with a claw clip, some stray bangs falling around her face in soft, messy waves. Dressed in an oversized tee and pajama shorts, she padded barefoot to the dining area, the scent of something spicy and savory drawing her closer.
The lights were dimmed just right. It was cozy, warm and the table was already set with utensils, drinks, and a small Post-it note placed neatly on one of the chairs.
“Have a seat, Ms. Uchinaga.”
Aeri chuckled, the corner of her lips tugging up in fond amusement. “Y/N, you’re so dramatic,” she muttered to herself, but she obeyed, pulling out the chair and sitting down with a soft sigh.
Right on cue, Y/N emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray like a proud little chef at her Michelin-starred restaurant. “Welcome to Y/N’s Restaurant. Hope you enjoy your supper, ma’am,” she grinned, placing the tray on the table and beginning to arrange the plates with care: steaming kimchi jjigae, warm rice, pickled radish, and side dishes arranged with love.
“Hmm, thank you. I’d like one serving of hot food and one serving of you for supper,” Aeri replied with a wink, locking in with Y/N’s playful bit.
Y/N raised a brow and tilted her head dramatically. “Cannibalism? Ma’am, you want to eat me for supper?” she whispered in mock horror before snickering as she placed the kimchi bowl and radish pickles in front of her girlfriend.
Aeri leaned in slightly, the atmosphere suddenly shifting from play to something more tender, her voice softer. “Not when you look this cute.”
Y/N sat down across from her, resting her elbows gently on the table, her chin in her hands as she watched Aeri fondly. “Happy third anniversary, baby. I love you,” she said, her voice warm, eyes glowing with that look, the one that only ever belonged to Aeri.
Aeri’s eyes met hers. A quiet smile formed before she exhaled softly. “Thank you, Y/N. Happy third anniversary to us, cutie. I love you more.” She reached out to take Y/N’s hand, interlacing their fingers naturally, like breathing.
They stayed like that for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. Not awkward, not forced. Just full.
“…And you still owe me a slow dance,” Y/N added, lips curling into a sly smile as she raised a brow.
Aeri laughed under her breath, nodding with a hum. “I haven’t forgotten. A deal’s a deal.” She winked teasingly at Y/N.
Y/N turned her head, then gave a gentle whistle.
Within seconds, Cooper came bounding in from the hallway, except this time, the Sheepadoodle was wearing a birthday cap slightly lopsided on his head. Taped onto the hat was another bright yellow Post-it, clearly written in Y/N’s handwriting.
It read: “From your son, happy 3rd anniversary mommy.”
Aeri burst out laughing, nearly tearing up from the sight. “You didn’t—Y/N!” she squealed, covering her mouth as she watched Cooper sit proudly in front of the table, clearly oblivious to the paper hat flopping over one eye.
“Had to include the real MVP,” Y/N grinned, leaning back with pride. “He helped with the plan.”
Cooper barked, tail wagging like a metronome of joy, and Aeri gestured for him to come closer. “C’mere, baby,” she cooed, pulling out the chair next to her. With a proud little hop, the Sheepadoodle climbed up and settled beside her, sitting tall like he belonged there.
Across the table, Y/N was already laughing, full belly, full heart. “He looks like he’s about to file taxes,” she joked, pointing at the lopsided birthday hat barely hanging onto Cooper’s head. Aeri laughed harder, pulling off the yellow Post-it.
She gave it a quick glance, then let out another giggle, the kind that made her eyes crinkle and her dimples pop. Before she forgot, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Cooper, committing this ridiculous moment to memory.
Dinner was filled with warm bites of kimchi jjigae, comfortable conversation, and lots of "here, try this one" across the table. The soup was just spicy enough to fight off the cold rain outside, and Y/N's cooking, while humble, was always her love language, always just what Aeri needed.
Later that night, the two of them settled into the living room, their hands brushing, laughter trailing behind them like perfume. The city was quiet beyond the windows, and the rain hadn’t let up, still drizzling gently, like the sky itself was sighing with them.
And then, another surprise.
Aeri blinked. “What…?”
The lights were dimmed, but in front of them, strung across the living room wall, was a 3-meter-long trail of Christmas tree lights, glowing gold, green, and red, throwing soft shadows across their features. The same ones they’d packed away in January, the ones that made the room feel like a home.
From the corner of the room, the Bluetooth speaker came to life—click, a small buzz—and then, soft and low, the opening chords of “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar ft. H.E.R. played.
Y/N turned to her with that signature grin, that confident little tilt of her head. “Dance with me.” She invited Aeri with a hand extended out.
Aeri didn’t even hesitate.
They met in the center of the living room, arms slipping around each other like they were molded that way. Y/N’s hands found Aeri’s waist; Aeri's arms wrapped gently around her neck. The lights cast halos across their faces, catching on lashes, lips, pink hair and sleepy eyes.
“You don’t know, babe…” the lyrics melted into the room like honey.
Y/N leaned in slightly, whispering in Aeri’s ear, “I forgot to say earlier... congratulations, baby. To you. To aespa. Billboard Women in Music? That’s insane. I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes bored into Aeri's dark eyes.
Aeri exhaled a laugh, shaking her head bashfully. “Thank you… that means a lot coming from the prettiest girl in this apartment.” She responded with a grin on her face.
“Well, Cooper’s very flattered,” Y/N teased.
Right on cue, the Sheepadoodle spun in circles around them, yipping with joy and tail wagging furiously. His little hat had finally fallen off. The couple broke into laughter, their bodies swaying with the music.
“You’re the coffee that I need in the morning…”
Aeri leaned in and pressed her lips to Y/N’s. It wasn’t showy or rushed, just a soft kiss that tasted like comfort and rain and love in its purest form. She didn’t let go. She buried her face into the crook of Y/N’s neck, breathing her in.
“I’m such a lucky girl,” Aeri whispered against her skin.
Then she bent down, scooping Cooper up in her arms, the cute dog wiggling excitedly as she brought him back to their little dance floor.
“Okay, come on, you too,” she said with a giggle. “Family dance.”
And so, under the golden glow of borrowed Christmas lights, while the rain kept singing to the windows, Aeri and Y/N slow danced in their pajamas—arms wrapped around each other, and Cooper sandwiched between them, tail wagging in time with the music.
It was perfect.
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æspa m.list | main m.list
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scuderiahoney · 2 years ago
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Tangerine
Oscar Piastri x reader
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Masterlist // Part 1 // Part 1.5 // Part 2
Summary: You’re definitely not an insomniac. But Oscar keeps finding you awake at all hours, and he’s starting to get worried. Or: I wrote this while actually being unable to sleep, passed out for 3 hours, woke up and finished it. So… here you go, I guess?
Word Count: 6.8k
Warnings: insomnia, anxiety/mild paranoia?, alcohol, limited knowledge of the actual structure of the MTC and the corporate structure of McLaren in general, a poorly researched night in Tokyo
The MTC lobby is empty, besides you. The lights are half turned off, motion sensors that have gone hours without detecting anything. You’ve stuck to your table in the corner. It’s quiet, just how you like it.
You look up from your notebook after who knows how long, blinking your weary eyes. Outside, the floodlights reflect off the inky black lake. There’s a car, pulling up in the drop off area outside the front doors. It’s Oscar, you think, his car one of a few that are easily recognizable. Sure enough, it’s confirmed when he climbs out of the driver’s side door. He leaves it running as he makes his way up to the door.
Oscar scans his pass and the doors swing open, followed by all of the lights in the lobby flickering on. You squint, fighting the urge to shield your eyes from the harsh lighting. Oscar is rushing through the lobby, a man on a mission, but he skids to a stop about halfway across the shiny tiled floor.
He turns, slowly, and makes eye contact with you. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
You hold back a laugh, thinking that might be a little mean, all things considered. “What are you doing here?”
He sighs, hands hanging at his sides. “I forgot my phone charger, and my laptop, and…” he pauses, frowning at you. “What are you doing here?”
You raise your brows right back. “Working?”
You watch his eyes flicker across your setup. You’re still in the same McLaren sweatshirt you’d been wearing when you saw him that morning. Your hair is piled atop your head. Your laptop sits open in front of you, the only source of light before Oscar burst through the doors. There are papers and notebooks scattered on the tabletop. Your pen is missing- you selfishly hope that as he scours your table, he’ll spot it.
“You got here at 8am,” he says, bewildered. “It’s almost midnight. That’s almost 16 hours.”
He says nothing about the pen. Why would he? He doesn’t know it’s missing. Logically, it must be here somewhere, probably under a paper or clipped to a notebook, but you’ve given up.
“Yes,” you answer, smirking. “You’re great at math, Oscar.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, home? Sleeping?”
You shrug. “I took breaks. It’s not like I’ve been working all day straight.”
You’re not lying. You’d taken a good, long lunch break, and an afternoon walk around the grounds. You’ve gotten up to stretch a couple times, made runs to the break room for coffee. You hope he doesn’t see straight through it, though. Hope he can’t see the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, the exhaustion weighing your shoulders.
It’s not that you weren’t tired. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. One of those days. So instead, you had decided to be productive. Which had led to this- you in the lobby of your office building, hunched over a laptop. Oscar, the driver whose data you’re scouring, staring at you with wide eyes.
“Go grab your stuff,” you tell him, nodding towards the doors he’d been headed to. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”
He blinks wildly. “We’re on the same flight.”
You nod, because you both know this quite well. There’d been a meeting this morning about who had to be where and at what times. You’re on the first flight out with the main team, headed to Singapore.
“I’m not the one who has to drive the car at very high speeds this weekend,” you remind him, pointing the eraser of your pencil at him. “Or the one who has to be in front of the cameras. You need your beauty sleep.”
Oscar laughs at that, a happy sound that makes you smile, too. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back.”
You think about disappearing to the bathroom or the break room while he’s gone, just to avoid any further questions. You know Oscar relatively well, though, and knowing him, he’d just wait around until you came back. Or worse, come and try to find you. You can picture it- you pouring your third cup of coffee in the last hour, Oscar watching from the doorway with disdain. You stay put, sipping from your mug and scribbling notes.
He’s back within a few minutes, a backpack in hand. His keys dangle from his fingertips. You don’t look up from your laptop as he walks towards you, that is until he’s standing right in front of you. You blink up at him through your lashes. There’s a frown on his face- this close, you know your lack of sleep must be obvious.
He nudges the top panel of your laptop with a single fingertip. “C’mon. Time to go home.”
“I’m fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”
“What, you just gonna stay here until we all meet up in the morning to go to the airport?” He scoffs.
“That would be ridiculous,” you laugh.
“It would,” he agrees. He seems to see straight through you, though. “Come on. Close the laptop, close the notebooks. You can work on this on the flight, like a normal person.”
“I’m trying to improve your car, you know.”
“I’m not leaving until you do,” he finally says, and you scoff with wide eyes. “And remember, I’m the one who has to actually drive the car. And go in front of the cameras. I need my beauty sleep.”
You rear your head back, unsure how to even counter that. He takes the opportunity to close the laptop for you, and you bat at his hands. Then he’s sweeping your papers into piles, stacking your notebooks and gathering them up into his arms.
“That’s my intellectual property, you know,” you scold him, reaching for the papers. He holds them up above your head easily, and you groan. “Okay, okay, I’ll go, just- I lost my pen, earlier. It’s my favorite one. I just have find it and then I promise I’ll go- you can go home, really, I’ll see you-“
He’s reaching for your head, suddenly, and you freeze. When his hand returns to your view, he’d holding the pen between his fingertips. You blink once, twice, then reach for it, but he’s holding it above your head within seconds, too.
“We’re leaving,” he tells you, firmly. “Come on. Up we go.”
You get to your feet reluctantly and pack your things into your bag. Oscar helps, handing you your papers in neat little piles. He keeps you in front of him as you both exit the lobby, like he’s afraid you might take off running further into the office building. His car is still parked out front, still running, and you see him wince.
“Didn’t expect to be inside for so long,” he says sheepishly.
You laugh lightly, starting your walk towards the employee lot. It’s down a well lit path, but every step feels heavy this late at night.
“Wait,” he says, and you pause. “Do you want a ride? You seem tired. You know, sometimes that’s as bad as driving drunk.”
“I’m not gonna fall asleep behind the wheel,” you tell him. You say it with confidence, because it’s pretty likely you’re not going to fall asleep at all tonight.
He cocks his head at you, cast in the bright glow of the floodlights. “At least let me drive you to your car. Otherwise, how do I know you’re not going to just go back inside?”
You roll your eyes. “And how do I know you’re not trying to kidnap me?”
You end up getting in the car, because he makes it pretty clear he’s not leaving until you do. You contemplate just walking to your own car, but honestly your feet feel so heavy it’s just not worth the fight. Oscar, to his credit, doesn’t kidnap you. He also doesn’t comment on your very modest car, the only one left in the parking lot. He does try to offer you a ride home one more time, but he lets it go after your repeat refusal.
You say goodbye, climb into your own car, and start the engine. The heat kicks on quickly, thank god, and you start up a playlist. It’s only when you look up, ready to leave, that you notice his car is still sitting there. You can just barely see Oscar behind the windshield, and he waves at you. He’s waiting for you to leave.
You flip him off as you roll out of the parking lot, and you watch him laugh in response.
…..
You’re one of the first ones at the office the next morning, and therefore one of the first ones on a shuttle to the airport. Oscar’s chronically late, or as he would call it, chronically precisely on time, so you don’t see him until he’s climbing on the plane. McLaren’s rented out a charter plane for this trip, with the double header making it the easiest solution.
You’re already settled into a seat, laptop open on the table in front of you, headphones on. You barely even look up when you feel him looking over you, but then he’s tugging one side of your headphones off your ear.
“Did you even sleep?” He asks, brows furrowed.
“Yes,” you lie, raising your brows at him defensively.
Oscar raises his brows in return. He obviously doesn’t believe you.
Before he can say anything else, Lando’s behind him, leaning up over his shoulder. “Oscar, mate, get a move on.”
Oscar rolls his eyes but does as Lando’s urging. There’s not assigned seats, per say, but the two drivers are headed towards the middle of the plane where their trainers and other senior staff are sitting. That’s how these things normally go- it just makes sense. They’ll have meetings on the plane, talk about meal plans and strategies and get ready for the weekend. You’ll spend your flight going through the data just one more time, trying to unlock all of the secrets to give Oscar the best possible chance on Sunday.
…..
Singapore is good. Not great, not perfect, but good. For Lando’s team, it’s a huge weekend. And honestly, 4th place for Oscar in his rookie year is huge too. He’s thrilled, tells you as much after the race, after the briefing.
“I know you worked hard this weekend, put in a lot of hours,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.
“Right.” He says. “Thanks, though.”
You smile up at him, knowing it’s wobbly and insincere. You don’t take compliments well. “No problem.”
When you get to the hotel that night, you lay down in the bed and try to fall asleep. It’s no use, really, because it’s not your bed, and because your mind is racing. There’s nothing even bothering you, that’s the stupid thing. Just… a billion thoughts flying by all at once. So you wander the hotel, up and down the stairs, down the halls. You make a pit stop in the exercise room, walk on the treadmill, try out the rowing machine. You’ve never been one for working out, but the internet says exercise can help with sleep issues. It’s worth a try, but it doesn’t work.
You contemplate sneaking into the closed hotel pool, but ultimately decide against it. You’d probably get caught, and then you’d get in trouble, and it would somehow make it back to your boss. Then you’d get fired in Singapore, left to find your own way home. So instead, you head for the vending machines on your floor. There’s got to be something in there that’ll cure the racing in your head. Or at least bring you some comfort in the dead of night.
What doesn’t bring you comfort in the dead of night is a face in the reflection on the glass of the vending machine. You nearly scream when you meet someone else’s eyes. You whirl around, arms in a defensive position, and come face to face with Oscar.
“Would’ve pegged you for flight, not fight,” he says drowsily.
“You can’t sneak up on people like that,” you hiss, dropping your hands to your sides.
“Payback,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face clumsily. “B‘sides, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I was trying to get a snack.”
You blink at him. “Oscar, it’s 3am.”
He nods, blinks slowly. You almost expect his eyes to stay closed, almost expect him to fall asleep standing up.
“I woke up starving,” he says, shuffling towards one of the vending machines. “Promise you won’t tell Kim? I’ll buy you whatever you want.”
He’s cute when he’s sleepy. You want to tuck him into bed and tell him bedtime stories. You want to kiss his forehead. You blink hard, trying to reset your brain. The sleep deprivation is really getting to you. This is your coworker, your teammate.
You shrug and nod in agreement. “Would’ve kept the secret without the bribe, but if you’re offering…”
Oscar laughs, a quiet sound in the empty night air. “What’ll it be, then?”
He’s leaning against the glass heavily. He must still be half asleep. You can’t blame him. You point at the bag of chips you’d been eyeing, and then at the gummy worms in the corner. He nods in approval of both, selects them, feeds the machine his money. Then he’s picking his own snack- a poptart and a bag of Cheetos. He backs away, but you make a noise and point at the drinks machine.
“And a Red Bull?” You ask, pointing at your favorite flavor where it sits, lit up by fluorescent light.
He turns back, almost puts the money in, and then he pauses and looks at you. “It’s 3am.”
“Right, we established that.”
“Why would you drink Red Bull at 3am?” He asks, bewildered.
You shrug. “Because I like Red Bull.”
“Go work for them, then,” he suggests. You laugh. “Actually, I have a feeling that would be severely detrimental to your health. Too many free energy drinks. Do you ever sleep?”
“Those are big words for 3am,” you tease, nudging his shoulder. “Come on. The tangerine one, please.”
“I’m not buying you a Red Bull.” He shakes his head. “I am walking you back to your room and you’re going to bed.”
“I’ll tell Kim about your snacks.”
“No, you won’t.”
You let him walk you back to your room. He stands there as you swipe the key card, as you open the door and shuffle inside. He says goodnight from the doorway. You close the door after you echo the sentiment, lock all the locks, and lay down in your bed. You close your eyes and try to go to sleep. You really, truly try. But when the clock turns over to 4am, and you realize it’s useless, you roll out of bed and head down to the vending machine. You buy the Redbull with your own money, carry it back to your room, turn on the tv, and settle in until the sun comes up.
…..
Tokyo may just be your favorite city in the entire world. Everything is open all the time. You’ve never felt more seen by a city. The days that you and the rest of the team spend there between the two races are heaven. You have meetings during the day, but they’re short and easy. At night, there are plenty of places for you to roam, plenty of things to do and see.
You spend your nights in ramen bars, in arcades, in toy stores that seem to stretch on for miles. You collect so many souvenirs you’re worried you’ll have to buy a second suitcase. Frankly, you’re going on week two of sleeping only in one to two hour stints, and it’s likely you’re beginning to get a little manic. In Tokyo, though, nobody bats an eye.
You join the team for breakfast in the hotel lobby on Thursday. You’ve somehow ended up at a table with Oscar and Lando- you’d gotten here before anyone else, and Oscar had chosen the seat across from you. Lando asks what you’ve been up to. They’ve been busy with promo stuff, you’ve hardly seen the two of them all week.
You regale them with your stories and hand off your phone to Lando so he can scroll through your pictures. Oscar listens with rapt attention, leaning to look at the photos too.
“How do you do all this and find time to sleep?” Lando asks, an amused tone in his voice.
“She doesn’t, mate,” Oscar replies, pointing at your phone. “Look at the time stamps.”
You roll your eyes and snatch the phone away from them. Lando’s looking at you with wide eyes, Oscar is smiling amusedly.
“Sleep is for the weak,” you tell them, and you swear Lando’s eyes are going to bug out of his head. “We’re in Tokyo, I’m making the most of it.”
To Oscar’s credit, he doesn’t bring up the encounter at the MTC, or the run in at the vending machines. Still, this revelation seems to bewilder Lando.
“Sleep is like, the most important thing,” he says, shaking his head. “For your health.”
