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that-one-girl2020 · 2 days ago

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Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader Pt. 5

A/N: Thank you for the 1,000 followers! That’s kinda crazy but I guess I shouldn’t underestimate the kpop fandom. Anyways, you guys voted so all the Saja Boys will be getting the trauma but it kinda turned into trauma bonding…? Let me know what you think of their backstories, I tried hard to get the right balance of ‘I-need-this-and-I-want-it-desperately’ and ‘I-later-feel-shame-or-guilt-for-this’ while also keeping to their individual personalities.

This part is kinda long because we finally get to the reader actually singing! I was tempted to use ‘Free’ from kpdh but that’s Rumi and Jinu’s song and it didn’t fit the MC’s feelings and thoughts so I had to find a song that fit.

Speaking of, thanks to @ghastlyjewel67-blog for the inspiration for the second song!

TW: Self mutilation (scratching), toxic parental figure (thanks Celine), death threat (just a little), insecurity and low self esteem.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6

Word Count: 5,661

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

“(Y/n)?” You looked up at the call of your name. Oh yeah. You were trying to get some air so you went for a walk.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” You asked the group of disguised Saja Boys numbly. Or, maybe it wasn’t that you felt numb at that moment, but you were actually feeling too much at once.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Chungae asked softly. You didn’t know why they seemed to have such worried looks on their faces as they joined you on the bench, Chungae on your right, Hyeon on your left, Jum on Hyeon’s left, and Kwan and Jinu crouching in front of you.

What you also didn’t know was that they had scrambled to the park as soon as they had learned from Derpy and the bird that you were in the park, distressed.

“Nothing, I’m fine boys,” You tried to reassure them, smiling at them.

Then Hyeon silently reached towards your face, his finger gently swiping your cheek and pulling away to show the tears that had gathered on his finger.

Surprised, you reached up to your own face and realized that it was wet. ‘Had you really been crying?’

As if you realizing you were crying had opened the floodgates, your body shuddered as you tried to laugh and wipe your face, “Oh.”

Chungae and Hyeon pulled you into their arms, Jum reached over to hold your hand and squeezed it comfortingly, Kwan and Jinu rested their hands on your legs, letting them know they were there with you.

“I’m sorry,” You couldn’t help but apologize. “I just… I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Don’t apologize, babe,” Kwan said, squeezing your thigh lightly.

“Never apologize for what you feel,” Hyeon growled softly, wrapping his arms around you tighter.

“Just… tell us what you’re thinking about,” Jinu softly recommended.

The tears came faster and you shook harder. It felt like all that was keeping you together was the feeling of the five boys around you. “I… I don’t want the Honmoon to be completed…!” You choked out, your body shaking and the air in your lungs stuttering as you tried to breathe through your crying.

With a soft surge of demon magic, you were somewhere else, an apartment on a couch with the boys in the same position as before. They thought you would want a little privacy right now…

Being with the boys, surrounding you with safety and comfort, helped you to feel safe enough to open up the chest of shame and weakness you kept locked in your chest. “If the girls seal the Honmoon, I don’t think I’ll be allowed to stay on this side of the barrier. And I’ve given everything… for the Honmoon to be completed because that’s what’s always been expected of me. I’ve given my blood, sweat, tears, my dreams, my soul for it but it’s never. Been. Enough.”

The boys couldn’t help but hold you closer, their hearts clenching at the sight of you so… distraught? Broken? In despair? Whatever the word for it was, they hated it.

They wanted to d̴̮̗̟̱̆̆̈́ē̵̥͎̠̮͊̽̍́̃̋͘s̵̱̅͛̇̉̈́͜ṯ̵̾ŗ̴̲̘͋ọ̴͕̙͒̎̆ý̵̡̱̠̻̟̰̹͈̕̕ whatever it was that was making you so sad but they couldn’t.

All they could do was hold you together in their own tainted hands and listen.

“And I don’t want to lose any of you either,” You continued, the words and the tears coming faster, “But I think the worst part is that I’m afraid that if I tell Rumi or the other girls that I like the part of my father that I have, the part that loved a Hunter that was meant to kill him? I’ll be betraying them, and my Aunt Celine, and my mother’s memory…”

They were quiet. What could they say to comfort you? To reassure you that you were so much better than them? They, who were nothing but monsters in the dark, made up of their own mistakes and shame.

“When I was human,” Jinu spoke softly, squeezing your ankle as he looked down to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “My family was poor and the only thing I had to my name was a bipa so I busked the streets to make money, try and give my mom and sister a better life. But it didn’t get me anywhere, and that was when I first heard Gwi Ma. His power, it changed my life overnight. But it came at a cost. When I was welcomed into the palace by the emperor for my singing, my mother and sister were cast away. I left them. And still, I ate my fill everyday, sleeping comfortably in silk blankets until the patterns started spreading and dragged me to the demon realm to serve under Gwi Ma.”