“Not all of us have to be in tip top shape,” you say, stabbing your fork into a waffle on your plate. “Some of us get to have fun. Exhibit B. Our breakfasts.”
Lando looks at your plate, filled with waffles and bacon and your cup of coffee, next to it. He casts his glance to his sad looking bowl of oatmeal, then, and sighs heavily. Oscar’s laughing at the two of you, though his plate looks just as sad.
“When you pass out halfway through the day,” Lando says, a retaliatory furrow in his brow, “I’m telling Andrea why.”
“That won’t happen,” you reassure him. “And besides, it’s media day. I have it easy.”
…..
Oscar makes it on the podium on Sunday. You scream your lungs out with the rest of the team, run to the pit wall, watch the podium celebrations. He’s wrapping everyone in enthusiastic hugs, slapping everyone’s backs and grinning so, so widely. All the lost sleep feels worth it, just to see him smile like that.
When he makes it to you, he hauls you into his chest, arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. You could stay like that forever, if he’d let you. He tucks his chin atop your head and you think you’d like to make a home right there, in his arms.
The celebrations go late, and so does the debrief. By the time it’s all said and done, everyone looks exhausted, including the drivers. They start shuttling you all back to the hotel for the night, back in Tokyo so you can get on the plane easily tomorrow morning. You’re just glad to be back in the city. On a night like tonight, buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine, there’s no way you’re falling asleep.
You somehow end up in a shuttle with Oscar. He smells like champagne and sweat, and you tease him about it when he sits down in the back row next to you.
He smiled sheepishly. “So I smell like a podium finisher, then.”
You watch as the city goes by out the window and listen to him chat idly with the others in the van. When you get back, you’re the last one out of the car. He’s waiting outside the hotel, leaning on the wall.
“So, what’s your plan for the night?” He asks, cocking a brow.
“No judgement?” You ask.
“No judgement,” he promises.
You shrug. “Not exactly sure. There’s a lot to do. I’ll probably get some ramen, maybe go shopping. Might just take a walk.”
He nods. “Sleep?”
“Not high on the priority list,” you admit.
He nods again. “Can I come with?”
You blank, staring at him. “What?”
“On your adventure,” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I come along?”
Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest. He wants to come with? Why? There’s a part of you that doesn’t like the idea, that thinks your sleepless adventures are for you and you alone. The other part of you, the one that wins out, thinks it might not be so bad to have some companionship.
“… sure,” you agree, eyeing him carefully. “But you have to play along. No forcing me to go to sleep.”
“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinky.
You hook yours with his and seal the deal.
…..
You both head up to your hotel rooms to change clothes, and in Oscar’s case, to take a shower. He sends you a text when he’s ready and you meet him in the lobby. He’s in a casual outfit, jeans and a hoodie. You’re dressed similarly, in a pair of black jeans and a crewneck.
“Where to?” He asks, wide grin on his face.
It turns out that Oscar is the ideal late night adventure companion. You start your night out at a sushi conveyor restaurant, both of you joking about how Lando would never dare to eat there. You eat to your heart’s content and make comments about fueling up for the night ahead. He even joins you in having an energy drink, some Japanese brand that you’ve never heard of. Oscar reads part of the label to you, balks at the amount of caffeine in it, and drinks it anyways.
After the restaurant, the two of you climb into a cab and head to the Shibuya district. It’s crawling with people, buzzing with energy, and you feel right at home. Oscar sticks close to your side, hanging onto the back of your sweatshirt as you cross the busy crosswalks in a sea of people. When you turn, though, he’s smiling like he’s having the time of his life. The two of you climb the stairs to an observatory where you can watch the dance of pedestrians and traffic from above. There’s a glow to the city that feels akin to how your brain feels when you can’t sleep- like it never goes out, never turns off.
You tell this to Oscar, who gives you a contemplative look.
“Is it the energy drinks?” He asks. His hand is on your wrist, likely just to keep track of you in the crowds.
You shake your head. “The energy drinks came after the… not sleeping-“
“Insomnia,” he suggests.
“… not sleeping,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes at him. “Anyways. I was like a zombie. The energy drinks make it so I’m functional. I figure if I’m gonna be awake, may as well enjoy it.”
You head back out onto the streets and begin to wander again. Oscar follows along, always holding onto you in some way, always smiling when you look at him. The two of you wander through art galleries and museums lit up with neon lights. Somewhere in the middle of one of them, he slips his fingers between yours. You’re not complaining. There’s something grounding, leveling about his presence.
You stop for drinks at a bar- some sort of local beer that Oscar orders for both of you in Japanese. It’s followed by a vodka Red Bull, at your insistence. Oscar wrinkles his nose but drinks the whole thing, seemingly determined to match you.
Next door, there’s a highly American themed bowling alley. Oscar laughs about how Logan would love it and pulls you inside. It’s the first stop of the night that he’s suggested, so you go along eagerly. He’s snapping pictures, ones to send to Logan, ones for himself, ones of you smiling, renting out bowling shoes. He pays for the game, and you both do terribly. The worker puts the bumper guards up out of pity, because the two of you obviously have no idea what you’re doing. He’s a world renowned athlete, you’re a highly skilled engineer, and yet, you both suck at bowling.
“When did the in-“ you fix him with a glare, and he stops mid sentence. “When did the not sleeping start?”
You look up at the ceiling of the bowling alley and purse your lips, watching the disco ball spin. “Next question.”
He huffs and shrugs, rolling the ball down the lane. “I don’t have a next question.”
“What’s your family like?”’you ask him, and he smiles, softer than you’ve ever seen him smile before.
“Well, I have three sisters,” he starts, eyes lighting up.
Somewhere between the bowling alley, the next bar, and the shopping mall you end up in, you start to really get to know Oscar. It’s funny how the night opens people up. Everything feels safer in the dark, surrounded by other people. It’s creeping up on 1am- in theory, both of you should be sound asleep. The fact that you’re not makes anything okay. You learn about his family, his childhood, his friends back home and in the UK. You tell him about yourself, too. He listens with an eager look on his face, laughing at all the right moments, squeezing your hand at the right ones, too.
You end up in a store that’s packed to the brim with stuffed animals. He lets you drag him around the whole thing, pointing out cute ones and the ones you think are a bit odd. Then you gasp, pointing excitedly, pulling on his hand.
“It’s you,” you squeak, the delirium beginning to set in. It’s a stuffed Kangaroo, and he groans softly. “Look, you’re even making the same face.”
Oscar seems unable to argue with that. Both he and the stuffed kangaroo do seem to be scowling. He smiles instead, picks it up, and takes it to the register. He buys it before you can really even say anything, and the cashier packages it in a bag. The kangaroo’s head sticks out over the paper, your second faithful companion for the night.
By 3am, Oscar is starting to drag. He perks up every time you look at him and smiles brightly, but you can tell. His grip on your hand is looser lately, and his blinks are growing longer and longer. You turn to him, a sympathetic smile on your face.
“We can go back to the hotel, if you want,” you say, poking his cheek lightly.
He smiles. “Are you tired?”
You sigh. “No, but you are.”
“I’m okay,” he insists, shaking his head. “What about the batting cages you mentioned? That sounded fun.”
You pout at him. “Oscar, you’re half asleep. You’d definitely get hit by a ball.”
He nods in agreement. “Maybe I just need another energy drink?”
You cock your head at him, take in his heavy eyelids, his parted lips. “That would be your third one of the night. And that would be very unhealthy.”
He nods again. “Yeah. Okay. Just… I said I’d be along for the ride.”
“We can hang out at the hotel,” you suggest. “The pool area is open all night.”
“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”
“Me neither.”
You somehow end up with a pizza on your way back, and the two of you plant yourselves in the pool area on one of the chaise lounge chairs, the pizza box in front of you. You eat the greasy, cheesy food, and even Oscar indulges in it. He has his hand planted on the chair behind your back. Every so often you lean backs against his arm just to feel his presence. His knee bumps against yours, and you smile.
The pool is clear and blue. Neither of you will be swimming, but this felt like a neutral enough place. You’d thought about inviting him back to your room but had felt weird about it. There’s something calming about the still water and the smell of the chlorine, anyways.
He leans his head on your shoulder. The heavy weight of him is nice. He’s solid, sturdy, grounding. You’re chatting idly about something that happened at the race, something he’d missed while he was driving the car. You break off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, and then you close your eyes for just a moment. Oscar’s breath hitches.
The two of you are silent for a moment. You stare into the clear water, aching to drift and float and fall asleep. You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest.
“It started when I was a kid,” you tell him. “I just… stopped sleeping. It comes and goes in cycles. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I just…”
“Can’t sleep,” Oscar finishes for you, his words contradicting the sleepy tone of his voice.
“Yeah,” you say, blinking slowly again.
Your head droops, resting against his. He’s so warm, so comforting. He must feel you drifting, must feel your grip faltering, because then he’s sitting up, tucking you into his chest.
“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, drowsily.
“M’so tired,” you admit, curling into him. “Justwannasleep.”
Tears are stinging at your eyes. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared for this part. The moment when your lack of sleep catches up to you, and you become an emotional, distraught mess. You’re seconds away from full on sobbing.
Oscar seems to sense this. “Okay. Okay, how about- I have a pull out couch in my suite. Why don’t you- if you’re comfortable, you could come sleep there. Maybe it would help to know somebody’s there if you need it? Maybe-“
“Okay,” you answer, nodding against his chest. “Okay, yeah.”
He takes care of the empty pizza box and guides you up to his room. You know there’ll be questions to answer if anyone sees you, but you’re comforted by the fact that it’s 4am and nearly every sane person is sound asleep. He scans into the room, and you let out a sigh when he lets go of your hand. He moves quickly, unfolding the pull out couch, grabbing extra blankets from the cabinets. Before you know it, you’re sitting down on the bed, rubbing your eyes.
It’s strange, now that you’re here. You’re in Oscar’s hotel room. You’ve just spent the night wandering Tokyo with him. You’re exhausted, sleep deprived, still on the verge of tears. Everything feels hazy and blurry.
“I can… go, if you want,” he says, and you blink up at him through your blurry vision. “Or I can sit with you till you fall asleep.”
“That might take a while,” you tell him. “Like, you’re more likely to fall asleep. Even… when I finally get to this point, it takes a while.”
He shrugs. “We could put on a movie.”
That’s exactly what you do. He turns on the tv, spots Finding Nemo on the guide, and turns it on. He sinks down on the bed, leaning against the couch back. You crawl up next to him as he turns the volume low. At first, you just sit shoulder to shoulder. Then he reaches out, wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side. You sigh against him. Cradled close, you let the exhausted tears flow. He can’t see you, probably, and even if he can, you can’t bring yourself to care. He leans down, brushes his lips against your forehead.
“M’right here,” he says, softly. “I’ve got you.”
You wake up at 8am with your head in his lap. His alarm is blaring from the side table, and you’re both springing apart. He fumbles for his phone, shutting the alarm off with the shaky hands of someone who’s just been woken up from not nearly enough sleep.
You, on the other hand, have gotten the most consecutive sleep of your last two weeks. You stretch, rubbing the blur from your eyes and blinking at him.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“For what?” He asks, voice steady.
“For… I don’t know. Keeping you up so late? Falling asleep on you?” You shrug. “I… that was a lot, for me to put that all on you.”
Oscar shrugs, so nonchalant about it. “It’s what friends are for.”
You nod, though you’re not convinced. You pull away, and Oscar’s soft smile drops to a flat frown. He reaches for you, but you dodge his touch.
“I should go,” you tell him. “We have to leave soon, people are going to be getting up and- if they see me come out of your room-“
“We can be friends,” he says, again, brows furrowing. “We didn’t do anything wrong, everything is okay-“
He doesn’t understand. It’s fine for him, but this is too much for you. He wants to be friends, but you’re looking at him and thinking about how if you could curl up on his chest every night, you might never have trouble sleeping again. He wants friends, you want more. You can’t have more, though, because there’s no way you’ll keep your job. And he doesn’t want that, anyways. Why would he? You’re just his pity project, the poor girl who can’t sleep, who fails at counting sheep.
“I should go,” you repeat, standing up. You can’t look at him, can’t watch him watching you. “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry.”
He stands up too, and he grabs your hand. You pause, stuck between ripping your hand from his and running, or whirling around and snapping at him. Fight or flight. Instead, you take a deep breath. You’re still sleep deprived, still exhausted. 4 hours doesn’t fix two weeks of little to no sleep.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, shoulders sagging. “I have a hard time letting people take care of me.”
“It’s okay,” Oscar says. “Just- come sit down? Let’s talk, okay?”
You sink down on the bed, rest your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. “Why do you care?”
Oscar sits down next to you. He reaches out, knits your fingers together. You’re reminded of the art galleries, of the crowds, of the bowling alley. You split yourself open last night, in the safety of the time when you should’ve been sleeping. He saw you and he’s still here, somehow, hanging on. Your bones are tired. Your head is pounding. You need caffeine.
“I care,” he says, gently, “because I care about you. Because I think you’re a good person, and I want to get to know you better. And because this whole thing is not healthy.”
You sigh. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand methodically, back and forth. The funny thing is, you could fall asleep again, just like this. You could lean into his shoulder, let the warmth of him seep into your skin, and fall asleep. You wonder if he knows it.
“I’m fine,” you tell him, rubbing at your face sleepily. “Osc, I’ve been like this for years. It’s not just going to change now.”
“Not overnight,” he says, softly. There’s a callous on his thumb, you can feel the scrape of it over your skin. It’s oddly soothing. “But I can try. I can be here.”
“Why would you want to?”
“Because despite all the craziness, last night was the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” he says, and you could cry. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. Take you on dates. The whole nine yards.”
You should’ve expected this. Oscar can be shy, and quiet, but he can be straightforward, too. He’s pretty easy to read. He’s blunt with Lando, almost to the point of contention sometimes. But you’d been so focused on trying to prove to him that you were just fine that you hadn’t considered he was feeling the sparks, too. That maybe he wasn’t holding onto you in the crowd just so he didn’t lose you. That maybe he liked the feeling of your skin on his, too.
“If you want that,” he says, voice low.
You blink blearily, pull away to look up at him. “I do.”
He nods, leans forward, kisses your forehead. The rest of it will come later, you think. You can work all the details out when you’re both more awake. Right now, he pulls you into his chest and flops back onto the bed.
“We have an hour before anyone comes looking for us,” he says, rubbing your back lightly. “Close your eyes? You don’t have to sleep, just-“
You blink once, twice, and then you’re fast asleep before he can get another word out.
…..
Oscar wins the sprint race in Qatar, and then takes second on Sunday. He’s nothing but endless wide grins all weekend, despite the heat and the dehydration and his obvious exhaustion. You laugh when you watch him lay down on the floor in the cool down room and smile when he gets sprayed with champagne on the podium. He chases you through the garage afterwards to give you a hug, despite your screeching about how sticky he is.
He tucks you into his chest. “Couldn’t have done it without you, baby.”
Later, you help corral a very tired Oscar and Lando to the shuttles and back to the hotel. They’re each stumbling over their own feet, giggling and laughing about the race, shoving at each other’s shoulders. For a minute, you’re walking through an empty parking lot, far from any other McLaren staff, and Oscar links his fingers with yours. They fit together like puzzle pieces. His fingers are sticky with champagne, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Lando sees and doesn’t say anything, just smiles.
You’re keeping it quiet for now. Time to figure it out between the two of you before you get your bosses involved. You have a feeling it’ll be mostly okay. You’ll figure it out, one way or another.
You follow Oscar up to his hotel room, saying goodnight to Lando as he heads further down the hall. He knits his fingers with yours again, leads you into his room, and collapses onto the bed.
“I’m exhausted,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you?”
You smile down at him, laid out on the bed. He should probably shower, at the very least change his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that.
You sigh. “I mean, yeah, but if you’re asking if I’ll be able to sleep… probably not.”
He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “D’you think… would you just… stay, until I fall asleep?” He asks, blinking up at you. “After that you can take my card and get a Red Bull and go do whatever, just-“
“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you tell him.
It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done. He gets ready for bed, and you do the same. You lean against the headboard and he crawls up the bed. He puts his head on a pillow in your lap, curls up into a little c shape. He’s very cat like, you’ve noticed, especially when he’s sleepy. You run your fingers through his hair, the tv playing quietly in the background, and he sighs and closes his eyes.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.
He’s out within minutes. Oscar is a sound sleeper. You could move him, could shift his head and get up. You could wander the halls, take his card and buy all the energy drinks you desire. But you look down at him, his brow unfurrowed, lips parted, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. You could sit here and watch him breathe all night. It’s a terrifying and comforting thought, all at once.
You don’t sleep. It’s likely you’ll crash on the flight home, or maybe shortly after that. With your luck, you’ll pass out in a meeting when you get back to the MTC. Oscar doesn’t scold you when he wakes up and it’s obvious you’ve been awake all night.
He gets you coffee from the breakfast bar, exactly how you like it. And when he finds you in the backseat of the airport shuttle, he hands you a tangerine Red Bull. It’s early, the sun just peeking up over the horizon, washing the whole city with orange. He’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling right back.
When you fall asleep on his shoulder on the way to the airport, nobody dares to say a word.
…..
“Did you hear we’re gonna be sponsored by Monster next year?” Lando asks, throwing a tennis ball at a wall in the courtyard.
You sit up in the grass nearby, eyes lighting up. “You’re kidding. Free Monster?”
Oscar, whose stomach you’d been laying on, sits up behind you and wraps his arm around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder.
“Your consumption will be restricted,” he says, and you laugh.
You suppose that’s fair. Besides, Monster is fine, but nothing will ever top tangerine Red Bull.
check out the companion blurb, Glad You’re Here
thanks for reading, hope you sleep better than me! you can find my other fics here! sweet dreams y’all
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lohotine · 24 days ago
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``The Want to be Wanted.``
Chance x GN! Reader (Forsaken)
Cw: Mentions and usage of: Cigarettes, Alcohol. Not proof read.
The night had been long. It was filled with loud activities, risky bets, money, alcohol.
Things that were commonplace for a casino.
Chance had you by his side the entire night. You were his quote-unquote lucky charm. Though you're pretty sure he was only saying that because you were a nice piece of eye candy for him to flaunt around the casino.
What is a crown without its jewels, after all?
He'd have you seated on his lap while making irresponsible bets that he somehow never ended up being punished for, leaving kisses along your neck and rubbing their thumb over your hip.
It was honestly quite boring, but you couldn't deny that the attention was nice.
Feeling wanted was nice.
Of course, he'd make it up to you by buying you drinks and complimenting you the entire time. About how nice you looked that night, or how good you smelt.
Cheap, basic compliments like that; but compliments nonetheless.
Compliments that, despite your best efforts, replayed in your mind over and over.
But all good things have to come to an end eventually.
The two of you would call it a night, and Chance would bring you to his expensive car parked outside, and he'd hold the passenger door open for you, like the gentleman he was.
As Chance drove, you'd look out the window to see all the city lights filling up the streets. You'd see all of the people who have yet to retire for the night.
Chance was rambling on about a jackpot he won earlier that night. You already knew about it, of course. After all, you were with him the entire time. Yet you continued to listen despite this.
You always listened.
Nobody else really did.
And eventually, you'd reach the apartment complex he had booked for the night. It was a different one from last week, though no less expensive.
Chance could never really sit still, after all. They were constantly chasing after that thrill. Asking things like, what kind of complimentary wine will be served this time?
Or, will there be white bedsheets or black?
Small things like that. Things that made him seem like even more of a gambling addict than he already was.
He'd know the answer to these questions if he simply checked the website a little more thoroughly. But why would he do that when he could just leave it up to fate, right?
The lobby was empty. It was late, after all. Chance took this as a sign to wrap his arm around your waist and walk you towards the elevator. Not like he wouldn't have done the same thing anyway if there were people.