The other boys shared small glances with each other. And then, Hyeon spoke, “I… I was… insecure. I had someone I loved but I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t enough. I wanted more. We would go on walks together and other people would approach her and I would be pushed to the wayside. So, Gwi Ma made me beautiful and I finally felt like I had her attention. I was so happy and I couldn’t help but want more and more. She left me, and not long after, the patterns took over. That’s why, I don’t like showing my face anymore…”

You nuzzled your head against Hyeon’s to give him comfort and his lips quirked up appreciatively.

Kwan sighed, “I wasn’t entirely honest when I told you my deal with Gwi Ma… Yeah, I wanted strength after I lost my family. But I didn’t want it to protect, I wanted it to destroy. I became the strongest so I could desecrate those that killed my family… I became a monster. Even now, I still feel like that same beast sometimes.”

You didn’t like the self deprecating look he had—hypocritical, you know—so you nudged him with your foot softly. He looked up and the two of you shared soft, sad smiles.

Chungae grimaced, pulling away from you slightly, “I’m kind of like Hyeon… I lived with my relatives who were matchmakers and so I was surrounded by love all the time. But it never felt like it was directed at me. So, as I got older and no one showed interest in me, I started getting jealous. I wanted to love and be loved so badly, I didn’t understand why no one loved me. Gwi Ma helped me and, suddenly, people were clamoring for my love, some even fighting each other for it. I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t until the patterns took over.”

You pulled him back close, leaning your head against his shoulder as you held his hand with the one Jum wasn’t holding.

Jum rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t have the same backstory as you guys, I was born in the demon realm, y’know. I’ve never known any different. I guess… if anything, I wish I was born a human in the first place. I wish I didn’t have to leech off the souls of others just to sustain myself.”

It was quiet as the six of you processed what was shared. You couldn’t help but chuckle, “Wow. What a big mess we are.” You smiled when it got a few light laughs, the tear tracks starting to dry. “Did you guys know, I wanted to be a singer when I was younger?”

They blinked at the sudden change of topic but followed along as it made your smile grow from sad to some broken reflection of joy. “Why didn’t you?” Jinu asked curiously.

You shook your head, “My Aunt Celine told me it was a useless skill for me.” You rolled your eyes, “Focus on supporting your sister and protecting her secret, she said.”

Kwan scoffed, scowling, “What a load of bull.”

You hummed neutrally in response, “Maybe.”

Jum leaned over to you, “Will you sing something for us?”

Your face flushed suddenly, “Wait, what?”

Chungae nodded in agreement to Jum’s request, “Yeah, please (Y/n)?”

Hyeon nuzzled closer as well, obviously he wanted you to sing too. Jinu and Kwan looked at each other in fond amusement. The five had known each other for at least a century, but they had never felt as close with each other as they did right now with you.

You sighed, “Alright fine.” You looked up in thought, your head tilted back to rest against the back of the couch. Then you closed your eyes and opened your mouth.

“Tell me once again~ I could have been anyone, anyone else~ Before you made the choice for me~ My feet knew the path~ We walked in the dark, in the dark~ I never gave a single thought to where it might lead~”

Your voice wasn’t professional after years of neglect, the vocal training your aunt had given you long depleted. But it was soft and it was sweet and it was raw. It was you. The boys could feel each emotion you put into the song and they couldn’t help but gravitate closer to you.

“All those empty rooms~ We could have been anywhere, anywhere else~ Instead, I made a bed with agony~ My heart knew the weight~ Ten years worth of dust and neglect~ We made our peace with weariness and let it be~”

As you sang, your chest warmed as the song spilled from your lips. It felt right, like something that had jarred a long time ago was finally slotting back into place.

You wanted to cry again. Was this really how you felt about Rumi and your Aunt Celine all this time? Deep in your heart?

“Name your courage now~ We could have had anything, anything else~ Instead, you hoarded all that's left of me~ Swallowin' your doubt~ Like swords to the pit of my belly~ I want to feel the fire that you kept from me~”

The boys listened closely to every note that spilled from your lips. Because music was probably the language they understood best now. They couldn’t help but ache for you. The longing and the heartache and the bittersweet love you sang of.

“The moon will sing a song for me~ I loved you like the sun~ Bore the shadows that you made~ With no light of my own~ I shine only with the light you gave me~ I shine only with the light you gave me~ I shine only with the light you gave me~ (I could have been anyone, anyone)~ I shine only with the light you gave me~ (I could have been anyone, anyone)~”

The last notes faded into the silence of the apartment. The boys moved closer, surrounding you in their love and appreciation.

“That was… beautiful, (Y/n),” Jinu complimented you softly.

“Sing more often,” Hyeon commented, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck and breathing in your scent.

You laughed softly, your heart more settled now. You were still nervous for the Honmoon to be sealed, but right now? Your boys were surrounding you in a bubble of warmth and safety.

”Thank you, boys…”

~~~

It was time. The Idol Awards had come.

You had come back to the tower that morning to see the girls already awake and in the living area.

“(Y/n)!” Zoey greeted you energetically so early in the morning. “Where have you been? We all agreed that Takedown wasn’t the right song for sealing the Honmoon, so we’re going to be performing Golden tonight!”

You froze. You would be happy to never listen to Takedown again but on the other hand… All your hardwork for their outfits and visuals: down the drain…

Your smile strained, the relaxed feeling in your chest lingering from your time with the boys faltering. You felt like scratching the bandages Jinu had carefully reapplied over your arms this morning. “Oh. Great. I’m just gonna go… replace your Takedown outfits with the Golden ones.”

You turned to go to their wardrobe. The girls grimaced as they watched you go. Oops…

“Sorry, (Y/n)!” Rumi called after you, feeling bad that she had inadvertently given you more work this morning.

Rumi should talk to you, she knew that. But the deal she made with Jinu wouldn’t directly affect you, it was between her and him. It wasn’t worth adding more stress to your plate. She was going to protect you.

So here you were, hours later at the Idol Awards stage. You were waiting in the girl’s dressing room, the girls having joined you a little bit ago as you waited for the Saja Boys to perform first. Bobby was keeping track of everything, waiting to get the girls for their cue.

You couldn’t help but side eye Mira as she whaled on a punching bag with a poster of abs on it. “I. Hate. Abs!” She raged. You looked away. ‘Okayyyy then… They must’ve run into the boys on the way here…’

Suddenly, Bobby burst into the room, “Girls, the Saja Boys are fighting.”

You gasped, your chest tightening as you swallowed thickly. ‘What could they possibly be fighting about?’ You thought worriedly. You hoped they wouldn’t hurt each other and that they would be alright.

“That means you're on now!”

“Okay. This is it. For the fans,” Rumi took the lead, the three of them smiling while you couldn’t help but scratch your arm anxiously, your mind still stuck on the boys. The girls huddled and you remained on the sidelines.

“For the world.”

“For us.”

Bobby led the charge out of the dressing room and towards the stage, “Yes! We win this, and then we celebrate with Itaewon corn dogs!”

You followed Rumi out, unable to help but call after her, “Wait, Rumi!”

She turned to you, fixing her microphone. “What is it, (Y/n)?”

‘Please don’t seal the Honmoon. I’m scared. I don’t want to do this. Please don’t take them away from me.’

You smiled at her, hoping it wasn’t as broken as it felt. “You’re gonna do great. You’ve got this.”

Rumi smiled softly, taking your hand, “Thank (Y/n). Come on.”

Your smile fell as Rumi turned and you quietly followed her. Why did you have to be such a coward?

The girls took their places and you felt your chance to stop them slipping through your fingers like sand. You followed Bobby to the screen showing the livestream of the performance, he noticed your down energy.

“Hey, don’t worry, (Y/n), they got this! They’re gonna do great!” He tried to reassure you.

You gave him a small smile, “Thanks Bobby.” You turned back to the screen.

“I was a ghost, I was alone, hah~ 어두워진, hah, 압길속에 (Ah)~Given the throne, I didn't know how to believe~ I was the queen that I'm meant to be~ I lived two lives, tried to play both sides~ But I couldn't find my own place~ Called a problem child 'cause I got too wild~ But now that's how I'm getting paid, 끝없이 on stage~”

The girls started off perfectly, their choreography on point and their vocals hitting every note. Bobby was following along next to you, doing the choreography and mouthing the lyrics as he did. You couldn’t blame him, you usually did it too when the two of you were watching the girls perform together. But today, your mind was too occupied…

“I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin' like I'm born to be~ We dreamin' hard, we came so far, now I believe~”

Zoey and Mira swiftly exited the stage to give Rumi her solo, everything going according to plan.

“We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment~ You know together we're glowing~ Gonna be, gonna be golden~ Oh, up, up, up with our voices~ 영원히 깨질 수 없는~ Gonna be, gonna be golden~”

Rumi went up on the gold aerial ring, swinging over the crowd as she sang. Bobby cheered as we watched her perform, “Yes, Rumi’s crushing it!” Rumi landed on stage again, but as she was about to finish the post-chorus, the lights on stage went out.

You blinked, turning to Bobby who was checking his clipboard with confusion. “Bobby, what’s going on?”

He shook his head, looking back up at the screen with a concerned furrow in his brow, “I don’t know. Is that Takedown?” And yeah, you would know that opening anywhere. It was definitely the intro to the diss track.

Mira and Zoey were suddenly next to Rumi as soon as the lights went up, Rumi being the professional she was, immediately went into the choreo for the song despite obviously being surprised.

“So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside~ Whole life spreading lies, but you can't hide, baby, nice try~ I'm 'bout to switch up these vibes, I finally opened my eyes~ It's time to kick you straight back into the night~”

You frown when Mira and Zoey break from the choreo, pushing at Rumi’s shoulders as they start circling your sister with nasty smiles and dark eyes.

“Why? No,” Bobby whispered, just as alarmed as you at the sudden turn on Rumi by the other girls.

“‘Cause I see your real face and it's ugly as sin~ Time to put you in your place 'cause you're rotten within~ When your patterns start to show~ It makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins~”

You gasped as Mira and Zoey started grabbing at the jacket covering Rumi’s arms. Your stomach dropped and your heart went up your throat. ‘They knew…?’ And Rumi was just as horrified, covering her arms as Mira and Zoey tossed the tatters of her jacket aside.

“I don't think you're ready for the takedown~ Break you into pieces in a world of pain 'cause you're all the same~ Yeah, it's a takedown~ A demon with no feelings, don't deserve to live, it's so obvious~”

Mira and Zoey got up in Rumi’s face, saying something that the microphones couldn’t pick up. But it made Rumi distressed as she pulled at her hair and frantically tried to cover herself until she finally screamed.

“Ś̸̢̬̭̓̿̋͗T̸̥̓͋̂̉̎̕͘O̸̝͔̗̬̯͉̼̥̲̓͜O̶̰̭͍͉̥͍̜̻̝̪̔͐ͅO̸̡̢͉͍̬͇̝͓̾̂Ó̶͓̗̬̓̂̍̿͑̑͝Ō̴̯̯̒P̵̢̻̟̺̙͎̠͔̝̦͛̈́͗̅͊̈̑͘͝!”

You got the glimpse of her patterns glowing as they spread up her neck and to her face before the power of the building was taken out, the lights shattering as the screen went black. But you could still feel the power of Rumi’s voice reverberating in your chest.

For a long moment, all you could do was stare blankly in horrified silence. Rumi’s secret was out. Mira and Zoey found out and exposed her…

“(Y/n), did you know about Rumi’s…” Bobby searched for the right word, “Marks?”

“We were born with them,” was all you could tell him, still stuck on processing what had just happened. They had scorned Rumi.

‘What would they do to you then?’ Your mind hissed.

You shook yourself from your despair, “I have to go find Rumi!”

Bobby called after you as you took off, “Wait, do you even know where you’re going?! (Y/n)—!” He was distracted by his phone going off with a notification.