"So, fun night, right?" He muses, that signature grin brandishing his face as you approach some random suite. You say nothing. You just want to lie down.
"I'll take that as a no," he notes, sliding the apartment keycard along the sensor. The inside looks nice. Everything Chance owns is always like that.
Refined, minimalistic, expensive.
Chance starts to take off his coat, but you don't help him. You only wander off to the balcony. To the first moment of solitude you've been offered this entire day.
Solitude isn't really what you're after, though.
The entire city stirs beneath you. Cars speeding down the street, apartment lights serving as your substitute for stars.
It's something you have to get used to. How everything is constantly in motion.
How it can never seem to sit still.
And once again, your thoughts have circled back to him. The one person who probably could not care less about you.
Not really.
Not in the way you'd want.
And eventually, after staring at the view from the balcony and being lost in thought, Chance reunites with you once more.
He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his suit. It's an exclusive, nameless brand that's probably worth more than your entire life's savings.
Another reminder of just how little your life is worth in comparison to his. For some reason, this night just seemed full of them.
Chance lights one cigarette and brings it up to his lips. You watch silently as he breathes it in, and eventually breathes it out.
It's sort of mesmerizing; how pretty he is.
"Take a picture. It'll last longer." He grins at his own joke, because of course he does. "But seriously. What's up with you? You've been acting off all night."
You say nothing. You're not even sure what you'd say, anyway.
The only sounds that remain are the sounds of cars driving by and the sound of Chance's breathing as he continues to smoke.
If he were feeling a little more generous that night, perhaps he would have allowed you to remain silent.
But he'd long since become bored of your little silent treatment. Even the most patient of people grow tired of waiting after all.
He leans over you, smoke swirling around the two of you like a veil. Chance smells of alcohol and expensive cologne. The apartment smells like antiseptic.
An unfamiliar mixture of scents.
A mixture that just so happens to set off all of your nerves in a way that makes you feel like something is wrong.
Is there something wrong?
You can't see their expression under the sunglasses, but even if you could, you doubt you'd be able to decipher it.
"Come on now, use your words. Tell me what's on your mind," Chance says, his thumb brushing along your bottom lip.
He looks at you with that small, charming smile. The one he's constantly wearing. Though this one, you admit, is slightly softer.
It manages to make you fold. Instantly.
"Why do you even keep me around? You... have no need for me..." you mumble.
The atmosphere gets more suffocating with those words, and Chance's movements seem to still, if only for a moment.
Then he sighs. He removes the cigarette from his lips and flicks it out over a nearby ashtray.
"Of course I don't need you."
His hold on your chin tightens. An act of desperation, perhaps?
"But I want you," he exhales, the words sounding breathless on his lips.
"I want you so badly."
"And more than that... I want you... to want me too."
Chance never thought he'd admit those words.
After all, Chance had everything he could ever need.
He had money. Connections. Luxuries.
And yet,
you remained all he could ever want.
That's why he did all that he did, after all.
He bought you anything you even vaguely looked at. He kept you near him always. He'd hold open doors for you, pull out chairs for you.
All so that, maybe, you'd want him, like he wanted you.
He wanted you to want him.
He really,
truly,
did.
And so, when Chance felt your hand slowly trailing upwards, before resting on his shoulder, he could not help but lean into you more.
You were careful, and perhaps even a bit reluctant in your actions, yet not unwilling.
Never unwilling.
"I want you."
Those were the words Chance heard from you.
A quiet exclamation. Almost a whisper, that threatened to be whisked away by the night breeze.
But he heard it anyway.
Of course he did.
And then he'd shift, once more, closer to you. Closer to your lips
And you'd do the same, until you two met.
A careful interaction, being tread lightly by both of you.
This kiss was different from the others.
Not as demanding. Not as bold.
Just there. Simply being. As it is.
"I think I love you," he'd murmur, never quite breaking the kiss and simply mumbling the words into your mouth.
"You're not sure?"
He'd pull back at that, shaking his head slightly.
"No. I am sure... I love you."
And before you could say anything else, his lips were back on yours. His tongue swiped your bottom lip, before shoving its way into your mouth.
He still tasted like the smoke from his cigarette. It was bitter. But it tasted like him.
It tasted right.
"I love you, too," you'd say in-between kisses.
The words left you effortlessly.
You've been meaning to say them for a long time, after all.
Been meaning to kiss him like this.
Like you meant it.
And you did mean it.
As did he.
And you wanted it.
As did he.
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chris-prank · 5 months ago
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Hello
I really like your Atlas and your Jacce
Can you tell me how they would react/take care of Reader if they woke up/showed up for service one day and Reader was sick and unable to play?
Hi to you fellow yandere enjoyers! 😆 I hope my answer was worth the wait!
The only thing I could think about for “service” was like servicing for spicy time? I’m really sorry if that’s not what you meant! (Sometimes my english is no englishing)
CW: Suggestive content and dubious consent
・*:.。..。.:*・*:.。..。.:*・
Jacce crawled under the covers, ready to put his mouth to good use. But as he was pulling on the rim of your underwear, his action was put on halt by a hoarse voice muffled by the piece of fabric over him. Then a light shined onto his face, making his eyes squint. Once his sight adjusted and you came into view, the man could clearly see the sickly color of your skin.
“I got sick overnight…” A well placed cough followed suit, proving your point.
Jacce gave you an apologetic frown, “I can still do it i-if you want! I don’t care about getting sick if it’s your germs.” As he said it he pressed a chaste kiss against your inner thighs and kept up eye contact.
You grimaced at his words and pushed his head away from between your legs. The man whined at the sudden physical rejection, giving you puppy eyes. How could he say something so cute yet disgusting at the same time?!
“You shouldn’t say stuff like that! Plus I’m not in the mood anymore.” You huffed.
“S-sorry!”
And so, for the rest of the day, you were doted on by your lover, from breakfast in bed to going out to buy all the medicines you needed. Despite your warnings earlier, it still didn’t stop Jacce from stealing you quick kisses every now and then.
Who could have guessed that he got sick three days later.
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
Atlas’s had everything prepared to a tee. Rose petals leading to your bedroom, a cute revealing outfit on his back, candles to set the mood, etc. Sure you didn’t ask for all of that, but he wanted to make it a memorable night for you. He was showing the extent of his love for you after all. Human courtship was supposed to be this extra… right?
Before the sound of a fist knocking at the door could be heard, the android was already set in position, his sensors having heard your footsteps already from an inhuman distance. He had knelt down, his pale hands resting on each of his exposed thighs. He could feel a slight glitch of anticipation pass through his vision as the door creaked open. Atlas readied himself for your surprise and excited reaction.
As you saw the display before you, you were indeed surprised at first, but it followed suit with a face full of guilt.
“Oh Atlas… ”
Your partner rose up in an instant, grabbing your wrist and bringing his other hand to your forehead. In truth, he didn’t have to do all that, since he had a functionality that allowed him to know the living organism’s body temperature. He still did it every time anyway because it made him feel closer to you. He swore that this morning your metabolism seemed fine and yet. He felt as if he should have been more efficient to prevent your health from ending up in this state. Human afflictions were such an unpredictable thing and he hated it.
“Don’t mind the setup, I’ll take down everything.” He swiftly said.
As he backed away, Atlas could feel a warm overheating feeling all over his face and chest, but paid it no mind, surely it was just a reaction from his program to the sudden change of objective. He blew out all the candles laying around and collected them in the process. The heat seemed to spread further across his cheeks as he glanced down at his skimpy clothes only to be met with your gaze once he lifted his head up.
“I’ll go change if I make you uncomfort—“
You grinned before he could finish.
“It’s not because I’m sick that I can’t enjoy a beautiful view. Come and relax with me, you can always clean up later, pretty boy.”
・*:.。..。.:*・*:.。..。.:*・
I really hope this was what you were expecting!
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s1eepy-bear · 1 month ago
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‧୨🌿୧ ₊˚ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥・𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐
pairing: robert 'bob' reynolds x ex shield agent! f!reader
synopsis: it's your first day on duty and you bring donuts for the team. a silly morning encounter reveals bob's hidden vulnerabilities. you quickly developing an unexpected connection with him.
content: no y/n, silly, fluffy, cute, slow burn
warnings: MDNI! not proof read, bob's abs lol
a/n: i finally thought of a title for this series! i wonder if i'm getting too hung up on everyone else's interaction with the reader, should i focus more on her interactions with bob? let me know <3 Chapter 1
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That night, a soft, balmy breeze billowed your open curtains, bringing with it the faint, persistent pulse of New York's distant hustle and bustle.
You lie in bed, soft sheets enveloping you as you try to drift into sleep. Behind your closed eyelids, a persistent image gnawed at you: Bob’s red, shy face. 
A sliver of guilt hangs heavy in your chest for having flustered him so abruptly. You now have a level of access to those in the spotlight that SHIELD had never granted you, and the excitement of your new proximity to the New Avengers had entirely swept you away. You must remain professional.
Just two years ago, Bob slowly inked New York City away into darkness, turning people into shadows one by one, causing severe damage to the city and resulted in numerous injuries.
With this in mind, flirting feels frivolous and irresponsible when confronted with the ghosts of his past. And if he is in a vulnerable head space, you don’t want to be the one to take advantage of it, even if it's unintentional. This isn’t the kind of crush you can afford to have.
With these thoughts plaguing your mind and the heavy exhaustion from the busy work day, you slowly drift off to sleep.
༉ ✧˚₊
The following morning, the sun drenched the landscape, laying a shimmering, translucent veil over everything. A gentle breeze dances through the air, the sun is still low on the horizon.
You woke up extra early to drop by the charming donut shop you frequent to grab breakfast for the whole team. You opted for something simple, sugar donuts, until you learn everyone’s preferences.
You walk into the tower from your car, the bag of donuts in hand, thoughtfully greeting the other workers maintaining the tower along the way.
The light above the sensor in the elevator beeps green when you touch the access key to it and whirs into motion, swiftly bringing you to your desired floor.
The common area where the team welcomed you yesterday is now dark due to the curtains being drawn. The space is quiet, spared from the steady, low hum of the air conditioner running. You check your watch: only 6:10. Most of them are probably asleep.
You decide to take this time to brew some fresh, actually hot, coffee. While the pot gurgles, you tidy up various spots in the common area and kitchen: throw pillows on the floor, a bag of Goldfish crackers left open, a few books and magazines scattered around, dishes in the sink, cereal pieces that didn’t make it to the mouth, expired things in the fridge.
The smell of the fresh brew fills the space as you continue to busy yourself with noting down numerous items, food, and snacks for restocking. You silently note to yourself to get everyone’s phone number so they can get ahold of you if they ever need something.
“Oh, good morning,” Yelena says as she walks out from a corridor, which you learned from her yesterday, leads to the gym.
Her face shiny from a thin sheen of sweat as she makes her way toward you, wiping the sweat off with the towel around her neck. Her short blonde hair is pushed back with a headband.
“Good morning, Ms. Belova,” you greet her back with a mellow murmur, the sound soft enough not to disturb the early morning quiet. 
“No, no, none of that,” she plops herself down on one of the leather bar stools by the kitchen island, the stool legs scraping faintly against the floor.
You tilt your head, a question forming in your head. The coffee maker gives a final satisfying beep, its brewing cycle complete.
“Just Yelena,” she clarifies. 
 You smile at that, “Well, Yelena, would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
You collect two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic cool beneath your fingers, and fill them both with fresh coffee. Wisps of steam rose lazily from the dark liquid. The rich aroma blossoms in the air as you set one mug before her. She nods appreciatively.
“So, you think Bob is cute, huh?” Just as you take a sip out of your mug, Yelena inquires suddenly with a playful glint in her eyes. The unexpected question catches in your throat, forcing a sharp, spluttering cough.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” your initial serene expression crumples, replaced by a deep flush rising to your cheeks. You lower your cup to press your fingers between your eyebrows in a flustered manner.
Yelena laughs, a low, throaty sound, propping her elbows on the counter.
“Come on, you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it.”
“It’s not that I didn’t mean it, it’s just…it was unprofessional,” you avert your gaze, suddenly the bleak marble counter looks very interesting. 
“Who cares!” She lightheartedly rolls her eyes. “We’re hardly a professional organization. You just said what was on your mind.”
“Still,” you insist softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic now warmer due to your body heat and hot beverage.
The Watchtower's dormant systems hummed—a low, almost imperceptible sound that seemed to amplify the awkward quietness. Your downcast eyes catch the wrinkled paper bag of donuts—your saving grace.
“Anyways…care for a donut?” You ask as you hold up the bag. “I settled for something basic since I don’t know what everyone liked. Let me know if you have any preferences,” Yelena gives you a knowing look, taking a deliberate sip of her coffee to hide her lips twitching with suppressed amusement. She is letting you off the hook, for now.
Yelena reaches for the bag, her fingers lightly hover as she carefully chooses what must be the perfect one. She takes a huge bite and lets out a genuine, drawn-out groan of pleasure. “Mmm! This is good, actually good, better than whatever dad tries to make.” 
You let out a quick exhale of a laugh. The tight knot of tension in your chest finally loosens. You pluck a donut for yourself, not bothering with Yelena’s meticulous selection process.
Even with her teasing about Bob, a warm wave of relief washes over you. You've found a connection with at least one person on this team. Well, there's Alexei too, but Alexei is friendly right off the bat, like a big, boisterous golden retriever.
As you and Yelena enjoy your donuts, a quiet murmur of conversation and two pairs of footsteps draw steadily louder. 
“Wow, looks real tidy out here,” Walker’s voice announces from just around the corner.
“Smells real good too,” he steps fully into the kitchen, Bucky Barnes following close behind him. They both are in athletic gear, ready for a morning workout.
“Good morning, Mr. Walker, and nice to finally meet you, Mr. Barnes.” Your lips curve upward in a polite greeting. Bucky simply returns it with a nod and a small smile of his own, while Yelena tosses a casual, “What’s up, losers?” their way.
“Some coffee and donuts?” you offer, holding up the bag. Both of the super soldiers accept enthusiastically. While they chat with Yelena, you busy yourself with coffee and mugs.
"Maybe this secretary thing is awesome after all," Walker remarks complacently with a smirk, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement.
“Walker,” Bucky lectures, his voice a low, warning rumble—probably worrying about Walker's statement being rude.
You smile back at Walker as you set their coffee in front of them on the kitchen island.
"Just part of the job,”
You can’t deny that it feels good to have someone acknowledge and appreciate your work, even jokingly. 
༉ ✧˚₊
After a quick breakfast, the others begin to disperse. Yelena leaves to go take a shower, and Bucky and Walker make their way to the gym. 
You inhale your donut in a few quick bites and retrieve your company-issued tablet from your purse, flipping through various tabs, reviewing the team’s schedule today.
Although each person on the team is sent their own schedule, you keep everyone’s, so you can locate someone if you are looking for them, or if someone doesn’t make it somewhere on time, it’s your duty to check on them.  
A quick glance confirms the mission briefing for tomorrow: the whole team, minus Bob. It seems like Val is utilizing the new support staff—you, to keep him company while the team is deployed. While your role for most of the team is to respond when needed, your duties for Bob involve a slightly more active form of oversight. You have to make sure that he wakes up before noon and eats all his meals. 
For now, you sit in the common area with the curtains drawn open, as you review what would be stacks of paperwork if it weren’t digital. The Watchtower is brighter but not much more lively. Today is everyone’s day off; therefore, some go their separate ways to take care of business. You would usually find the quietness relaxing, but the lack of structure is unnerving. It’s not the kind of stressful, rigid work environment you're used to.
You officially met Ava Starr when she strolled past the common area on her way out. Her movement fluid and silent, as if gliding. Her ethereal, pale blue eyes remind you of a fairy.
With your introduction, she simply mutters, “finally, another girl.” A faint smile tugging at her lips.
“Want a donut?” 
How many times have you said the word ‘donut’ today?
“How thoughtful, don’t mind if I do,” Ava says, giving you a nod of thanks before she disappears.
A moment after Ava leaves, just when the air has settled, a soft padding of bare feet against the tiled floor catches your attention. Bob’s eyes are half closed, still lost somewhere in sleep, as he wobbles slowly across the common area toward the kitchen, oblivious to you. Strands of his brown hair stick out in different directions, appearing golden under the sun. You would alert him, but there’s something so captivating about watching Bob just existing, devoid of nervousness or uncertainty. 
He rubs his eye as he yawns tiredly, reaching a hand up under his shirt to scratch his stomach. The fabric rides up, revealing his abdomen. Your eyes widen, and your heart jolts against your ribcage. His baggy clothes make him look unassuming, even scrawny, but the reality is anything but. Beneath the fabric lay an expanse of taut, defined muscles that spoke quiet strength—a sharp contrast that stole your breath. You swallow thickly.
Fuck.
Still unaware of your presence, Bob's eyes finally open fully, drawn by something in the kitchen. His gaze falls on the last donut remaining on a plate. He absentmindedly grabs the pastry and starts feasting. Mid-chewing, he turns, locking eyes with you, and freezes.
“Oh shit,” he says incoherently, you almost didn’t make out his words. He swallows his bite, his eyes wide from surprise or panic, you’re not sure which, “uh, hey…that wasn’t yours, was it?”
You sputter, a fit of laughter hits you all at once, and you can’t seem to take a full breath. Maybe it was because of how carefree he was the second before, but reverted to his usual self in the snap of a finger, or the fact that there’s sugar on the side of his mouth.
Your laughter evokes a bashful smile from Bob, “So, was that a 'no, it wasn't yours,' or do you just enjoy my cluelessness?” He says, his tongue darts out briefly to lick away the sugar on the side of his mouth. 
“Maybe I do, and the donut is for you,” you say, still breathless from laughing. “You’re lucky that I’m here to make sure no one grabbed two.” 
“Thanks,” Bob lets out a sigh of relief, clearly still a bit embarrassed but grateful. "I…I didn’t know that you were going to be here today.”
“Well, Bob, I have a job here,” you tilt your head with an amused smile as you make your way to the kitchen, to him. “And I’ll be here every day.”
“Right, that makes sense…” His voice trails off. 
A quiet elation blossoms within him in your presence, like a breath of fresh spring air. You, with your gentle smile and disarming frankness, are a stark contrast from those who walk on eggshells around him, wary of rattling the Void. He doesn’t hold that against them, but it felt good being treated like he’s a normal person—no serum, no Sentry, no Void.
A tingly, warm feeling spreads across his chest, a feeling he didn’t even realize he missed. His bashful smile softens further, and his gaze, usually a little distant, settles on you with a warmth that matches the new feeling in his chest. He clears his throat gently. "So," he begins, “what exactly is your job with us…I mean, I know you are our uh, assistant or secretary, but what does that entail?”
“Well, just about anything, I can cook for you guys, get groceries, manage paperwork, clean, be good company,” you list, but pause, “speaking of groceries, you guys are very out. Would you come to the store with me? I’m not sure what everyone likes.”
“Oh, um…” Bob's face falls, his blue eyes clouding with sorrow. "The team doesn't like me going outside," he explains quietly. "Because the Void might come out, you know. And that's... not good."
“So you just…stay here all day?”
“Pretty much.”
You soften your gaze, speaking gently. "Val actually mentioned you're allowed to leave the Tower with a companion. You can't conquer the Void by being cooped up all day, Bob. Besides, we're only going to grab groceries, we'll come straight back if you'd like, and I'll be right there with you." You suggest, being careful not to pressure him into something he's uncomfortable with.
“Are you sure?” Bob fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt—you learn that it’s a nervous habit of his.
“I believe in you. Do you believe in yourself?”
Bob seems to ponder it over in his head and eventually takes a deep breath. “Okay…I will at least try.”
“Alright,” you beamed, unable to stop the big smile spreading across your face. “That’s all I ask.”
Your smile lightened something in Bob, drawing a soft, answering smile to his lips.