~~~

You were lost. You had run in a random direction because you didn’t know where the stage entrances were and now you regretted it. You could hear your sister yelling in the distance and then a guy yelling back. Was that Jinu? A pulse of demon energy went out around you, the familiar power of your sister vibrating in your chest so you followed it.

“Rumi!” You turned a corner to see your sister standing by herself. “Rumi! Are you okay?!” A stupid question but it was the first one on the tip of your tongue.

“Go away, (Y/n).”

You didn’t listen, worried and scared for both yourself and her. “Rumi, it'll be fine!” You tried to smile and reassure her but it just made you look manic you were sure. You reached out a hand to her shoulder to turn her around to look at you, “We just gotta explain that—“

”I said, g̸̳̯̙̜̈́͌̿ơ̴̪̝̳͚̲̔̇̓̋͝ ̴̠̺̯̾̀͌́͛͘͜a̶̜̬̗͓̓ẘ̶̛̥̞̠̠͝a̷̮̹̼̻̣̾͗̒̿y̵͔͕̝̺͇͒́̕̚,̵͔̣͐͆͆͆̎ ̷̫̼̼͍̼͚͊͝͝(̴̠̤͛͐̒͋̚͜͠Y̷̗͇̫̺̪̼̌̍/̸̯̥̱̕n̴̫̖̅̃)̶̗̩̲̬̂̄!”

Rumi turned, her voice pulsing out as she swung her hand. Her now clawed nails caught on your face and raked across your cheek, from your left ear almost to your nose. In shock and surprise of the sudden pain, you fell back.

“Rumi…?”

Rumi turned. And left. Demon magic trailing her every step as it consumed the Honmoon behind her. And you were left in its debris without a second look.

No. No no no no no n̵̺͍͆o̷̭̮̓…̸̟͇̹̽

“Rumi…!”

She didn’t turn around and she faded into the shadows.

“Don’t leave me…”

~~~

“Girls!”

“Not now Bobby,” Mira growled weakly, Zoey still numb beside her.

Bobby didn’t listen, running up to them, “What was that out there? Was it because of the new scandal with (Y/n)?”

His words shook Mira and Zoey from their feelings of betrayal, shaking their heads to look at him. “Wait, what?”

Bobby frowned, “Uh, yeah. The PR team just notified me.” He held up his phone which Mira quickly snatched. “Some blog just posted a bunch of photos of (Y/n) and the Saja Boys…”

Mira scrolled through the page, Zoey looking over her shoulder. And there they were. Pictures of you and the individual boys, walking in the park, eating at cafes, restaurants, food stalls, sitting and listening to music together, the arcade, it kept going on. But the real kicker was the last picture. You were on a park bench, surrounded by all the boys, leaning on each other and basking in their presence. You looked happy with them. Intimate.

Mira growled, clenching Bobby’s phone in her hand, “That—that… Traitor!” Mira shoved the phone back in Bobby’s arms and stomped away, the feeling of betrayal echoing deeper in her chest like a chasm.

“Mira, wait!” Zoey chased after her, her own feelings of betrayal and hurt being pushed down in favor of going after Mira.

“Wait, girls!” Bobby called after them but he was left behind.

~~~

You sniffed, trying to keep your tears to a minimum. If anyone could help you find Rumi, it was Zoey and Mira. You just had to explain to them that it wasn’t Rumi’s fault, that she just wanted to be normal and go with them to the bathhouse.

“Mira, Zoey!” You spotted them near one of the exits. Your skin was on fire, you were desperate to scratch for relief but you couldn’t, not when Rumi needed help.

“Thank goodness I found you!” You smiled in relief, “Look, I need your guys’ help to find, Rumi, she disappeared and she was in a really bad state. And I know what happened on stage, but she—“

“(Y/n) stop. Just stop pretending!” You were cut off by Mira’s demands.

“Mira?”

Mira had just wanted to leave. She just wanted to mourn her broken family in peace but you just had to show up. “Stop pretending to be on our side.”

“What?” You tilted your head at her, confused about what was going on. Was this because you were part demon too? You looked at Zoey to try and understand what Mira meant but the younger girl just looked away from you with a hard expression. “I am on your side.”

“Oh yeah? So why have you been hanging out with the Saja Boys? Looked real cozy to me,” Mira crossed her arms, moving into your space.

You blinked. How did they know about that? “Wait what?” You shook your head, the important thing was that they knew now. “Okay, yeah, I’ve been hanging out with them but—“

“But what, (Y/n)?! You’re choosing the demons over us? Did you even want the Honmoon to be sealed?”

You couldn’t answer her, swallowing thickly as you looked down shamefully.

“That’s what I thought. Go away, traitor. If you choose to fight on Gwi Ma’s side, then next time we see you… we’ll have to kill you,” Mira turned and left you there. Zoey looked at you and you pleaded at her with your eyes but she made her choice. She followed after Mira.

~~~

You had one more hope left.

Aunt Celine lives in the outskirts of the city, in the middle of a forest. It was a secret place where Hunters had been trained for centuries. Aunt Celine had raised you and Rumi so surely she would have a solution now.

You ran. You ran as fast as you could and then you noticed you were running faster than was possible for a human. Had your patterns spread that much? Tears were dripping but you wiped at them to keep your vision clear. Not yet. Don’t lose hope yet.

You made it in record time. The house was dark so you made your way to the one other place she could be. The old tree with the ribbons of past Hunters hung from its branches.

“Aunt Celine!” You cried, tears dripping down your cheeks.

Aunt Celine was on her knees before the tree, a distraught look on her face. Her eyes were wide but she had a look like she was a thousand miles away. “Leave (Y/n).”

“Please Aunt Celine, you have to help me find Rumi. I don’t know who else to go to! I don’t know what to do anymore, please!” You pleaded with her, falling to your knees in front of her so you could take her hands in yours.

She pulled her hands from yours, standing and backing away from you, a frown on her face as she avoided looking at you. She never could stand looking at you.

“You can’t do anything, child. You failed.” Her words stabbed into your chest, leaving you struggling for breath. “You failed in protecting Rumi’s secret. I knew you were more like your father. I should have thrown you out when we found out you couldn’t connect to the Honmoon.”

As Celine stumbled away, weak on her feet as she left you behind, always being left behind. You could only stare sightlessly at where she had been. Your heart was pounding in your ears, only a little louder than the sound of your own haggard breathing.

Why…?

You had hoped that they would accept you. Always. Mira. Zoey. Rumi. Celine.

Why?

That you could be happy one day to just be yourself and do what you want to do.

Why?

That you could be loved and accepted for who you are, demon patterns and all.

Why?

Why couldn’t they comfort you and stay? Keep your heart safe? After all you’ve done, helping them become who they are, cooking and cleaning for them, supporting them from the background, giving up your dream for them, pushing down who you are, why can’t they just see you?

Ẃ̷̛̞̩͖̥̲̜̭̩͉̹͉͎͔͚̲̖̙̝̮̅͌͐̆͋̑̈͗̏͝͠h̵̛̭̪̝͖̬̀͂̂̃̇̀̅͊̀̈́͊̑ͅy̷̛̰̭͓̫̗̭͍͎͔̭̺͔͍̖̭̩̯̯͉̓͌͐̉͆̈́̇͆̔͗̑͋̇͒̆̑̚̕̕͠͝?̷̑̈́̈́��̥͍̭͖̭͚̫̲͖̦̋̇͛̈́͠