Bob nodded, his gaze softening as he held your smile, “yeah…”
You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. "So, are you flying us or should I drive?"
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button divider by @/bernardsbendystraws
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super-ion · 5 months ago
Text
The Engineer
Part 4
(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3)
I don't know where the pilot is taking me at first.
I am realizing that my life has just been an endless circuit of routine: Quarters. Gym. Cafeteria. Maintenance bay. Cafeteria. Quarters. Repeat. Everything outside of that has become an abstraction to me.
I can't even remember the last time I made my way up to the level. Everything here is shiny and pristine, scrubbed spotless twice a day on the off chance that some senator or general might visit. It's all clean lines, camouflaged access panels, trim little admin offices.
I very nearly have to stop and stare at a potted plant, when was the last time I saw one, verdant and alive?
But the pilot is moving with single minded purpose and I am forced to hurry to catch up.
I imagine her dragging me into the commandant’s office. I imagine her presenting me in formal complaint, the guilt of my sins, my intimacy with her machine, written plainly across my face.
She comes to a stop so suddenly that I almost collide with her. It is not the commandant’s office that we have arrived at.
The gilded signage on the door simply reads: OBSERVATION
She glances at me, briefly hesitating. In this entire encounter, it is the first moment of uncertainty that she has shown.
She swipes her wrist over the access panel, the door whispers open and I understand the hesitation and uncertainty.
Observation delivers exactly what it promises. The far side of the dimly lit room is dominated by floor-to-ceiling plex that overlooks the expanse of the maintenance bay.
My breath catches at the sight of Her.
Morrigan is resting in Her docking harness, Her heat sinks fully spread like the wings of an angel, armor plating unfolded to expose superstructure beneath, countless docking umbilicals arrayed almost organically to connect to the facility's systems.
It has been so long since I've actually seen Her, all of Her at once, that I've forgotten the scale of it all. My entire world has been the cockpit and the docking vestibule and now I can barely comprehend how small the team of techs are next to Her as they scurry along like ants.
Some tension leaves the pilot's shoulders and she strides towards the plex wall. She gazes upon the machine with adoration, the most emotion I have ever seen on her face. I start to imagine that I understand why she brought me here.
I step tentatively into the room. The door shuts behind me and the dim space is suddenly intimate.
Alone with the Pilot, her framed by the vista of Morrigan, the space feels almost holy. A shrine. A Goddess and Her human avatar.
I imagine Morrigan watching us. Maybe She can. Her visual sensors are specially designed to pick out details at a distance. Perhaps the Pilot told Morrigan exactly where and when we would be her.
Almost in answer to my thoughts, Her exposed core pulses, a blue-white flicker of light, and the Pilot places a hand tenderly on the plex.
My stomach lurches. It is no longer me alone with the Pilot in this room. It is all three of us. It is me alone with them. The suffocating sense of being an interloper returns in full force.
“I read all your reports,” the Pilot says without turning, without breaking her gaze from Morrigan. “It's like fucking Christmas for her. She just can't wait to show me what you found in your analysis.”
I stand awkwardly, unsure how to respond, or if I should respond at all.
“It's so fucking hard sometimes,” she continues, “they pull you out and you can't even tell who you are. You leave something behind and you take something with you.”
She turns abruptly, fixing me with the intensity of her gaze.
“What were you doing three nights ago?”
I had been expecting the question, dreading it, but the abruptness of it catches me off guard and fresh panic licks down my spine.
I open my mouth, but I can't bring myself to say anything.
She takes a step towards me. I step back instinctively. My back meets the wall.
“I already know,” she says, her tone unreadable. “I want to hear you say it. Your own words.”
I swallow. My eyes dart back to Morrigan. She is watching us. I know it. I know it from the now blazing light in Her core.
“I…”
I swallow again.
“I had a nightmare,” I admit. “I went to Morrigan.”
She takes another step forward. She's taller than me and I have to tilt my head back just slightly to meet her eyes.
“Why?”
“I didn't… I didn't want to be alone. I didn't know who else to go to. I... I wanted to be with her.”
Another step. She's close now, close enough to touch.
“Whose nightmares?”
Fuck.
“Yours,” I admit. “...and mine.”
“You think a lot about neural bleed.”
It isn't a question. I don't think it's a question. I nod in acknowledgement regardless.
“You think about how the patterns of thought and identity leave marks. Imprints. You're in her head, so you're in mine. The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?”
Fuck. What does she want from me?
I don't know if she expects me to answer that, but there's another moment of uncertainty from her.
“She wanted me to talk to you,” she says. “Or I wanted her to want me to talk to you. I don't even know. I don't fucking know who wants what any more.”
She looks… vexed now. That intense gaze of hers has taken on a slightly different gleam.
My heart is hammering in my chest and my breathing has become ever so slightly ragged.
Neural bleed. Two halves to a whole.
She is Morrigan. The human half. The physical half.
She lifts her hand and I stand motionless as she reaches out to touch my face. Her fingertips meet my cheek and she blinks, almost surprised to discover that I am real.
She takes a breath and the uncertainty is gone, leaving naked desire in its wake.
She shifts her hand, palm sliding along my cheek to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. The feel of her skin against mine is enough to make me gasp.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” she tells me in a low whisper.
(Next)
“Please don't stop,” I beg in reply.
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myrleius · 3 months ago
Text
IMG_0001.jpg — bakugo k.
bakugo k. x seer quirk fem!reader│word count: 3k
synopsis: It's your birthday, and the party's over, until Bakugo texts you to meet him outside.
cw/tags: fluff, slight angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship
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The last echo of laughter had long since faded from the common room.
Balloons clung stubbornly to the ceiling, streamers drooped low, and leftover confetti littered the floor beneath the furniture. It had been a good day. Loud, bright, filled with so much energy that the hours had flown by before you even noticed.
Now, Heights Alliance was quiet. You rubbed your cheeks, sore from a day full of laughter and smiles. Your feet moved sluggishly across the floor, still aching from running around. As the fatigue settled in, your heart finally slowed, but it still felt full.
With a sigh, you flopped onto the bed and let your eyes fall shut. You allowed the memories to linger just a little longer. The sweet scent of the cake Sato made, the off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday,” the ridiculous games everyone insisted on playing. It had been chaotic but in the best possible way.
Just as sleep began to pull you under, a soft buzz broke the silence, followed by a faint glow of your phone lighting up on the nightstand.
Blinking against the light, you reached for it lazily, expecting maybe a last-minute “happy birthday” from family or a meme from Mina.
[1 New Message from: Katsuki ❤️] Meet me outside. Now.
Your breath hitched, and in an instant, you shot upright, all exhaustion gone in a blink.
You scrambled for your hoodie, yanking it on with fumbling fingers, then shoved on socks and shoes, moving more on instinct than thought.
Your heart pounded—part nerves, part excitement—as you cracked open the door and peeked into the dark hallway.
Silence.
Slipping out, you carefully closed the door behind you and crept through the dorm corridors. You paused just long enough to check the hallway, ears straining for any sign of Aizawa’s dreaded patrols, or worse, your classmates late-night snack raids.
But the coast was clear.
Once outside, the cool night air kissed your cheeks. The sky stretched wide above, a deep navy canvas dotted with stars. The moon hung high and full, casting a gentle silver glow over the campus. Your breath came out in small puffs, visible for just a second before dissolving into the dark.
And then, there he was.
Bakugo stood just beyond the path, leaning against a tree with his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. His hood was up, but it couldn’t hide the messy tufts of blond hair sticking out, or the way his head snapped up the moment your footsteps crunched on the gravel.
“Katsuki,” you called softly, chuckling as you jogged toward him.
He scoffed and pushed off the tree. “Took you long enough.”
You gave him a look. “Hey, sneaking past three floors and avoiding Aizawa-sensei’s patrol isn’t exactly a walk in the park. You’re lucky I made it at all.”
“Tch. You wouldn’t have gotten caught,” he grumbled, stepping closer to zip your hoodie all the way up. “I made sure everything was clear. You’d have to be a total idiot to screw it up.”
You blushed at the quiet gesture, but you didn’t back down. “Oh yeah?” you teased, a spark in your eye. “Big words coming from the guy who almost blew stealth training last week.”
“Oi, that was Dunce Face’s fault” he muttered, pinching your cheek. “Dumbass tripped the sensors.”
“Sure, blame Kaminari,” you said, swatting his hand away. “Ow—okay, okay, I surrender!”
Bakugo huffed, but his touch gentled as his hand trailed down your arm. His fingers brushed yours before curling around them. “Come on. We should get going.”
You raised an eyebrow, falling into step beside him. “Where exactly are we going? And shouldn’t you be tucked in by now, Grandpa?”
“The hell did you just call me?” he snapped, shooting you a glare. “I’ll tuck you in—six feet under.”
You grinned, fully aware you were poking the bear. “See? This is what happens when you stay up past your bedtime. You get super cranky.”
“I’ll show you cranky when I duct-tape your ass to a tree and leave you for the birds.”
“Alright, alright,” you relented with a laugh. “So what’s got you skipping your sacred nine o’clock shut-eye, huh? Don’t tell me it’s me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “Just… had something planned.”
You swung your joined hands, voice syrupy with mischief. “Aww. Is this a secret late-night date?”
“Yeah.”
You blinked, glancing up at him. 
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t take it back. He just kept walking, eyes fixed forward. His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.
Your mind stuttered, gears catching on that single word.
Bakugo wasn’t a flowers-and-chocolate kind of guy. He didn’t write love notes or plan romantic gestures. Hell, he could barely say “You look nice” without sounding like he was choking on it.
But you knew he cared in his own way.
He always handed you your water bottle during training, already opened because he’d noticed how the stubborn cap made you struggle. He’d scoff and call you “weak” for not twisting it hard enough, but his fingers were already working it loose before you even asked.
Once, when you were sick, he shoved a wad of tissues at you with a scowl, muttering about “germy idiots who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”Later, you’d find cough drops tucked into your bag (the exact kind you liked) and when you thanked him, he’d just snap, “Shut up. I just had extra.”
He trained with you longer than anyone else, even when he was exhausted. When you stumbled, he’d bark at you to “get the hell up,” but his hand was already outstretched, pulling you to your feet before you could fall. 
He let you vent when you were frustrated, listening in silence while you ranted, never interrupting. When you cried, he didn’t panic or awkwardly pat your back. He just sat beside you until you were ready to talk. He let you be messy, let you be you, in a way no one else did.
And sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, you’d catch the way his gaze lingered on you—not with irritation, but something softer. Something he’d never put into words.
Because Bakugo didn’t say he loved you.
He just showed it. In every rough gesture, every muttered insult that hid concern, every small, stubborn act of care he’d deny if you ever called him out on it.
But this was entirely different.
He didn’t hide behind the usual bluster or threats. No sarcastic deflection or even a half-hearted “Don’t get the wrong idea” to cushion it.
He planned a date. For you two. On your birthday.
You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact between you—the warmth of his palm, the calluses of his fingers, the way he stood just slightly closer, as if shielding you from the evening chill.
You bit back a smile, voice softer now. “You should’ve told me,” you murmured, feeling your cheeks warming up. “I would've dressed nicer.”
He huffed, tugging you forward. “Shut up. You’re fine. It’s nothin’ fancy.”
But when the trees finally parted and the soft glow of lights spilled over the clearing, you knew that wasn’t true.
A blanket was spread neatly across the grass, with two pillows nestled on either side. A thermos sat in the center, next to a small box of snacks—your favorites, you realized. A few paper lanterns hung from low branches above, casting a warm, cozy glow over everything, carefully spaced to avoid catching the attention of any teachers on patrol.
“You…” You turned to him, eyes wide. “You did all this?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“But—”
“Tch. You like this sappy crap, right?” he muttered, already stepping past you toward the blanket. “All that ‘romantic picnic’ shit or whatever. Pinky wouldn’t shut up about it when I asked.”
You blinked. “You… asked Mina for advice?”
“I didn’t ask,” he huffed. “She was being nosy. Sticking her damn face in my business like always, and—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale. “Point is, it’s your damn birthday. So. Here.”
You stepped closer, taking in all the little details. “You planned this. Like, really planned it.”
“The hell’s so surprising about that?” he snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. “I don’t half-ass shit.”
“No,” you agreed, a smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, jaw tight like he was chewing on words he’d never say aloud. Then he jerked his chin at the blanket. “You sittin’ or what? I didn’t haul all this crap out here for you to stand around gawking.”
You laughed and finally sank down beside him. “Right. Wouldn’t want your master plan to go to waste.”
You settled onto the blanket, your shoulders brushing against his. Bakugo poured you a drink from the thermos and opened a snack without a word, nudging it toward you.
You two talked for a while. About nothing and everything. Class, training, the party earlier, the ridiculous effort it took to sneak all this past Aizawa. The kinds of small moments you always held onto a little tighter, treasuring them as something precious.
Then, just when you thought the night had reached its quiet peak, he reached behind him.
“Hey,” he murmured, suddenly tense, “before I forget.”
He pulled out a box and shoved it toward you. It was wrapped in cute, glossy paper with a red ribbon tied tight across the top. Not something you’d ever expect from him.
You blinked, carefully taking it. “What’s this?”
“It’s a present. What else would it be?” he grumbled, fingers tapping the blanket like he was fighting the urge to snatch it back.
“But you already gave me one at the party,” you said softly, brushing your hand along the ribbon. A laugh escaped you, soft and disbelieving. “You cooked my favorite food.”
“That was for the party,” he said, looking away a little. “This is just from me.”
You smiled, your chest feeling warm. “You already did all this…” The words came out barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” The sharpness in his tone left no room for protest. He shifted before nodding at the box. “Just open it already.” You chuckled and tugged at the ribbon, opening the lid.
Inside was a sleek, compact camera—unlike any you'd ever seen before. It didn't look store-bought. The matte gray casing had your initials engraved in small, precise letters along the side. Next to it lay a thick leather-bound journal, a smooth pen tucked into its spine.
You stared, breath catching. “Katsuki…”
“I worked with the Support Course to get it right,” he said quickly, like he’d rehearsed it. “It’s got secure digital storage. Special encryption. Only you and I can access it through our phones. You take a photo and it auto-saves to a private server. Even if you lose your phone or break the damn thing, the photos stay.”
Your finger traced over the engravings, your throat tightening.
“And the journal…” he added, voice quieter, “it’s for everything else you don’t capture.”
You flipped open the cover. On the very first page, in sharp, neat handwriting was a single message.
If you’re gonna keep forgetting, you better start writing. I’ll fill in the blanks if you screw it up. — K.
Your hands trembled, then the tears came, hot and sudden, blurring your vision before you even realized they’d fallen.
“Shit—hey, don’t—” Bakugo was in front of you instantly, his hands twitching like he was torn between wiping your tears or grabbing your shoulders. “Don’t cry over this, damn it—”
You laughed, choked and wet, pressing your palms to your eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just—Katsuki… you thought about all this.”
He scowled, but his voice dropped, soft and low. “I’m not an idiot, yn. I know what your quirk does.” A shaky breath escaped him. “You lose your memories every damn day. You keep pretending you’re fine when you’re not, and it pisses me off.”
You froze.
The memory loss had always been known. But the fear… it was supposed to be yours alone.
You never told him how terrified you were of forgetting the first time he smiled at you like you were his whole world. The first time his hand brushed yours and didn’t let go. The way he whispered your name the night he confessed, like it was something sacred.
Every midnight, your quirk allowed you to see 24 hours into the future. But it came at a cost: your earliest memory faded.
You remembered up to four years ago. No further. You dreaded the day you’d wake up not knowing when he started to mean everything to you, how all the firsts would be lost forever.
But you never said any of that. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to burden him with that kind of weight.
And yet, somehow… he already carried it.
“I didn’t want to make you deal with it,” you whispered. “It’s not fair. Letting you love me when I know I’ll forget stuff about us someday.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours.
“You think I’m doing this out of pity?” he murmured. “I’m here because I chose to be. I’ll keep choosing you, yn. Every damn day. And if the worst happens, if you forget—then fine. I’ll remind you.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking. “Even if I forget our first kiss? Your confession? The moment I realized I loved you?”
He nodded, gathering you close, his chin resting atop your head. “Yeah. We’ll remake all of ‘em—first kiss, confession, all of it. And we’ll keep making new ones. Better ones.” He breathed a quiet laugh. “I don’t care how many times I have to make you fall in love with me. I’ll do it again and again.”
Your heart cracked wide open. And this time, you didn’t hold anything back.
You buried your face in his shoulder, clinging to his warmth, to the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
And for the first time, you didn’t grip the moment out of fear.
You trusted it to stay.
Because maybe now… you didn’t have to be so afraid.
You stayed like that for a while, pressed against him, his arms around you like he could hold your memories in place if he just held tight enough.
Eventually, your breathing evened out, and the tears dried in your lashes. You didn’t pull away, not entirely, just shifted back enough to look at him.
Bakugo was already watching you, his expression caught somewhere between worry and something softer. You’d never quite had the words for that look, but it always made your chest feel full.
“You really meant all of that?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he said, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Every damn word.”
A wobbly smile tugged at your lips. “You’re kind of a sap, you know that?”
He scoffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Shut up. You’re the one crying all over me.”
You lightly smacked his chest. “You made me cry, jerk.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, smug now. “That’s called romance.”
A real laugh bubbled up, this one much lighter and freer. It felt like you could finally breathe again.
Then your eyes landed on the camera.
You reached for it, turning it over in your hands before squinting at the controls. “So… is this thing idiot-proof?”
"Had to be," he said, snatching it from you. "Since you're using it." With a few button presses, the screen flared to life. “There. It’s got a built-in stabilizer, facial recognition, auto-capture, all that shit. The Support Course nerds went overboard.”
You grinned, swiping the camera back. “You definitely bullied them into this.”
“They volunteered,” he said flatly.
“Uh-huh.” You raised the camera, aiming it at his unimpressed face. “Smile, sweetheart.”
“Eat shit.”
The flash went off, catching him mid-glare—sharp, scowling, and somehow still stupidly handsome.
You laughed, checking the preview. “Aww, you look so cute. Like a homicidal pomeranian.”
“Give me that,” he growled, lunging for it.
You twisted away, laughing, snapping another picture as you dodged. This one caught his exasperated half-smirk and your own mid-wheeze, both half off-frame.
You both paused to look at it, then burst out laughing.
"Okay, okay. Serious one," you said, holding the camera out. “We need at least one decent photo.”
“Wow. I wonder why the other two were bad.” He sighed but leaned in anyway. “Fine. Hurry up.”
“Three... two…”
On “one,” you turned and kissed his cheek, fast and firm.
Click.
The camera snapped right as his eyes went wide and his entire face flushed pink.
“Hey—!”
You were already ducking away, setting the camera down gently on the blanket as you shot to your feet, laughing.
“Why you little—get back here!”
He scrambled up after you, and you shrieked, dodging behind a tree as he chased, voice full of mock outrage and very real amusement.
“Oh, you’re dead,” he called, but the grin in his tone ruined the threat.
You peeked out, grinning. “What? Gonna blow me up?”
“Tempting,” he admitted, cracking his knuckles with exaggerated menace. “But nah. I’ve got better ideas.”
You blinked. “... Better?”
Bakugo stalked toward you, slow and confident, no longer joking. His gaze pinned you in place, suddenly sharp and heated, like he’d just decided something and there was no getting out of it.
Your pulse spiked. “Wait. Wait, I was kidding—”
He caught your wrist and spun you into him, and suddenly, you were chest to chest, his breath warm on your lips.
“I wasn’t.”
His mouth crashed against yours, hot and insistent, his hands sliding further down. Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging as he tilted your head back, swallowing your gasp.
On the blanket, the camera blinked quietly.
The red light flashed once.
Then again.
Then—
Click.
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note: I didn't know Bakugo's birthday was today! This was in my drafts and coincidentally finished it on the same day.
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counterblows · 22 days ago
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📄 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐲: 𝐋𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐝𝐚
[Part 1]
Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader
𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.6k
𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓��: Established marriage, emotional turmoil, tears, confrontation, smut, lingerie wearing, clothed grinding, coming in boxers, neglected morning wood. Minors DNI 🔞
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After finding the courage to tell Miguel everything you’ve been holding in, the silence between you finally breaks. With the weight lifted, you both escape to the anniversary weekend you planned.
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You clutched onto the paper bag against your chest as you passed the familiar checkpoint of the Spider Society HQ building.
The morning sun bled through the glass panels overhead while Spider-People from across dimensions zipped by— scaling walls, flipping mid-air, sticking to the ceiling and defying gravity like it was second nature.
Normally, whenever you visited Miguel at HQ, your mood was lighter, and you’d trade greetings with a few Spideys along the way. The building still buzzed with its usual momentum, full of kinetic energy and constant movements, but it all felt distant from the quiet weight settling in your chest.
Last night's memories still replayed in your head as you walked— the dull cast of the tablet screen reflecting on Miguel’s face, his half-hearted touch, the quiet dismissal.
Still, you were here now. You brought him his lunch and maybe that counted for something. Maybe he would be pleased to see you and you could forget about last night's conversation.
You stepped onto the 28th floor platform, recognising familiar faces. Your gaze swept over the atrium, hoping to catch any sign of him. With his broad frame and commanding posture, Miguel was hard to miss.
But you couldn’t see him this time.
Not at the command deck. Not on the field team. Not at the diagnostic bay. You even checked the cafeteria, and he wasn’t there either.
The lunch bag in your hand started to feel heavier— not physically. But in all the ways that mattered. Still, you weren’t ready to give up— you weren’t going to allow Miguel to go the whole day without food.
That left one place left to check.
You made your way to the upper-level hallway and stopped in front of the sealed silver doors of Miguel’s office. The small scanner glowed faintly near the side panel, but you didn’t scan your watch right away.
If Miguel was on the other side of that door, you didn’t know what kind of mood you’d find him in. He would never be angry with you for showing up— not once had he ever made you feel unwelcome— but there was something in the air and you couldn’t figure out what.
The last time you walked past these doors, it had been for something sweeter. A kiss on the cheek, his arms around your waist, his eyes soft despite the stress of his job.
Now, the door felt cold. Like you were waiting in front of a doctor's office.
You didn’t let yourself linger for too long. The sooner you dropped off his lunch, the sooner this feeling could pass.
You scanned your watch and the door hissed open without resistance. There were no greetings from LYLA— no snarky remarks, no jokes. Not even a chirp.
As you walked further into the room, the office’s ambient sensors flickered to life. Soft marigold light from the holograms and screens flooded over the walls, casting long, geometric shadows across the floor.
But Miguel wasn’t there
Figures…
His absence hit harder than you expected. You should’ve at least seen it coming, but hope was a stubborn thing.
You placed the bag gently on his desk, where he’d see it. Maybe he’d think of you when he did.
Then, you turned and headed for the exit. Your steps were softer than before, like your presence was shrinking.
The door hissed shut behind you, and the hum of HQ buzzed faintly through the metallic walls. The hallways felt colder now, and the spacious area was almost nausea-inducing.
You’ve never felt like this before when walking down these halls. Not out of place— just unsteady.
Too tuned out, you didn’t hear the faint sound of the web shooting behind you or the footsteps that followed.
“Looking for Miguel?” a familiar voice called out.
You turned and saw Jess Drew, Miguel’s right-hand woman. One of the few Spider-People you and Miguel were genuinely close to.
As always, she looked composed as ever, like she belonged in every room she entered. Pregnancy hadn’t changed that. If anything, the swell of her belly only added to the glow she already carried.
You gave a tired nod. “Yeah. I thought he might be here,”
She tilted her head toward the corridor branching off the easy wing. “He’s out on patrol. Got called in a dimension glitch just after nine. Something with a collapsing event thread.”
You tried to keep the disappointment from your voice. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Jess shrugged, crossing her arms over her belly. “It’s hard to tell. Could be hours.”
Of course he did. That’s why he left so abruptly this morning. He was already up before you, again. You had woken to the sound of the shower running, then the soft chime of the portal activating.
And he skipped breakfast, so much for progress from yesterday morning.
You were used to mornings like that. To his vanishing acts. You’d learnt to expect them. But after last night, the feelings still felt residual like a second skin.
You thought things might be different this morning. That maybe you’d talk it through over breakfast— tell him how the rejection made you feel small and invisible.
But there hadn’t been breakfast. And there hadn’t been a conversation.
You left the room first last night. The shower had been your exit— the only way you knew how to keep from saying something you’d regret. By the time you stepped out, you found Miguel already asleep.
He looked so tired. You didn’t have the heart to wake him. Now, with the momentum of it all still pressed down on your chest, the universe had made the choice for you.
Jess gestured toward the office. “You brought his lunch too?”
You thumbed toward the door behind you. “Left it on his desk…”
You didn’t say more, but quietly hoped he would see it and think of you. That he would remember you were here. That despite the silence and the space between you, you still cared.
A small gesture that you hoped would be enough to remind him.
Jess gave you a look, one of those quiet assessing stares she had. Like she was seeing past your face and into everything you weren’t saying. You felt smaller under her gaze.
“What?” you asked.
She tilted her head slightly, one brow arched inquisitively. “It’s y’all’s anniversary this weekend, right?”
The reminder made your gut tighten, like a pebble tossed in water— quiet, but still enough to feel it weigh deep. You felt that sinking feeling in your ribs first, then your throat.
“…uh, yeah.”
You didn’t mean to hesitate, but it came out anyway. And Jess noticed. You never sounded this unsure, especially in front of her.
She was quiet for a second and then said, “He’s being distant again, huh?”
There was no judgment in her voice— only understanding. The kind that only came from live experience.
“He’ll come around,” she added, softer this time. “You know Miguel, he’s not the best at expressing anything that isn’t a threat or a mission brief.”
You half-laughed, but it came out forced. “Yeah, I know.”
Jess leaned her weight to one hip, letting out a breath. “Girl, don’t let that man forget what’s waiting for him at home. I mean that. I’m not drying to dig into you, but know you. You’ll keep stuff locked in like a vault till it turns toxic.”
You nodded, the stiffness creeping in again— across your shoulders, down your spine. The kind that came from holding yourself together too tightly.
Jess had been one of the first people you met back when you and Miguel were still dating. Even from the beginning, you always admired her empathy and strong character. Especially the way she carried herself, like she was built for both battle and comfort.
She was strict when she needed to be— just like Miguel when it came to the Society protocol— but when he held tension, she made space for others to breathe.
There was always a warmth to her that you gravitated towards. Something maternal, even before she showed the bump.
Her eyes softened. “You okay?”
“Yeah… fine.”
You could sense Jess’ skepticism, but she didn’t push further. “If you need back-up, and I mean from one woman to another, I got you.”
There was a moment of weakness in you, and for a moment you were tempted to unload the knot of hurt. But something about it was too raw to share— after all, you weren’t the type to be open about your issues in your marriage.
Jess was kind and her voice was inviting as always. But this wasn’t something you could offload. It wasn’t something you were used to offloading.
No, this was something you had to resolve with Miguel, no matter how much your heart was nagging at you to overshare.
You deflated and steered the conversation to something else to get your mind off it. “How’s the baby?”
Jess' face lit up in a different way and her hand moved on instinct to cradle her bump. “Baby’s doing great. Ultrasound looked solid. We’re not finding out the sex yet, though.”
“That’s… great,” you said, and you meant it— despite the hesitation in your voice.
Jess looked back at you sideways. “Have you thought about having your own?”
“Miguel never brought it up yet…”
“Really? Not even once?”
You shrugged. Now that you really thought about it, you couldn’t remember the last time the topic came up. It’s not like you hadn’t discussed it before.
Back when you were dating, Miguel would bring it up often. In soft, passing comments. In the way he looked at you like he already saw a future taking shape. It used to feel important to him.
But a year into your marriage, the subject hadn’t resurfaced once. And lately, you’d started to wonder if maybe Miguel had changed his mind. If maybe you were the only one still picturing it.
“Sometimes men carry stuff without saying it out loud. Doesn’t mean they don’t want it,” said Jess.
You nodded and offered a weak smile. But in the back of your mind, the doubt still lingered.
~
It was coming up to eight by the time Miguel came home, earlier than his usual time. The door clicked softly behind him. The usual rhythm— the kiss, the greeting, the comfort of his voice— was absent. Instead, you stood in the pantry, pretending to look for something.
When really, you just needed to not be looked at.
“I’m home,” Miguel called softly.
You gave a mute nod, eyes fixed on the shelves. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without your voice cracking.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, you heard his footsteps retreating, followed by the sound of the shower running. The water roared like static— a white nose you were almost grateful for.
There was a time when hearing the shower run meant something softer was coming— Miguel wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing a soft kiss on your shoulder. But now, it just meant he needed to rinse off. Nothing more
You moved through the motions— gathering ingredients. Carrots. Onions. Then the chopping board and knife.
The blade tapped rhythmically against the board, but your thoughts drifted further away with each slice. You mind replayed the conversation you had with Jess earlier— calm, perspective, too on point for comfort.
Sometimes men carry stuff without saying it out loud.
Was Miguel carrying something too? Was this what distance felt like? Watching him quietly slip through the cracks?
You wanted to talk. God, you did. But the words felt trapped behind a dam. And that scared you more than silence.
Moments later, Miguel stepped out of the shower— hair damp, droplets clinging to the ends as they darkened his shirt against his skin.
He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded loosely, the faintest shift in his stance betraying his old instincts— the one that hoped you’d glance up.
You didn’t.
He watched you for a second longer, then adjusted slightly.
“Do you need some help?” he asked, voice low.
You kept your focus on the cutting board, though the rhythm of your hands slowed. The swirl of thoughts in your head grew louder, the tension in your chest knotted tighter.
You bit into your cheeks hard enough to draw out some blood. Anything to distract your from your thoughts.
The knife slowly hovered over the half-diced carrot.
“I don’t know if I want to go to the hotel anymore,” you said at last.
You didn’t need to look up to know Miguel’s posture stiffened, before he pushed himself off the doorway— shoulders straightening, the air between you tightening.
“What?” he asked, startled— like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
You still didn’t look up him
“I said… I don’t know,” you repeated, quieter now. “About this weekend. The anniversary.”
He stepped forward instinctively, but you took a step back, just slightly. Not out of rejection, but weariness.
“Where’s this coming from?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer that. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. The words were there, but they were jammed somewhere between your chest and throat.
“Amor…” he tried again, carefully. “Talk to me. What’s going on.”
At first, your hand began to shake and a lump formed in your throat— making it impossible to speak. Suddenly, the knife felt heavy in your grip.
Your vision started to blur before you could even register the sting behind your eyes. You set the knife down with trembling fingers and turned away quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen your face— but of course he had.
Miguel was observant and he caught everything.
“Are you…?” he started.
But you left the kitchen before he could finish his sentence.
The tears spilled from your eyes— quiet sobs at first, then deeper. The crying felt like both a relief and also a surrender. You didn’t know what you were crying harder for— the hotel, the distance, or how long it had been since you felt desirable.
Miguel followed, just as you knew he would. His hands were on your shoulders in seconds, warm and steady. And then, he turned you around to face him.
Through your blurry vision, you could see the concern in his eyes. His hands lifted to your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop spilling.
“Shhh.. Tranquila,” he murmured. “Take a deep breath.”
You did, but it shuddered on the way out— another tear slipped free. Miguel didn't ask any more questions. He didn’t demand an explanation. He knew you needed space first. That was one thing he always understood about you..
And you were grateful— because right now, your mind was tangled. You took a few more breaths. Then, slowly, the words bagan to unstick.
“I know we planned this… and that I was excited about it,” you sniffed, your voice raw as you wiped at your eyes. “But somewhere along the way, it started to feel like I was the only one looking forward to it.”
Miguel said nothing at first, letting you go on.
“I just…. I kept waiting for you to notice me. To say something that made me more than just—“ you swallowed hard, “— more than a duty. Or something you had to squeeze in between mission briefings.”
You remembered when it started, the moment you tried on the lingeries. Something you thought Miguel would appreciate.
But when you looked in the mirror, it didn’t feel like you. Nothing about it felt right. Instead of feeling wanted, you felt exposed.
Insecurities you didn’t even know were buried started to surface the forefront of your mind. It was quiet at first, but then it became harder to ignore. A part of you started to wonder if Miguel saw you that way too.
The thought made your chest tighten. More tears welled up. You blinked fast, trying to hold back a sob building in your throat.
“It was a bunch of small things added up. And last night, when you looked at me like I was interrupting…” You bit your lip. “I didn’t want to go to the hotel and pretend nothing felt wrong.”
You wiped the residue of tears from your eyes with the heel of your palm. The weight on your shoulders felt lighter now that the words were finally out of your system— like finally breathing after being underwater for so long.
But there was still Miguel’s response that you were bracing for. For a long while, he didn’t say anything. His face remained unreadable, eyes darting as he processed your words.
Your heart galloped at his silence. You looked down, you couldn’t keep holding his gaze.
Then, he finally spoke— and his voice startled you, making you jolt.
“I didn’t— I didn’t realise I was making you feel that way.” His voice cracked at the edge, remorse clinging onto every word. His hands slipped from your shoulders to your arms, pulling you closer with a gentleness that surprised you. “I should’ve been paying attention to you more, but I got lost in my work…”
He drew a breath that sounded like guilt.
“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you. It was never my intention to make you feel like you didn’t matter. I should have never made you ask for it.”
You tried to be understanding— to see from his perspective. You remembered watching him sleep last night, how peaceful he looked when the world wasn’t asking for him.
“You have important things to focus on,” you murmured. “I don’t want to get in the way.”
When as you said it, your voice betrayed the ache you’d been carrying.
Miguel shook his head. “That may be true. But you’ll never be in the way of that.”
His grip on your arms trembled, but slightly— but still enough for you to notice. Enough to tell you this wasn’t easy on him either.
“You deserve so much more than what I’ve been giving you these past few days.”
There was a newfound vulnerability in his voice, something you weren’t used to hearing. Miguel had always been strong— painfully so— but now he sounded more fragile in a way that was more honest than anything you’d ever heard from him.
“Sometimes I get in my head,” he went on. “And I feel like I’ve already used up all the good parts in me and given everything I had to offer. And what’s left is just… this. The job. The missions. Saving the multiverse.”
He glanced away, eyes darkened with something heavier than exhaustion.
“And I worry that one day… you’ll want something I can’t give and that I’ve already peaked. That I’m not— enough for the kind of love that you deserve.”
He met your eyes again.
“I didn’t mean to neglect you on the way. And I’m so sorry I made you feel unimportant. Because the truth is, you mean more to me than anything else and I don’t want to lose that.”
Your hands lifted to cradle his face this time, thumbs brushing across the fainted creases in his brow, smoothing the tension away as best you can.
“Miguel…” you whispered. “You know you don’t have to be perfect. I married all of you, not just Spider-man but you as a whole.”
He leaned forward, burning himself in the crook of your neck. His breath warmed your skin as he inhaled your scent deeply. Your fingers twitched slightly before slowly pressing onto his back— like the trust returning in real time.
You leaned into his touch, letting your head rest against his. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen. You hadn’t realised how starved you were for this— not just the touch, but the intention.
“Do you… Do you still want to go?” you asked cautiously.
Miguel didn’t hesitate. “Only if you feel comfortable.”
You thought for a moment. The upcoming weekend, the hotel— it had once felt like a celebration of your milestone, something you were both reaching toward. Before the doubts and disconnect.
But now, after the words were out and the air between you had cleared, you felt something shift back into place.
“I think we should go.”
His body softened against yours, though still wrapped tightly around like a coiled wire. From where he rested his head against your neck, you felt the curve of his lips pull into a smile.
“Then let’s not cancel.”
~
Friday night arrived quickly, and you and Miguel stepped out of the taxi parked in front of the hotel entrance. Just before walking through, you paused to take in the building in front of you.
The hotel name, La Madrugada, glowed in the soft amber lighting on the entrance sign. The building itself wasn’t imposing, but it was undeniably eye-catching. Simple, yet laced with elegance. Even the lobby, visible through the glass doors, seemed to sparkle in a golden hue.
Miguel glanced up at the hotel, clearly impressed by its appearance. “I wasn’t expecting anything less for our anniversary, but somehow it still exceeded my expectations.”
You didn’t say anything right away. Your stomach churned slightly. Now that you were here— actually standing in front of it— it all felt real. The anniversary weekend. The time alone. It was really happening.
Miguel noticed your silence and gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Are you okay? You look nervous.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah… it’s just— seeing it up close, the building, the lobby just behind those doors, it’s really sinking in.”
“I know, amor. It’s a lot to take in all at once. But we’re here together.” His thumb stroked over your knuckles gently as he spoke. “And if at any point you feel uncomfortable, we can leave. I promise.”
You frowned, the thought of ending something you’d looked forward to sitting uneasily with you. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Miguel simply brought your hand to his lips and kissed it before guiding you gently through the hotel doors.
The lobby’s interior was just as dazzling as it looked from the outside. The golden light glowed even brighter up close, casting a soft shimmer over everything. Like honey poured over glass.
The high ceilings soared overhead, trimmed with a tasteful crown moulding and a chandelier hung like floating stars at the centre. A subtle scent lingered in the air— a clean, floral, and vaguely citrusy aroma, like fresh linen and orange blossoms.
You made your way to the front desk. The receptionist wore a crisp, tailored uniform and greeted you both with a polite, practiced smile. The check-in went smoothly. Miguel accepted the room cards with a nod before returning his focus back on you.
“All set.”
You both headed toward the elevator. The room was on the tenth floor— high enough for a view but not so far it felt out of reach. After you reached your room, Miguel swiped the keycard and opened the door before gesturing for you to go on.
The first thing you heard was the soft music playing from the ceiling speaker, something mellow and instrumental. Just enough to set the mood without stealing it. Miguel followed behind you, sliding the keycard into the wall slot. A quiet click, and the room bathed in a warm, inviting light.
The ambient glow gave everything a softness to the room. From the ceiling edges, a blush-pink accent light flickered to life, casting a rosy hue across the room. It felt dreamlike and intimate.
“Oh…wow,” you gushed, stepping further into the room with wide eyes.
“Dios…” Miguel muttered, a quiet chuckle in his voice. “They weren’t kidding when they called it the romantic package.”
You reached over to dim the main lights, letting the pink tones take over. The shift made the room feel even softer— like a place was meant to hold secrets.
Miguel glanced at you in the new lights. “The lighting isn’t bad either. You look good in this colour.”
“You’re just saying that because it works in your favour,” you teased. Though you caught yourself glancing at your reflection on the window— admittedly, the pink light did make your skin glow.
Miguel didn’t miss your reaction. “No. I’d say that even under harsh fluorescent lights.”
A smile pulled at the corner of your mouth as you soaked in the rest of the room. The king-sized bed sat like a centrepiece, cushioned and topped with a ridiculous number of pillows and a subtle rose petal design on the sheets.
At the far end, a polished sofa faced a mounted screen still stuck in its idle glow. Other details hinted at a more suggestive mood— a velvet chaise in the corner, an ice bucket with two glasses.
You fiddled with one of the corners of the decorative cushions. “I think the bed has more pillows than we have at home.”
Miguel crossed his arms over his chest, clearly amused. “Probably because they expect people to spend most of the time in it.”
A flush of heat crept up your face at mere thought of that, but it quickly dissolved into a wave of quiet reflection. You took in the details of the bed, the quality of the cotton, the careful arrangement of pillows.
How many couples had shared this bed? How many stories had been made in this room alone? This hotel wasn’t exactly cheap, so anyone who stayed here clearly came with the intent to create lasting memories— and to make sure nothing got in the way of them.