~~~

The boys were quiet as they waited for the time of their final performance. They stood around the roof of a building, watching the crowds of people march towards the Namsan tower. They would have to return to Gwi Ma soon but they couldn’t help but feel heavy. Even with the success of their mission so close at hand, the prize they worked hard to gain for Jinu, their minds lingered on you.

They didn’t know what backlash you had gotten from them exposing Rumi’s demon patterns to the world. And then they had deepened the feeling of betrayal in the two Hunters by leaking those photos of you and them. They felt guilty. They didn’t want to hurt you, just the Hunters. But Gwi Ma threatened to increase the volume of the whispers in their head when they wavered after you spent the night at their apartment.

Because when they were with you, vulnerable and open to each other, they hadn’t heard a single whisper, none of them. And that was precious to them. It gave them hope for themselves, that maybe they didn’t have to go through with Gwi Ma’s plan. But that hope was crushed. Turned to ash by Gwi Ma’s threats.

Hyeon turned when he heard the soft poof of demon magic, gasping when he saw you standing on the roof. “Princess?” He called softly and the other boys turned as well, their faces falling at the sight of you in the state you were in.

Your hair was wind blown, your eyes red. The nice clothes you had worn for the Idol Awards did nothing to hide the glow of your demon patterns beneath them. There was a bleeding scratch across the left side of your face, stretching from your ear almost to your nose. One of your eyes reflected the too familiar demon color of their own. Your face was blank. Withdrawn.

“(Y/n)…” Chungae called softly, the five of them gathering in front of you, hesitating to reach out to you. But what right did they have to touch you anymore?

“Please don’t leave me. Leave me alone.”

They frowned at your words, fists tightening at their sides. What a terrible temptation your words gave them.

“Babe,” Kwan sighed regretfully, “You don’t understand…”

“I don’t care.”

“Princess,” Hyeon tried to reason with her even though it sent a dagger through his heart to try and push her away. “We betrayed you.”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

Jinu snapped, his own regret and guilt getting to him, “We’re the ones that exposed that you were spending time with us! We made the scandal! We betrayed you—!”

“I don’t C̶̨̡̰̯̥̪͙̠͙̹̘̺̈́͂̋̾Ȧ̵̠̖̠̲̮̤̣̭̮̥̱͗̆̓̈́R̵̮̱̖͚͙̬͐́͂̈́͛͊E̶̩̲̰̬̱̎ͅ!̷̨̧̜̺͕̣͕̦̌̐̔͐̓̔̔̈́̄̕”

The boys took a step back in surprise at the sudden distortion of your voice. You suddenly came alive from the broken doll you had appeared as, the numb chasm crashing together into rage and despair and sadness.

“You may have orchestrated the situation but they’re the ones who reacted the way they did!” You wailed, your tears falling anew. Jum couldn’t handle it anymore, the usually cool maknae frowning as he stepped forward to hug you. You pressed your face into his shoulder, your body shuddering as you cried.

“Mira and Zoey said they would kill me the next time they saw me! And Aunt Celine said she always knew I was too much like my father and she should have thrown me out years ago! And Rumi… Rumi, she hit me and didn’t even regret it!”

The boys circled around you, offering what comfort they could in the situation they felt they created. It felt like their hearts were being ripped apart from the inside out.

“I just want to be loved and accepted and safe. And being with you guys makes me feel more safe and loved and accepted than I have in years.”

The boys just held you closer, not answering you. They didn’t want to pull you into their darkness. They were selfish and greedy beings, but for you? They couldn’t be selfish.

Your mouth opened to express yourself in the only way you could at the moment. “You and I are tangled as these sheets~ I'm alive, but I can barely breathe~ With your arms around me, it feels like I'm drownin'~ If I reach for somethin' I can't keep~ How bad could it really be?~”

You looked up at them, turning in their arms to meet their eyes one at a time so they could see the honest look in your eyes as you sang.

“So, baby, let's get messy, let's get all the way undone~ Come over, undress me just like I've never been touched~ Baby, I'm obsessed with you and there's no replica~ Maybe if it's messy, if it's messy, if it's messy~ Then you know it's really love~”

The boys still hesitated but you could see the look in their eyes slowly coming apart. So you went on, telling them how you felt.