You caught a glimpse of both of your reflections mirrored in the glass above the headboard, angels ever so slightly down. The room’s blush-pink lighting made the image look almost cinematic.
You wondered what kind of mood that mirror would evoke later… during intimate moments that were meant to be remembered.
After wandering around the room for a little longer, you headed into the bathroom for a shower.
The bathroom, unsurprisingly, had just as much to offer. Paired items greeted your first— two plush robes, two toothbrush holders, two glasses set nearly by the sink. Even the slipper had been arranged in sets of two, tucked neatly under the bench by the vanity.
But what caught your eye more were the extras.
Essential oils. A small spa kit in a sleek, matte box. A fragrance bath soak labeled Rose Quartz Serenity. And, boldly left in the open, several bottles of personal lubricant— each a different flavour.
You stared at them for a moment and snorted softly under your breath.
Then, you hopped into the shower, letting the water spray over your skin as you lathered the scented body wash. It smelt faintly like eucalyptus and lavender. The rainfall setting made the moment feel indulgent, almost like being in a private spa.
After you shut off the waters and dried yourself, you moisturised your skin— the bathroom now perfumed with the scent of your lotion. Comforting and familiar.
You approached the mirror cautiously, swiping your hand across the fogged-up glass until your reflection stared back at you. Behind you, your clothes hung neatly on the side, waiting.
And then a moment of dread-filled anticipation washed over you. After finally seeing the room you’d be staying in, and settling into the space, the realisation hit harder than before. This was really happening. This weekend. The vision of intimacy. It wasn’t just an idea anymore, it was in front of you, in motion.
Miguel had said that if you ever felt uncomfortable, you could always leave. He said it so genuinely, without judgement. But even with all that understanding, you couldn’t stop the guilt. For what? Fee needing reassurance? For hesitating? It was just a weekend together in a hotel, and sex wasn’t anything new to you.
But something about this setting made it feel like the stakes were higher.
Alongside your loungewear, you had packed the lingerie quietly, making sure Miguel wouldn’t notice. The babydoll— the one that didn’t make you feel overly self-conscious. The one that felt easy and safe. And yet, even now, it took effort to convince yourself to wear it.
You tried it on again, feeling the silky material flow over your body. It still looked good on you, just like last time. There was no reason that Miguel would not like it on you. But even so, you reminded yourself that if you felt good in it, that was all that mattered.
You pulled on your loungewear over it, concealing the fabric with practiced hands. You weren’t ready to reveal it just yet. Not until the moment felt right.
Once you were satisfied, you stepped out of the bathroom. The cool air of the bedroom was a relief from the steamy bathroom against your skin. You found Miguel on the other side of the room, still nosing through some of the hotel's extras.
The music had changed. It didn’t take you long to realise Miguel had connected his own playlist to the speakers overhead. You approached slowly, and found him holding a small box.
It only took one glance at the packaging to piece together what it was.
“Is that what I think it is?” you mused.
In his hand was a box of aphrodisiac chocolate. The label showed dark squares of chocolate, kissed with some crimson lipstick marks. The box itself was sleek black, with accents of deep red— a deliberate aesthetic with a sultry design.
“Dark chocolate infused with maca roots and damania,” Miguel said, inspecting the back like a scientist reviewing a specimen.
You tilted your head. “Do aphrodisiac chocolates actually work, or is it just a marketing scheme?”
“Well, technically… coca contains phenylethylamine, which increases dopamine levels. And the other herbs act as a vasodilation, so—” he paused, catching the look you were giving him. “Were you messing around when you asked that?”
“No, no, go ahead. Tell me how my anniversary chocolate will biohack my libido.”
“I don’t know about that… it’s probably just a placebo effect.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t provide honey packets.”
“We can always give these chocolates a try.”
You bit your lower lip, an idea forming in your head. “Actually, there’s something else I had in mind.”
From your travel bag, you fished out a small bottle of botanical massage oil. Miguel raised a brow, curiosity flickered as he inspected the bottle.
“Massage oil?”
You nodded. “Thought I could put it to good use tonight.”
You told him to undress— at least down to his boxers— and he complied without hesitation, tossing his shirt and pants aside. He stretched out across the bed on his stomach. You climbed over him, straddling the back of his thighs.
The cool silk of your lingerie brushed against his warm skin beneath your loungewear, sending a ripple of electricity through your core.
A wave of heat rolled through you at the sight of him laid out beneath you, his broad back exposed, skin golden under the soft pink lights. He looked so relaxed.
You poured a few drops of oil into your palms and rubbed them together, warming it before pressing your hands on his shoulders. Your touch was already warm from the shower earlier, and you felt the tension in his muscles respond immediately— his cords beginning to loosen.
He was already boneless under you when your hands made their way to his back. You applied more oil and more pressure, using the heel of your palms on his back.
He let out a low, muffled moan. “God… this feels incredible,” he breathed.
“You deserve to relax,” you said softly, dragging your hands down the thick lines of his back and kneading with the heel of your palms, again.
“You’re spoiling me here, cariño,” he let out a groan, sinking into the mattress.
You smiled, though your mind drifted to the delicate silk of the lingerie you were wearing beneath your clothes. Miguel had no idea and the anticipation of revealing it to him twisting in your gut.
With each slow stroke of your hands, you watched him unravel under you.
Silence fell over you both, the only sound being the quiet music overhead and the faint slickness of oil on skin. The scent of the oil— something earthy and fruity— blended with the heat in the room. Every now and then, your fingers would glide over the knots in his muscles, and you’d feel the way his body twitched.
And still…the ache of desire was starting to simmer.
Miguel let out another satisfied sigh at your touch. “Might have to stay like this,” he murmured. “At your mercy.”
His words made your head spin— the ache in your belly grew tighter. Before you could stop yourself, your mouth moved on its own.
“I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
Miguel cracked one eye open, catching a glimpse of you biting your lower lip. You slid off him and stepped down from the bed. Miguel turned and propped himself up, clearly puzzled. Until you reached the hem of your clothes.
His breath caught audibly when you revealed the plum-coloured babydoll, the silk catching the pink lighting, flowing over your body like a graceful waterfall. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his eyes swept over you— slow and reverent.
After a another sharp breath, Miguel found his voice again. “You’ve been wearing that this whole time?”
You nodded meekly, fingertips skimming the delicate fabric at your thighs. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” his voice dropped, almost hoarse. “Amor…. You’re killing me here.”
A grin bloomed across his face, stunned and delighted all at once. His eyes drank you in— like he was seeing up for the first time, and couldn’t look away. You’d never work anything like this before. Not even on your honeymoon. But tonight, you wanted to step out of your comfort zone.
Still, the weight of his gaze stirred a flicker of nerves. Your hands fidgeted at your sides without meaning to. Miguel caught the shift, and his expression softened.
“Come here, amor,” he said gently, patting his thighs. “Don’t be shy, now.”
You climbed back onto the bed, straddling him again. This time you could feel the press of his arousal, hot and heavy beneath you, even through the fabric of his boxers. You couldn’t help the breathy sound that left you.
“We didn’t need the aphrodisiacs then,” you teased, rolling your hips against the stiff line of him.
Miguel groaned deep in his throat, fingers tightening around your thighs. “I suppose not.”
The silk of the babydoll bunched up around your hips, revealing the soft plush of your thighs as Miguel’s hands began to ride up beneath the fabric.
You rocked your hips again, this time pressing more firmly against your sensitive bud. A sharp gasp slipped from your lips. With no panties beneath the silk, your wetness was already smeared across the front of his boxers.
“That’s it, let me be yours tonight,” Miguel rasped. “Ride it just like that.”
Your breath became shallow, little gasps between soft moans, the friction was almost too good— the hot, thick length of him pressed onto your folds. His precum dampened the fabric, making every movement slicker, filthier. The fabric clung to him, sliding over the head of his cock with every slow grind.
Miguel kept his grip firm on your hips, guiding your movements but letting you lead the rhythm. You could tell it was taking every ounce of his restraint not to buck up into you. His body was tense, his abs flexing beneath your hands as you rolled your hips again.
The music from the overhead speaker blurred in the background, drowned out by your breathy moans and the quiet sounds of slick fabric against skin. You clenched your thighs tighter around him, angling yourself to draw more friction— grinding harder.
Miguel’s head fell back against the pillows, a raw moan tearing from his throat at the sudden pressure. Your hands pressed against his abdomen, fingers digging into the taut muscles that twitched beneath your touch.
You felt the shudder than ran through him as he came, his boxers wet and clinging from the mess between you. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his in a slow, lingering kiss.
“I like seeing you like this,” you murmured against his lips. “All tense beneath me.”
He let out a breathy laugh, still catching up to the moment.
You slid off of him gently, the silk of the babydoll fell back into place over your thighs. Miguel remained still for a few seconds, still catching his breath before sitting up slightly with a groan.
“I should clean up before I end up glued to the sheets,” he muttered.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Go on, I’ll be waiting here.”
~
The following morning, you woke up to an empty bed. Miguel was nowhere to be found, and the suite was quiet— no footsteps, no rustling, no voice calling your name. Still, his scent lingered on the pillow beside you, mingled faintly with the remnants of the massage oil from the night before.
Soft golden lights spilled through the gaps in the curtains, striping the bed in warm sunlight. The air still carried a charge from last night, your body remembered it vividly. The dull throbbing between your legs pulsed with the memory of Miguel’s voice, the way his body tensed beneath yours as he came undone.
You shifted under the sheets, the fabric brushing against your bare skin. After his shower last night, you’d taken off the lingerie, worried he might accidentally ruin it in his haze. Outside, the city was beginning to stir— the distant car engines, faint horns, and the buzz of early life.
The soft ping of the key card sounded. The door clicked open, and Miguel stepped inside.
He was still in his gym gear, tank top damp with sweat, clinging to every defined muscle. His hair was a little disheveled, the usual sleekness slightly mussed from exertion. One hand clutched his gym bag, the other held two coffees in a cardboard tray.
He spotted you awake and smiled. “Good morning, amor.”
You blinked slowly, letting your eyes trail over him. “I guess I woke up just in time.”
He approached, setting your cup down gently on the nightstand with his own already near his lips. “You sure did. I was starting to worry I’d have to wake you up myself.”
You sat up, tugging the blanket over your chest as you gave him another long once-over. His tank top was practically painted on, highlighting the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
“I wouldn’t be complaining if I woke up to this.”
Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were very serious.
He chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re even more beautiful in the morning light, but the way.”
“Awh,” you cooed. “Is the hotel air making you all sentimental now?”
“Me? Sentimental?” He set his cup down and began to approach the bed, slow and sure.
“There’s definitely something in the air.” You tilted your chin, pretending to inspect him— but as soon as he got too close, you shrunk back. “Not so close, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”
“You’re acting like I haven’t kissed you first thing in the morning before.”
You slipped out of the sheets, grabbing a shirt and tugging it over your head as you padded toward the bathroom. The familiar ritual grounded you. He might’ve needed his caffeine fix in the morning, but you needed to brush your teeth before carrying a conversation, let alone having him that close.
You grabbed your toothbrush and squeezed out the toothpaste. You glanced over your shoulder briefly.
“I never understood how couples could have quickies first thing in the morning.”
Miguel appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. “You’re telling me you never felt a little heated with me in the morning?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” you mumbled around your toothbrush.
He just watched, amused, while you brushed and rinsed. When you looked up again, you caught his gaze on the mirror.
His eyes were fixed lower— on your bare legs, the shirt riding high on your thighs. The fabric was thin, with your nipples just visible. Your panties weren’t helping the modesty.
He didn’t even bother to hide the way he was gawking. “You’re barely dressed.”
“That’s your fault. You almost tore into that lingerie last night.”
Miguel only shrugged as he stepped closer. “Well, you did look damn good in it.”
“Yeah? Well, it wasn’t cheap, you know.”
You turned slightly, and he was there behind you— his body flushed to yours. One hand curled around your waist, the other slipped just beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing along the waistband of your panties. You could feel the hard press of his morning wood seated between the globes of your rear.
“I’ll buy you more,” he murmured into you ear.
His voice was low, almost a growl. The heat of his breath sent a ripple down your spine. His hand dipped lower, fingers grazing just below your underwear, nudging toward your folds.
It was tempting.
He was tempting.
But your coffee was still hot. And you still needed to order breakfast.
You stepped away just in time and left the bathroom, watching him pout behind you. Miguel leaned against the doorframe, still half-hard under his sweatpants.
“You’re just gonna leave me like this?”
You bit your lip, trying to suppress the grin spreading on your face at his predicament.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” you promised. “Let’s just enjoy the day.”
Miguel sighed and peeled off his tank top. Even after all this time, the sight of his shirtless body— fresh from a work out— still got to you. His sweatpants slung low on his hips, teasing the V-line and happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband.
“You’re welcome to join me.”
He dropped his sweat pants too, standing in just his boxers. His voice was salty, trying to coax you to cave in. But you had more willpower than that. You took a long sip of your coffee.
“I’ll stick to my coffee, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
He disappeared into the shower, the sound of the hot water started up almost immediately. Steam began curling through the cracked door. You could see his silhouette moving behind the fogged up glass as you lingered, coffee warming your hands.
Turning away, you grabbed the breakfast menu from the desk and started browsing, still smiling to yourself.
Miguel stepped out of the bathroom not long after, already dressed and toweling off the damp hair. He wore dark slacks and a buttoned down shirt, the top undone just enough to reveal the dip of his clavicle.
His eyes landed on you with the breakfast menu still in your hand. “Find something you like yet?”
You shook your head. “Still deciding.”
From the corner of your eye, you saw him stride to the balcony and pushed open the door. Cool morning air swept the room.
“Come on out, amor. Take a look at the view.”
You looked up from the menu and followed him outside. He was leaning slightly against the railing, the skyline stretching out behind him. The sun had just begun peeking between the skyscrapers, casting golden light against the glass towers.
“Not a bad view, huh?” Miguel said with a content sigh.
“We’re definitely having our breakfast out here,” you replied. “Room service tastes better with a view.”
Miguel raised a brow. “You want to have breakfast out here? Like some cheesy telenovela couple?.”
“Why not? What’s the point of a luxury hotel if we’re not a little extra.”
“Fair enough.” He kissed your temple before heading back inside to pick up the menu.
Once you both settled on what to order, Miguel called down for room service while you slipped into something light— a flowing dress that draped over your body without clinging too tightly. Comfortably, especially for the rising heat.
About half an hour later, breakfast arrived. You helped carry the trays out onto the balcony, arranging the plates across the small table. Everything looked and smelt delicious— each dish plated meticulously.
The two of you didn’t talk much as you ate, choosing instead to feed each other the occasional fruit from the salad. You noticed Miguel looked… lighter. Not just in the casual, at-home kind of way. But genuinely relaxed. His shoulders weren’t stiff. His eyes weren’t distant.
Sure, you’ve seen him unwind at home before— the domestic side slowly unravelling through his usual edge. But this was different.
The weight he always seemed to carry wasn’t present today. Maybe it was the afterglow of last night and how unfiltered it had been. Maybe it was the view. Maybe it was being with you, away from HQ.
Whatever it was, you knew better than to expect it to last forever. That was all the more reason to savour it now, every minute of this rare quiet.
As the day crept into early afternoon, you both decided to head to the spa. It was included in the romantic getaway package, and you didn’t need much convincing. You were especially eager to see Miguel properly pampered for once.
And let himself enjoy it. You watched the tension melt from his body beneath the warmth of the massage, his eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping his lips. You’d remember the sight of him like that for a long time. Maybe you’d plan more spa days after this.
Afterward, you wandered the local streets together. Stopping at a cozy cafe for more coffee and pastries, stealing little moments between sips as the sky began to shift again, the sun slowly setting.
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There will be one final part after this I promise it’ll be the last one…
Sorry it took so long, is everyone still with me? Quick one: can I get a ‘poppipo’ in my ask inbox if you made it this far and still love Miguel as much as I do <3 (just humour me)
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christopherisfoive · 3 months ago
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Heyy I just read your prompt list and I thought prompts 6, 13 and 18 could go well together, would you mind doing it with chan? Like after hours after a show where he just finished freshening up and y/n as a stylist was fixing up the rest of their outfits for tmr when they somehow and stuck and blablabla. Maybe you could also mix the sharing a bed prompt but turn it into a sofa (bc dressing rms have sofas more often).
You could think abt it and if you don’t want to it’s always alright!! Hope I hope you consider this! Thank you<3
Order’s up. Locked dressing room, one backstage sofa, and three prompts on espresso, coming right up. Thanks for the late-night combo; Chan’s about to learn what “after hours” really means. Stick around for the drop. ☕
After the House Lights Fade l Bang Chan × Stylist!Reader (Y/N) l soft with a brush of heat
The arena is long-since dark when you slide the garment rack back into Stray Kids’ dressing room for the final time tonight. The post-show buzz has drained into an exhausted hush, only the low hum of the hallway lights keeps you company while you sort tomorrow’s stage jackets.
You’re tugging a stubborn zipper when the door clicks shut behind you. A familiar voice follows.
“Thought I was the last one here,” Bang Chan says, towel slung round his neck, damp curls escaping his cap. His hoodie hangs loose over gym shorts; the scent of fresh shampoo still clings to him.
“Almost,” you answer, half teasing. “I’m staging your encore outfits for morning. Go home, Leader.”
He chuckles, easing onto the couch and unlacing one sneaker. “Five minutes. My car’s not even here yet.”
The zipper finally yields with a metallic sigh. You hang the jacket, brush lint from the sleeve, and turn back just in time for the overhead light to blink once … then snap off entirely.
Total darkness. A beat of silence.
“Fuse?” you ask.
“Could be the motion sensor,” Chan offers. “They cut main power after midnight.” He stands somewhere and you hear him find the wall. A muffled thud follows. “Door’s locked.”
“It auto locks from the outside,” you groan. “And security’s already swept this wing.”
Chan laughs softly in the dark. “Stuck in a dressing room together. Sounds like a prompt from Tumblr.”
You bark a tired, half-delighted laugh. "How do you know what that is?"
He finds his phone flashlight first; you follow. Twin LED beams reveal the room’s only sanctuary: a mid-century sofa that’s fine in daylight but suddenly looks intimate with the rest of the world blacked out.
Chan raises a brow. “Sofa beats linoleum.”
You shrug, heart thumping louder than your phone’s battery warning.
“Won’t argue.”
Twenty past midnight
You sit at opposite ends, knees almost touching. Your flashlights prop against water bottles, casting soft halos upward. Stage clothes in their garment bags sway like quiet ghosts.
He rolls his shoulders back against the cushion. “Does it ever get easier?”
You tilt your head. “What, the chaos?”
“The… balance.” He shifts, gaze on his bare knees. “Crowd screaming your name one minute, fluorescent quiet the next. Some nights it’s like free-fall.”
You hadn’t expected honesty this late. You tuck one foot beneath you and nod. “I think adrenaline leaves a vacuum. The silence rushes in and you hear things you’d ignored all day.”
Chan huffs a small laugh. “Exactly.” His fingers toy with the towel in his lap. “And then there’s you—steady, folding sparkly jackets like it’s nothing.”
You glance at your folded hands. “Steady is a costume too.”
That sparks something between you, an unmasked acknowledgment. The distance on the couch shrinks without either of you moving.
He clears his throat. “If you weren’t styling idols, what would you be doing?”
“Probably restoring vintage clothes in a dusty attic,” you admit. “Feels safer dressing mannequins, they don’t sweat through silk.”
He grins, dimples flashing. “We try to behave.”
“You try,” you echo, smiling into your knees.
Conversation drifts from first concerts to hometown foods, then slips deeper family expectations, loneliness on tour buses, the weight of always being “Bang Chan” even on grocery runs. You share how you still double-check hotel irons because a garment once scorched on your first big job and you cried in a stairwell for twenty minutes. He admits he still worries that every new song could be the one that flops.