“I want all of your complicatеd~ Give me hell and all of your worst~ Whеn the party's over and I'm screamin', "I hate it"~ How bad could it really hurt~ If tonight we just let it burn?~”

As the next words came, you truly felt settled in yourself in a way you hadn’t before. You were sure of this decision, being with them. And you slowly turned in a circle, your hands running across their chests and their jaws, making sure they met your eyes as your patterns glowed brighter and spread faster as you accepted them as part of you. Your eyes both glowing amber, and your hands lengthening into claws that matched their own, your skin darkening inhumanly.

The boys were breathless, speechless as you transformed right before their eyes. For them, the patterns were a form of shame and guilt but when they saw them on you? They were beautiful. Like power crawling across your skin, filling your eyes with fire. Like seeing a goddess coming into herself.

“You're pullin' back and I'm runnin' for the door~ You're sayin' those words and it just makes me want you more~ A second chance with our hearts on the floor~ Guess it's love~”

Giving in, the boys pulled you closer, circling you like planets stuck in your orbit. The center of their universe. They let their human guises fall so they could match you, show you that they accepted you and you weren’t alone. So you could see every ugly part of them. Your clothes fade to black, matching their robes as they hold you close, arms tangling for their hands to hold whatever part of you they could put their hands on.

I’m sorry. The angst was necessary. Have some outtakes to soothe the angst.

Outtakes:

Mystery: *Barks at a fan*

Fans: *Bark back*

Mystery: *shook*

…

Bobby: “The Saja Boys are fighting!”

The Saja Boys: “How dare you use my new face cream without asking?!” “It was on my side of the room!”

…

Celine: *Being the terrible parental figure that she is*

The Saja Boys, Mira, Zoey: *Cracking knuckles and readying weapons* So you’re the one.

…

You: *Answers the phone* “Hi guys, what’s up?”

The Saja Boys: “Oh, just trying to prevent a murder.”

You: “Oh…? How so…?”

The Saja Boys: *Staring at Celine* “Self control.”

…

You: *Searching the crowd* “Where’d the girls go?”

Rumi: “I got this.” *Cups hands around her mouth* “RUMI AND (Y/N) WERE BORN MISTAKES!”

Mira and Zoey: *Violently clamoring over people like feral animals* “WHO SAID THAT?!”

Rumi: “There they are.”

Abby: *Summoned on the top of a pole* “HUH?! I’LL RIP OUT YOUR LIVER!”

Baby: *Appearing with support candy* “Don’t listen to the idiots, beautiful.”

Romance: *Casually holding an ax* “Who said that? I just wanna talk.”

Hyeon: *Suddenly appears behind you to wrap his arms around your waist* “Grrrrr…”

Jinu: *Plotting some dramatic evil revenge plan* “Say that again?”

Derpy the Tiger: *Smiling eerily*

You: *Tearfully* “Guys…”

…

Rumi and Jinu: *High fiveing* “Yay, Platonic Soulmates!”

…

I also got carried away and made a short playlist for this little series.

Tag list: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374

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breadwithpoprocks-fandom · 1 day ago

Text

additions:

@a-mind-of-color-blog :

OMG absolutely and I can absolutely see like, before he’s revealed as red hood Tim and Dick are like hella bitter. Like plotting looney toons level traps to get Jason to slip up in front of Bruce and lose his Goldechild status and it always fails (or Jason turns it so he comes out looking even better) and there getting so frustrated and then. Jason is just. Revealed as Red Hood?

Tim and Dick absolutely loose it: “WHAT!! This whole fucking time we just had to focus on getting dad to bust your shitty crime ring?!!?”

@aviolettrose (adding onto prev) :

Dick and Tim are the last kids staying

•Damian stopped trying when he saw Jason tripping more than once over air

•Cass stopped after Jason helped her with her speaking and asl

•Duke stopped after Jason helped him with an science project

•Steph figured out that Jason is RH and never said anything because thanks to him, Crime Alley got better

But Tim and Dick never stopped because Tim always got compared to Jason. Dick because he has this feeling that there is something and he needs to know what.

Jason: shitty crime ring? Excuse me, it took the whole JL to get me. They only managed it because I didn't want to fight against Wonder Woman, and in the moment, I became careless she was able to catch me. And you guys never noticed anything.

Bruce: You were able to trick not only us but you were able to hold yourself against the JL?

Jason: yes

Dick and Tim:🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️

Bruce: I'm proud of you son

Dick and Tim: OH COME ON!? Are you fucking kidding me?!

----------------------------

@krilati :

There's no way Tim didn't know!

Tim is stalker and Jason is his favorite Robin.

He knows everything. But I'm pretty sure he thinks everyone else already knows. They're too paranoid to talk about it out loud.

Tim is sure that B just doesn't want JL to find out that his son is a crimelord.

They don't know how to talk, this is a normal situation.