Somewhere in the middle of comparing worst case scenarios, your shoulders meet. Neither of you corrects it.
1:13 a.m.
The flashlight on Chan’s phone dies, plunging half the sofa into softer shadow. Only your beam remains, backlighting his profile: high cheekbones, exhausted eyes, the faintest quiver of a smile that isn’t for cameras.
You realize you’re staring.
He notices.
Silence blooms, heavy and sweet.
Chan’s voice drops to a hush. “Y/N.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I—” He hesitates, swallows. “Can I tell you something without you fixing it?”
“Try me.”
He exhales. “Some nights, after an encore, I look out at the empty seats during tear down and I’m terrified it’ll be the last time anyone fills them.”
Your throat tightens. You shift closer until your knees overlap. “You fill the seats because you make people feel less alone. That won’t fade overnight.”
He studies you...really studies, and the shy gratitude in his eyes steals your breath.
The last flashlight sighs and goes dark. Neither of you reaches for the phone.
He whispers, barely audible, “Don’t go. Not yet.”
Your pulse thrums everywhere at once. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Even in darkness you sense him lean in, a question written in heat. When your fingers find his hoodie strings and tug, it becomes an answer. His mouth brushes yours softly, like a first chord strummed on acoustic: tentative, reverent, promising more.
The kiss lingers, slow, exploring and then deepens, hunger unfurling under restraint. Hands slide: his palm at your jaw, your fingers threading through hair still damp from the shower.
Eventually you part, breaths tangling midair.
He rests his forehead against yours. “Tomorrow,” he says, voice rougher now, “I’ll pretend this was impulse if you need me to.”
“Don’t,” you breathe. “I’d rather remember it clearly.”
A metallic clunk echoes down the hall. Emergency lights hum back to life. Footsteps. Security doing one last pass.
You two stand quickly, refastening composure like safety pins, crooked but functional. At the door, Chan’s fingers brush yours.
“Breakfast after fitting?” he asks, voice gentle but sure.
You squeeze back. “Only if they have black coffee.”
He grins. “I can live with variety.”
The latch clicks open; fluorescent light spills in. You step out together, hearts beating steadier than when the night began. Both a little star-struck, not by stages or screams, but by each other under a single, flickering bulb.
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therobotsarestuckinmyhead · 1 month ago
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ngl I want to see more cyberverse optimus prime x readers their is only one rn I need more x readers of him he is so handsome <3
♡ “FAR TOO LONG” — Optimus Prime [TFC]
i am so sorry for the extended time i took with your request! i apologize if this is short but i couldn't think of any other way to continue this
scenario: you're Optimus’ partner and he's been waiting for some relaxation like this for years, you start sweet talking him.
setting: after the peace treaty between Autobots and Decepticons in S3, post-Megatron death.
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Finally, finally. After thousands of millennia of fighting, of violence, of death, Optimus can finally rest knowing that it's all over— That the war which consumed their planet is no more! Optimus feels better, so much better. The treaty was signed, the Decepticons are docile now that… Megatron was… terminated.
Optimus rather not speak about that though. He still had mixed emotions. It was late at night too, he wanted some quiet recharge so he collapsed onto your shared berth. His finals perks up when he realizes you're sitting there reading a datapad right across him on the berth, you put it down and slowly make an effort to sneak up on him but it's futile.
Cycles of war have made his motion sensors rather keen. He can tell you're approaching him and doesn't flinch when your servo gently traces the back of his helm, it's a gentle affectionate touch. It reminds him of a time before with you. He slowly looks up and a soft smile curves up his dermas as he sees that affectionate look in your optics.
“Tired?” You ask softly, the gentleness of your servos soothes whatever possible sourness he could've had from this day.
“Relieved. I feel relieved for once.” He replies, his voice firm yet gentle— unquestionably hopeful that it was all finally over. Optimus’ blue optics return the affection you look at him with, as if it was a mirror reflecting the warmth of the light that falls upon it. And that warmth seemed to flow out of his vents too, still so easily flustered…
And there's that smile on your face, relief.
“Me too. Now I can make sure you're taking proper rest for once.” Your servos never stop their actions and it's making Optimus melt under your touch, his frame relaxing. It's a rare sight, he's always been so visibly stiff and upright, as if he were expecting a stray meteor to fall onto him any day.
“I appreciate your concern. However,” Optimus slowly gets up as he speaks, his tone almost playful, sitting right next to you on your shared berth and your servos begin to gently creep up your lover's faceplates. You don't miss the way his optics still subtly widen or the subtle heat from his face but you chose to spare him for now.
It's been millions of years yet it always felt like the first time for Optimus.
He clears his vocalizer, a futile attempt to hide himself from your gaze despite knowing the fact that you've been with him long enough to tell.
“I was planning on… making up for lost time.” You smile wider at that and his spark skips a beat, again. Oh, how he wished he weren't some lovesick fool when you showed him affection.
“...I guess I can put off making sure you're recharging properly for a bit then.” You bring his face closer to his, he leans in willingly despite his own flustered demeanor. His EM field tucked so tightly to himself that it might implode— It's been far too long since he's loosened up. First it was duties with the Autobots, then it was duties to rebuild Cybertron and then it was delegation. It was like he could never catch a break.
But now he could and…
He really didn't know what to do with it.
The Prime's servo awkwardly grips your pauldron as he lets you guide his face to yours.
“It doesn't mean you're off the hook though.” There's barely any distance between your faces, he's so stiff. It had been far too long.. you don't really blame him.
“Relax, dearest.” You place a soft kiss on his dermas, his vents expelling out more heat. The flustered look is almost adorable on the Optimus Prime. But the tenderness of your words and that… look in your optics made his frame relax, a lot quicker as one servo decided to resume its ministrations on the back of his helm.
He's melting under your touch and he can't do anything about it. And he doesn't want to do anything about it. The idea of feeling safe in your servos after being the pillar of protection and guidance for the Autobots was beyond enjoyable, leadership had its toll. You know it will take a while for Optimus to get used to such uninterrupted intimate moments between the two of you but you've waited a whole war, you can wait a few days.
You gently take his helm right under your own, his helm against your chassis and he can hear the quiet rhythm of your spark. Optimus hums, his servos moving to wrap around your torso. His frame leaning against you now, you were sturdy enough to support his weight.
His optics flicker, as if his systems feel worn. He might really need this recharge, you figure. The smile on his face and the way the lights of the room seem to bring out every contour of his faceplates to view.
He's absolutely stunning.
Not in the way he used to be though, there's a slight rugged charm to him almost unlike the innocent look he used to have. Gentle optics even if his faceplates had all sorts of tiny marks and dents from the constant fighting— It was like a distant memory you'd want to lock up and throw away now. But every single dent, scratch and weld mark on your lover's frame had a story to tell. A tale of persistence through the trials of war, standing tall when all hope seemed lost.
A beautiful mech.
And your Conjux.
“You look absolutely handsome.” You say, almost as if the air had been knocked out of your vents; breathless. And he can tell you mean it from the way you're looking at him, the way your field is brimming with all sorts of emotions. But his flustered demeanour at the start has lessened for now.
“As I recall, you used to be more creative with your attempts at flirting.” Optimus chuckles heartily but with his frame relaxed, his EM field is no longer tucked away. You can feel the fondness and affection in the air, it might have overwhelmed any other bot in vicinity but, this sight— these feelings were reserved for your optics and your optics alone. He gently kisses the side of your neck and notes the heat rising to your own faceplates.
“It seems you're not the only one that's gotten old..”
You just hope it goes like this forever from now on.
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zeropro · 4 months ago
Text
Skywarp: Origins - Chapter 2
https://archiveofourown.org/works/63945331/chapters/164272084#workskin
Skywarp was with the Decepticons before Starscream joined, and now we get a follow up to Thundercracker:Origins from Skywarp's pov. I'd love to know what you all think! I quite like with how this one turned out so I'll post it in its entirety here too haha:
-vvv-VVV-vvv-
Chapter 2
Thundercracker was Starscream’s friend, and that is the only reason Skywarp puts up with him. 
Why a cool guy like Starscream would have a friend as lame as Thundercracker is beyond him. The two couldn’t be more different! Where Starscream exuded confidence and charisma, Thundercracker was reclusive and brooding. Where Starscream could charm an entire room with only a few short words, Thundercracker always kept to himself.
When Starscream first joined the Decepticons, he had impressed Megatron with a huge speech in Vos and then walked right up to Skywarp and declared the two of them should be best friends!
Thundercracker spent his first night having a panic attack.
Skywarp did try to be nice at first, he really did! Might have even felt sorry for the guy. He thought maybe Thundercracker would eventually get over himself and come fly with them after a few days, or at least not just sit by himself in the rec room. Skywarp had no idea why the sad sap even joined the Decepticons in the first place. The mech was miserable, like, all of the time and never stopped worrying over pointless things like “making the right choice” and “doing the right thing.”
The worst part was: normally he could just ignore mechs like Thundercracker, leave them to their miserable self-inflicted processor ache, and move on with his life. Unfortunately for Skywarp, he liked Starscream, and Starscream liked Thundercracker, and he for some reason had decided to take responsibility for the soft-sparked moron.
Even then, it wouldn’t have been Skywarp’s problem if Starscream wasn't constantly complaining to him about it.
“He’s a loser,” Skywarp pointed out helpfully. “Just ditch him if it’s so much trouble.”
“Ha, yeah I really should,” Starscream would say. And then he doesn't.
-vvv-VVV-vvv-
Skywarp gleefully launches another missile into the burning streets below, the light from the explosion glinting off the black jet’s wings, painting his purple stripes an ominous gold. Flying through the smoke, he pulls out of his dive at the last moment, laughing as mechs scramble to get out of his way. He isn’t exactly trying to hit anybody, but he isn’t trying very hard not to either.
The Decepticons were going to drop a big bomb on Praxus tonight, and Megatron wanted as many of the civvies cleared as possible before that happens.
Watching the last of his bots escape, a warning from Skywarp’s chronometer pops up on his hud, reminding him of the approaching launch time. A few of the other Seekers start leaving the blast zone, having determined their sectors cleared. Skywarp wonders if he should do one more quick sweep before calling it quits. It had been a lot more fun when there were still law enforcers putting up a resistance and actual people on the streets to terrorize. Flying around over empty highways and sidewalks was much less exciting.
A larger number of jets are now leaving the city, and with nothing left to do, he flies up to join them. He would have loved to stay and get front row seats for the fireworks, but he’d promised Megatron he’d watch from somewhere safe this time. 
One Seeker didn't seem to get the memo, however, flying against the formation back into a cluster of buildings. Skywarp growls in annoyance when he recognizes the broad blue wings of Thundercracker.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
Skywarp’ll never hear the end of it from Starscream if Thundercracker got blown up. He swings back around to follow the blue Seeker.
Scanning the airways, his sensor net picks up movement below, but instead of Thundercracker, he finds a black and white Praxian with a red head crest dodging behind some rubble. A police bot, wounded and unarmed but still kicking, and as far as Skywarp is concerned, that makes him fair game!
Without landing, he switches to root mode and aims his last missile at the target below. 
The air around him suddenly explodes with a deafening sonic boom, throwing him sideways into the nearest building. Shattered glass rains down around him as he rolls into a rough landing inside. 
“Khaaa…augh, what the slag,” Skywarp groans, his audio receptors still ringing with static. Giving himself a few good smacks to the helm, he shakes out the last of the fuzz before glaring up at the mech responsible for the assault. Thundercracker had followed him in through the broken window and was wringing his hands in the most pathetically apologetic way possible.
“Sorry! Sorry, are you alright? I wasn't…”
Skywarp didn't bother picking himself off the floor, instead opting to teleport behind the blue Seeker and spin kick him in the back. Thundercracker lands with a satisfying crunch, the shards of glass making a mess of his plating. “There,” Skywarp says with a huff, grabbing Thundercracker’s arm to haul him back up, “Now we’re even.”
“Ugh!” Thundercracker shoves Skywarp off of him and stalks back towards the opening in the wall, miserably picking glass out of his hands. Skywarp bounces after him. 
“You must be stupid or something. Didn't you see everyone leaving? We’ve got, what—ten breems before Shockwave launches the bomb!”
“But what if there are still people down here? Mechs that haven’t evacuated…”
“Who cares? We got most of them! Hey!”
Thundercracker was already flying away from the building, still not leaving the city. Skywarp stomps his ped in frustration and seriously considers abandoning the mech to his suicidal quest. A new message on his hud distracts his thoughts. It was a comm from Megatron asking where he was, and then eight additional comms from Starscream pop up in quick succession. It got him thinking.
Was Thundercracker ignoring his comms?
He could respect a mech willing to flirt with death, even if it was for a geeky reason. Plus, it'll be really funny to watch Starscream try to hide his concern when he berates Thundercracker for being stupid again. Less funny if Thundercracker actually dies. Skywarp flags the messages as acknowledged without bothering to read them and kicks off after the blue jet.
As long as he’s there he can teleport them both out in time, so why not have a bit of fun?
He finds Thundercracker trying to move an entire building’s worth of rubble away from the entrance to some high-rise. He could hear muffled voices shouting from inside. “You having fun there?” Skywarp jeers, crossing his arms.
Thundercracker bites back a curse as his hand slips, a trail of energon smearing across the surface of the wall. “Why are you still here, Skywarp?” he grouses, stepping back to reevaluate his options. 
“Boo!” Skywarp pops into existence on top of the rubble in a pink cloud of quantum mist, making Thundercracker jump back in surprise. Lowering himself into a crouch, the teleporter cocks his helm to the side, fixing Thundercracker with a toothy grin. “Why do you think, numbskull? I’m here to make sure you don’t get your sorry aft blown sky high!”
Thundercracker’s optics widen for a moment before narrowing in frustration. “Then help me get those mechs out of there!”
“Why don't you just use your big boom to turn this rubble to dust?” Skywarp supplies helpfully.
“That’ll bring the whole complex down!” Thundercracker snaps back, voice raising with stress.
Skywarp plants a hand on the ledge he was perched on and lazily swings his legs up into a handstand before flipping himself down to the ground. “Why do you care so much? They’re just civvies. Nobodies! Besides, it’s their own fault they didn't get out in time.”
Thundercracker looks horrified. “How can you just say stuff like that?” Pushing Skywarp out of the way, he starts prying small pieces off the blockage one crumpled slab at a time. 
There is a desperation in his movements that Skywarp just doesn’t understand. “You don’t even know them,” he mumbles, starting to feel annoyed.
“That shouldn't matter.” Thundercracker replies, heaving a large chunk away. Energon drips from his fingertips. Skywarp notes the lack of progress being made. “It's the right thing to do.”
Aaand there it is. Skywarp rolls his optics and gives Thundercracker a hard shove, once more sending the mech to the ground. For a Seeker his size, he sure does fall easy. 
“You’re a sap, you know that?” Skywarp says with disdain, turning to the building. Starscream was still blowing up his comm unit with pings, and another new one came in from Megatron. If Skywarp wanted to not get blown up for some lame bot like Thundercracker, he might as well help speed things along.
-vop-
Skywarp lands with a splash. The ceiling had caved in, making the inside of the building more dark and more cramped than it should have been. Liquid cleanser spews all over the floor from a cracked pipe in the wall. Huddled by the blocked entrance, Skywarp counts seven bots: three minibots of some kind and the rest an assortment of four wheelers and science nerds. Upon his arrival, someone screams, “Oh Primus it’s a Seeker! ” and another starts banging on the jammed door, wailing, “Help! It’s gonna kill us!”
Skywarp licks his lips. This is going to be fun.
With a menacing growl he lunges at the group, most of whom scramble over each other in a panic to escape his claws. He manages to get ahold of two of them and with a -vop- deposits them outside.
Skywarp gives the speechless Thundercracker a cheeky wave before teleporting back in. He immediately loses his footing on the slick floor and falls backwards just as one of the larger mechs holding a lead pipe takes a massive swing at where his helm had been. Skywarp laughs, catching his fall with one arm and windmilling his legs around to sweep the big bot off his peds. 
The other big guy pounces on him, grabbing Skywarp’s arms and forcing him down. “Ow! hey!” He yelps as the one on the floor throws himself on top to help hold him down. Seems like the civvies can fight after all!
“Skywarp?” Thundercracker’s muffled voice can be heard calling from outside. Skywarp decides to make this his problem and teleports outside with both bots still clinging to his frame.
Thundercracker is ready with his blaster and fires two warning shots, close enough to scorch armor. Realizing they are now outside, the smaller of the two bots immediately bolts, running for his life. The other one drops to the ground, shaking and crying in a disgusting heap. 
“Woop! Thanks!” Skywarp laughs. “Have fun with that .” He gives the cowering mech a kick before leaving Thundercracker to deal with the mess.
Back inside, he’s curious to find the room completely empty. Skywarp hums, deciding on how he wants to play this game. Slowly, emphasizing the heaviness of his footsteps, the Seeker begins stalking the parameter of the destroyed lobby. “Come out little things,” he calls out in a sing-song voice, “I just want to plaaaay!”
In one swift motion he grabs the edge of a counter and forcefully pries the entire thing from the ground, hurling it loudly against the opposite wall. His sudden violent outburst is rewarded by a startled whimper, identifying the minibots’ hiding spot.
“Ah ha! There you are!”
-vop-
Cackling victoriously, Skywarp descends on the screaming minibots as they scatter. Snatching up one in each hand, he heads back outside and launches one at Thundercracker’s head while the other gets rolled down the street. Thundercracker, to his credit, reacts fast, fumbling to catch the living projectile as Skywarp vanishes from sight.
The final minibot sat in the middle of the flooded room in tears. “Last one!” Skywarp crows, grabbing her from behind and jumping them both straight up high over the city. 
With a quick spin, Skywarp throws the bot as far away from him as he can manage! After a moment of terrified screaming, he watches her finally transform into some sort of drone copter and whizz away as fast as her little rotary blades can carry her. Skywarp almost cries from laughing so hard; this had definitely been worth sticking around for!
His mirth is cut short by a firm smack to the helm. 
“Hey! What gives?!” Skywarp whips around, expecting to be confronted by Thundercracker’s annoying kill-joy attitude. He is instead greeted by a very irate Starscream. “Oh! Hi Screamer!” he says, smiling as sweetly as a newspark who’s never done anything wrong before in his entire function.
Starscream looks ready to hit him again, clearly not in the mood. “If you're quite done, Skywarp, we have exactly one breem to find Thundercracker and clear the blast zone! You two are the only ones that have not reported in!”
Skywarp clasps both his hands against his cheeks and makes an exaggerated gasp sound, “Starscream! Don’t tell me you were worried about me!” 
“Oh for crying out—!”
Skywarp laughs as Starscream makes a grab for him, diving back down to where Thundercracker had been.
It didn’t take long for them to locate their third, still scouring the streets for energy signals.
Skywarp had been correct: the poorly-concealed concern wracking Starscream’s frame as he berated Thundercracker was hilarious! The normally unflappable Seeker’s wings were hiked so high up on his back it looked as though they might fly away without him! As for Thundercracker, it was as though a switch had flipped in his processor the moment he saw Starscream rushing at him. Soon, he was the one insisting they should get to safety while Starscream wouldn’t stop going on about ignoring his comms and putting all three of them in danger in the first place. It was unfortunate that the show had to be cut short. They had run out of time.
With a contented smile, Skywarp slung an arm around each mech’s shoulders and warped all three of them away.
That night, Praxus fell. The explosion was spectacular, and the Decepticons all got charged on the city’s high-grade. Thundercracker sat by himself as always, and Skywarp didn't pay him any mind. He was Starscream's friend, after all.
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smallestapplin · 4 months ago
Note
Do you have any headcanons for the Rescue Bots dealing with a drunk human s/o?
I can do you one better and give you scenarios cause I’m in love with this and need you to know so you give me more rescue bots
Also i apologize, my character limit is three so I picked Chase, Heatwave, and Blades, but if anyone wants Boulder lemme know in my inbox!
-
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Chase
It’s not uncommon for you to spend the night or come over at odd hours, Charlie gave you a key and Chase permission to have you over at anytime, if only to help the bot loosen up and come out of his shell a little more. However when you didn’t arrive Chase grew a little worried, of course he didn’t ask if you would as you have a home of your own, but he likes having you over.
He hates to admit it but his berth feels larger and emptier without you, however he does shoot you a message around one in the morning asking if you had arrived home safe, and yet nothing.
He can’t recharge in these conditions. Until the sound of the door opening reaches his audials, how odd everyone should be asleep by now. Chase leaves his habsuite, flicking the main light on just to see you squinting under the bright light.
“Dear, there you are! I was quite worried about you, how was your friend’s creation day?” Chase makes his way to you, bending over to try and pick you up, only to blink when you stumble forward and practically fall in his servos.
You smell of something his Olfactory Sensor can’t quite determine though he doesn’t find it very pleasant. His spark hums with worry as he gently lifts you up, but blinks confused when you lean against his thumb, looking up at him with such a glazed over loving expression he wasn’t use to seeing.
“You’re pretty.”
His brain module nearly short circuits as you kiss his thumb but keep your eyes on him. He clears his intake, resetting himself from this momentary shock.
“Thank you, as you tell me. But what happened, should I awake the chief?” His scanners show no signs of damage, nothing seems to get harming you.
“Nooo, I..I wanna go to bed with my boyfriend.” You look so sad it makes his engine purr lowly to tr and comfort you as best he can.
“We can go to my habsuite and let you rest-“
“No! I need my boyfriend, I need Chase.”
The bot stands there, optics squinting trying to figure this out, you informed him humans refer to their pre-conjunx endura’s as ‘partner’s or ‘boyfriend and girlfriend so, isn’t that him?
“But that is me, correct? Aren’t I your boyfriend Chase?” He even glances at the calendar to ensure he remembers correctly you two have been together for a little over a year now, it’ll be three months ten days and two hours until your next anniversary.
You blink lazily at him before squinting up at him. Chase tilts his helm in mild confusion at your act and behavior, though it seems all is forgiven when you perk right up, big smile on your face as you reach up for him.
“Chase, I missed you! Come here, please, I wanna smooch my bot.” You try to move closer, but he is already raising you closer to his face.
“I am not sure how you missed me when I have been here with you for the last thirty seven minutes, but I missed your presence too.” He tries to quell the need to bwoop his siren at you, even now he still wishes to show you cybertronian courtship while you smother his metalic cheek in so many messy kisses.
“It is late, may I take you to my habsuite for a recharge?”
“Mhm.” You aren’t even listening just nuzzling your squishy cheek against his like a happy cat.
Once he lays down with you to his chassis you are out like a light, curled up and holding one of his digits sleeping soundly, until of course morning. Chase is an early riser, always awaking with the sun, but that has never been your style, even now when your eyes slowly open and the weight of a migraine hits you.
Your pained groans stops Chase in his tracks, optics swiftly looking for any bruising of injury he might’ve missed or accidentally cause, but you just curl into him tighter.
“Dear?”
“Please….ask Charlie for some migraine relief…and a ginger ale…and water.”
He sets you gently on his berth, making sure the makeshift bed you made here is comfortable for you before rushing off to ask for the exact things you requested. Though Chase is now being told about human drinking and the side effects it causes, which explains your behavior last night.
Though Charlie gives him a few extra things, snacks to get something in your stomach.
-
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Blades
A little celebration never hurt anyone! Movie night with friends made it even better, what’s the harm in a little drinking after a rough week? You don’t drink often, but it was nice on occasion. Dani was trying to speak to you, but you were already long gone mentally, your elbows on the mini table while your chin rested in your hands, your eyes locked onto Blades.
Dani was struggling not to laugh at how utterly smitten you looked, she swears if this was a cartoon you’d have little hearts surrounding you as you gazed at your big Cybertronian boyfriend. Blades wasn’t oblivious to it either, he could see you and feel your eyes boring into him, it made him flustered for you to do it so openly.
His cheeks flushed blue with energon as he tries to look back at you but he keeps looking away, his thin wings fluttering with his spark thrumming loudly in his chassis. Dani calls your name, and you can barely answer with a hum.
“You know you’re the one who picked this movie, don’t you wanna watch it? Or are you gonna stare holes into Blades all night.” She snorts as you just sigh dreamily.
“But he’s s’cute, Dani.” You groan, your head spinning but you swear you’re whispering, though to everyone else in the room you most certainly are not.
Blades giggles covering his face with his servos, he enjoys your public displays of loving him but he will never get use to knowing you love him so much that you want to show off, and let everyone know just how much you do love him.
“Dani,” you whine your friend’s name, “do…do you think I have a shot?”
“What?” Dani raises an eyebrow at you, devilish smile on her face as she realizes where this is going.
“What?” Even Blades looks at you confused, what do you mean ‘have a shot’ with him? You two are already together? He even did the human dating rituals perfectly you said!
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, I’m sure Blades would love to.”
In your drunken haze you stare at her with a pout before looking to Blades’s confused face, your expression instantly softens at the mere sight of him. The second you stand up you lose your balance, the world spinning a little too fast for you. Blades stood from the couch quickly, easily catching you and holding you gently as he places you in his lap, as he has many times before.
And yet you were staring up and him like he was he worlds greatest hero.
“Are you single?” You breathed out, hushed and airy.
Blades blinks, his yellow optics flickering between you and a very smug looking Dani as he tries to figure out if this is a test or not, is this like the time he asked you if you’d love him if he was a worm?
“No, I’m not single, you-“ blades cuts himself off when he notices the instant shift, how your eyes fill with tears and how you try to very poorly hide how you’re sniffling.
“See, I told you, no bot this pretty would be single!”
Dani pats Blades’s arm with a shake of her head, “You have fun with this, I’ll be sure to have some stuff ready for their pains in the morning, good night!” And with that she leaves him to deal with his drunken beloved.
Blades shushes you softly, placing kisses all over your face until you’re giggling at how ticklish it feels.
“I’m with you, silly!” He smiles at you, glad you stopped crying but there you go again looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, his spark can’t take it!
“Wow….”
Blades whines, finally breaking from your voice sounding so in awe.
“I got so lucky.”
“Stooop.” Though he can’t stop the giggles that leave his intake, who knew having a drunk partner could actually be so fun and silly? Though he gets the feeling you won’t be pleased about it in the morning, seems your high grade effects you like it does cybertronians.
-
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Heatwave
Heatwave only asks for one day, just one for some peace, he just wants to spend downtime with his conjunx but since it’s Kade’s creation day (or birthday, as the humans say) his team, you, and the Burns are together to celebrate. the party stretched on, and the second Cody went to bed Kade busted several differen oddly shaped bottles, as far as Heatwave was concerned it was nothing.
Despite having sat in a dark part of the yard watching the chaos unfold, you mostly sat with him on his shoulder, cuddling up to his helm, only occasionally requesting down when you wanted a drink or a snack from the food table. Heatwave clenches his jaw noting you’re taking longer this last time, you haven’t come back yet.
Glancing over to the party goers he sees you swaying but not to the beat of the music, more like you’re going to fall, though Graham is there first, easily helping you sit down, which is enough to finally worry him into going over and making sure you’re okay. Once Heatwave is close enough he can hear your conversation.
“My Conjunx will be grumpy you’re touching me.” You’re pouting angrily, squinting your eyes at Graham as your muddled mind barely remembers a thing.
Though it makes Graham laugh, “When isn’t he grumpy? Please, just stay here and let me get you some water.”
The engineer mutely sighs when you refuse, determined to stand up and find your lover, until you are shoved back into your seat with a single finger. You blink, trying so hard to glare up at the cybertronian that pushed you back down.
“Go get them that water, I’ll keep ‘em here for ya.”
“Thanks, Heatwave.” Graham says, rushing off into the house o get you that cold water.
Meanwhile you are staring up at Heatwave with a less than pleased expression, making him tilt his helm at you.
“Well, don’t you look like a ray of sunshine tonight. What’s got you up in arms?” He teases, smiling as your pitiful glare only grows more fiery.
“Hands off! I need to find my Conjunx, he’s probably worried by now.”
You are far too cute for your own good, do you know that? Heatwave will remind you of that when the high grade wears off, or whatever humans call it. Though he can’t help but chuckle, at least he knows you’d fight people off with a stick if you must. The large bot crosses his arms, smug smirk on his face.
“Oh yeah? Tell me about this Conjunx of yours. Must be a great guy to land a little thing like you.” His voice purrs in tune with his engine.
You finally smile wide, your eyes sparkling under the starry sky as you look so happy to be asked such a thing.
“He’s a big grump with a heart…a spark of gold, I swear I don’t think I could’ve gotten anymore lucky than him. I miss him…I miss him a lot.”
Heatwave cries to hold back a chuckle but fails horribly as he mocks a coo at you, “Aw poor thing, where if your conjunx?”
You flop back in your seat with such a sad whine, “I don’t knooow!…I want my Wavey.”
“Sweetspark, I’m right here, you dork.”
You look back up at him, squinting your eyes suspiciously at the large mech.
“Oh yeah? Prove it.”
Heatwave rolls his optics, shaking his helm at your drunken antics, “Our spark bonding ceremony was last fall, per your request mind you.”
“Anyone could guess that!”
Heatwave stare at you meeting your judging gaze for a solid minute, long enough for Graham to come back and hand you a bottle of water, and leaving you once more since Heatwave is there to care for you. Though you two don’t break your staring contest.
“That ring on your finger was given to you by me, I only had the Chief’s help to get it for you.”
“Mhm that’s what they all say!”
“….If it weren’t for the fact I loved you I would throw you.” He sighs, but that doesn’t stop his playful tone.
You stick your tongue out at him and turn to focus opening and sipping from your water bottle, grumbling how Heatwave would make you do this if he was here. One last ditch effort, you are picked up, much to your loud complaints as Heatwave turns, making sure his back is facing any potential people as he opens his chassis, right to his spark chamber.
Your eyes widen at the dark blue spark glowing, thrumming loudly now you can hear it. The hairs on your arms stand on end as his EM field washes over your body in a silent caress. Heatwave closes his spark chamber back up and looks at your with a raised optic ridge.
“Hi Wavey.” You coo, “I missed yooou, it was awful, I was gonna die.”
Heatwave snorts a chuckle rumbling deep in his chassis as he places you back on his shoulder.
“I’m sure were, but I missed you too, it was awfully lonely without you.” He mutters, optics glowing warmly as you cheer softly and nuzzle into the side of his helm.
You’re so cute, too cute.
The hold you have on him is one he could never explain, even in the morning when you’re pulling your blanket over your head and whining in pain, declaring you’ll never drink again. His cute little conjunx, even when you look at him so pitifully he can’t help but fall in love all over again.
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futurebird · 1 year ago
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The more I learn about light pollution harms insects, the more I want to try to help... do something about it. But I live in NYC. It feels like an impossible ask. A whole city devoted to making the most light pollution possible.
I strongly suspect that we'd see a greater variety of wildlife if we could dim the light a little.
Just using colors like red light can help. So can dark hours and motion sensors. What if one day, as a treat, every New Yorker got to see the milky way?
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Most people doing light pollution activism are working in places like national parks & deep in the country, places that are almost dark, where the lights are encroaching especially as the cost of very bright LEDs keeps falling: companies and municipalities say "why not? what's the harm?"
The harm is vast. So many creatures need the night to live. Maybe humans need it too. We do, at least, need those creatures.
I care about insects most. But if you don't consider: no bugs, no song birds.
Is reducing light pollution in a big city a hopeless cause? Is it better to focus on those once perfectly dark places being lit up?
One positive of making light pollution an issue in a big city is how it would raise awareness. Imagine if, in the small hours of the night the lights slowly shifted red. Lights with motion sensors that slowly gutter out. You can see NYC on the horizon glowing like a bomb went off for miles, that glow could dim a bit, give the stars a chance to shine.
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saffusthings · 4 months ago
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second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
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part seventeen: dream a little dream of me
word count: 1.6k
warnings: tooth-rotting fluff
sixteen | seventeen | eighteen
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The second date should’ve felt more awkward. It didn’t.
Alex had picked a science museum of all places—not exactly romantic on paper, but the look on his face when he pointed out the replica Mars rover was too earnest to judge. He had this habit where his whole face would light up like a lightbulb the moment before he got excited about something, and Y/N had already learned to clock it like a warning siren.
“So, technically,” he was saying, hands jammed in his jacket pockets as they strolled past a massive display on deep-sea robotics, “the algorithms used for this submersible’s sensor mapping were adapted from AI software developed for self-driving cars.”
“Technically,” she echoed, teasing, “you should probably just work here.”
He looked sideways at her with a crooked grin. “I applied when I was sixteen. They didn’t take me.”
“They’re clearly still recovering from that mistake.”
He tried to play it off cool, but she caught the slight flush of his ears.
She liked him more than she expected to. Not in the way you decide to like someone—more like how you step outside one day and realize the air smells like rain and suddenly, you’re soft and open and all the windows are down. He was like that: unexpected and quiet and warm around the edges.
They made their way through the rest of the exhibits in no particular order, weaving between dwindling crowds of families and groups of students on field trips, neither of them in a hurry. He let her take her time at the forensic anthropology section, where she ran her fingers along the raised edges of a reconstructed skull, and she let him lose himself in the physics wing, where he explained, with ridiculous enthusiasm, why the double pendulum was so cool. It was there that the nickname Professor Albon was born.
At some point, he took her hand. It wasn’t a big deal. He just did it naturally, without hesitation, like it had already been a habit, and for a moment, that simple touch made her feel warm all over.
They ended the night sitting cross-legged on the floor of the museum café, long after it closed, surrounded by vending machine snacks and a half-solved crossword puzzle she’d found in her bag. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow over the abandoned chairs and tables, but neither of them seemed eager to move. They laughed about everything and nothing, the kind of laughing that came from being tired but happy, the kind that made her lean into his shoulder without thinking.
"Okay," Alex said, tapping the eraser end of his pencil against the page. "Eight-letter word for ‘illuminates or clarifies’?"
As she took a moment to think it over, Alex watched in his periphery as she counted off the letters of her word on her fingers. "’Explains’ fits," she mused, popping a purple skittle into her mouth.
"Hmm." He scribbled it in. "Not bad. Maybe I should keep you around."
"Yeah, yeah," she nudged his knee with hers, grinning. "You just like me for my crossword skills."
"Wrong. I like you for your crossword skills and your terrible puns."
“My puns are great, thank you very much.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
He liked her brain. She liked how funny he was. They made a good pair—two academically overworked people who laughed at obscure engineering memes and played footsie under café tables without meaning to. When they said goodbye that night, he kissed her like he was trying not to smile through it. Like maybe this could really be something.
It felt easy.
And in the days that followed, it stayed easy. He texted her every night.
alex: Made the Mars rover jealous. Can’t stop thinking about you.
Y/N: did you just say that unironically. because I might have to stop seeing you on principle.
alex: Too late, I’ve already added you to my will. You get the Lego Technic collection.
Y/N: wait nvm i’m back in
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They made time. Even when they both shouldn’t have.
He’d bring her coffee before her class–something with cinnamon and oat milk in it. He’d scrawl dumb physics jokes on the lid just to make her roll her eyes. She started keeping his schedule in her head without meaning to. She knew which nights he had his advanced systems class and which ones he spent buried in the lab. He’d text her when his simulations crashed at 3AM. She’d send him memes about courtroom drama tropes in return.
He had an engineer’s sense of humor—dry, sneaky, often deeply specific. It took a while to catch on, but once she did, it felt like discovering hidden easter eggs in his sentences.
“You know,” he’d murmur as they lay back in the grass near campus, watching clouds roll over like they weren’t chilly out here in the autumn breeze, “you statistically reduce your lifespan by two minutes every time you eat instant ramen.”
“Cool. So I’ll be dying a noble, sodium-rich death then.”
He turned his head toward her, smiling with closed eyes. “Hmm, a martyr.”
“A hero.”
“Buried with your books and MSG packets.”
She shoved his shoulder. He let her.
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On Thursdays, she’d sit outside his lab, cross-legged on the cold tile floor with flashcards in her lap, quizzing him on his presentation slides about failure analysis and impact resistance.
“Okay, explain to me like I’m five—what is a stress-strain curve and why should I care?”
“Because,” he’d say, crouching in front of her with a smirk, “it tells you how close something is to breaking.”
“And that’s relevant to your research…?”
He gave her a confused look, until it turned sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m… not entirely sure about that bit, actually.”
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She started looking forward to the moments in between—the walks across campus, the shared bag of chips while sitting on the hood of her car, the ridiculous voice memos he sent when he was overtired and delirious.
They kissed in stairwells and library corners and once,perhaps ill-advisedly, on a park bench in the middle of a thunderstorm. The rain had soaked through their clothes, cold and unrelenting, but he had just looked at her and said, "I think we should be stupid about this," right before he leaned in. It was impulsive and dramatic and made her laugh until she had to cover her mouth, their faces inches apart. Her hair was soaked, his glasses fogged up, and they almost dropped his backpack in a puddle, but the moment stuck—sharp and golden and untouchable.
They talked about future dates like there’d be dozens of them—bookstores they wanted to browse together, a tiny Thai place he swore by, a stargazing night he promised would be “scientifically optimized for romance” depending on the cloud cover. She rolled her eyes at that one, but her heart still fluttered.
They were still in the sweet spot—the space between maybe and more, where everything felt bright and possible. 
It wasn’t perfect – but it was promising.
The third date was dinner—some hole-in-the-wall Thai place with flickering neon signage and laminated menus stained with old curry thumbprints. He’d gotten lost on the way and sent a flurry of frantic texts.
alex :) : I passed the restaurant. Twice. There’s a cat staring at me through a laundromat window. I think it’s judging me.
Y/N: be strong. you can beat the cat.
alex :) : Negative, Sargeant. It’s very confident.
He’d arrived breathless, slightly damp from a drizzle, and holding a single packet of Skittles “for your efforts,” he’d said solemnly. She called him an idiot. He looked delighted.
That night, they talked about things that didn’t matter—TV shows neither of them had finished, foods they pretended to like for the aesthetic, the sheer horror of Alex’s undergraduate group project from hell (“We had a guy who thought duct tape was a structural solution”). 
And then, slowly, they talked about the things that did matter.
Like how she used to want to be a journalist when she was little, because she thought it meant you got to ask as many questions as you wanted and never had to apologize.
Or how he still wasn’t sure what kind of engineer he wanted to be—just that he wanted to make things that didn’t break when people needed them most.
“You know,” he said, nudging his glass in slow circles across the table, “you’re not what I expected.”
Y/N looked up. “Is that a good thing or, like, a 'you’re secretly a serial killer' kind of a thing?”
He smiled. “It’s a good thing. Really, really good.”
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By the fourth week, they had a rhythm. It wasn’t just dates anymore—it was Hey, want to walk home together? and I saved you the last chocolate chip muffin, but only because I like you more than I like muffins. But barely.
It was him reaching for her hand without thinking, her resting her head against his shoulder on the bus when she was too tired to hold it up.
It was a shared Spotify playlist for when studying is ur 13th reason.
It was early Saturday morning sun filtering into her apartment while they quietly read their own books, his socked foot nudging hers on the side of the couch almost every ten minutes.
It was good.
But between the sleepy smiles and the shared muffins and the texts that kept getting longer instead of shorter, the truth was that they both had dreams. Big ones. All-consuming ones.
And no matter how much you wanted something—or someone—there were only so many hours in the day.
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a/n: one of my more favorite chapters! an unfortunate lack of lando though :/ what did you think of it?
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