@rubydubydoo122 (adding to prev) :

No, Tim was about to find out but then Jason was like ‘do you want to be Robin’ to throw him off scent.

Now Tim’s too busy

----------------------------

@isupposethisisagoodusername :

Jason, at the biweekly dinner at the manor where everyone goes: Something wrong guys? You all seem awfully tired.

A bit after Bruce rescued Jason from the Joker and he retired, a new criminal showed up.

Red Hood, a crime lord that quickly takes over the Gotham underworld. He's violent and brutal, kills some people but usually refrains from it. He does shoot live rounds and injures people terribly but rarely ever murders.

And the bats are losing their shit over it, they just can't catch the guy, rarely ever crossing paths with him as if he knew their patrol routes and where each of them was at all times.

Jason, at the biweekly dinner at the manor where everyone attends, it's mandatory, if someone doesn't go they get a disappointed letter from Alfred and it fucks everyone up: Hey guys, are you alright? You seem all awfully tired.

Bruce, worried about telling Jason too much to not stress the poor kid out: Don't worry about it kiddo, just a new criminal worrying us.

And Dick catches the small glint of mischief in Jason's eyes as he agrees and drops the subject like Jason would've caught the same glint in his own eyes when they were younger and Dick pulled some prank.

Dick, later that night: alright little Wing. What's up with you? You're plotting something I can tell.

Jason, faking idiocy: me? What, come on, I'm not. You're just upset I moved on from being Robin. Wanna play videogames and eat cereal?

Dick, wanting to play videogames and eat cereal now: I wish, sorry. I've got patrol scheduled for tonight.

Red Hood, even later that night, taunting Nightwing with some dumb voice changer on: Come on Nightwing, where do you think you are, at home playing videogames?

It pisses Dick off so much that Jason legit has to fucking hide to not get caught and he doesn't even know how he managed to escape.

Jason doesn't taunt Dick anymore after that.

Then, one week, Jason is away for some nerd thing and Red Hood shows up on the other side of the country.

Without all the knowledge of where the heroes would be, Red Hood gets caught.

They bring him to the Watchtower and call Batman.

Superman: Batman, I think you'll like to know that we caught that Red Hood criminal of yours.

Batman goes over there with Nightwing because Dick has been dying to beat him up.

Wonder Woman pulls off the helmet and of course the dramatic theater kid fuck has a domino mask underneath that shit.

Red Hood, ashamed, looking the other way with a dumb apologetic smile on: Hey dad.. I can explain...

Nightwing folds over laughing.

Nightwing, fallen on the floor while Batman laughs softly: I fucking knew it you dick!

Red Hood, offended to be called by his brother's designation: Hey fuck you! You're the Dick here!

Batman starts laughing because now they're both bickering like they would as children.

The League is scared because Batman doesn't laugh.

Dick takes so many pictures with Jason tied up and then a concerning amount of children with bat symbols on their suits of armour show up to also take selfies with him.

Red Hood, being untied: I hate you all.

Nightwing jumps him and suddenly all of the children are sparring in the middle of the Watchtower.

The League is concerned for Batman's sanity.

After that, Red Hood is taken off the wanted list and gets a bat symbol on his chest.

He also takes selfies with Wonder Woman.

@aviolettrose (adding onto prev) :

I like this take of the prompt!

I (my opinion) wouldn't "create" the red hood shortly after Jason was rescued, but a few years later, after he traveled and was trained by multiple people (like Talia, Lady Shiva, Duraca, maybe even Ghostmaker idk) (he would blackmail Talia (she and Bruce dated and Jason figured out that she just wanted his DNA for a child) to train him, and they would have after a while a mother-son bond, but after she realized Jason was in danger she sent him away to the All-Castle where he would meet some other people who could train him.)

Also, Jason would try everything to keep the facade of the Golden Boy up, so I don't think that he would taunt Dick, for him to find out so easy

But I love your take on it 🙏🫶

----------------------------

@twodimensionalboyfriend : he becomes a crime lord on “accident” after an encounter with some people mugging a mom and her son. he manages to save them and scare the mugger off. so he tells a few people what happened to spread word and be careful. word spreads to the gang that runs that block, so they let jason know that they’re gonna look out for him and keep him updated if they ever see anything. jason sees this as an opportunity to keep the neighborhood safe in a way gotham pd was never able to. he then works to acquire more territory through whatever means necessary, and go out as red hood to personally patrol the streets; all while studying for his midterms!!

@profoundlyprocrastinating (adding onto prev) : Jason the accidental crime lord would actually slap

----------------------------

@spirit-fingers22 :

Bruce, finding out Jason is Red Hood in this AU: WHAT??? JASON!!!

Jason: I had a reason

Bruce: WHAT WAS THE REASON???

@aviolettrose (adding to prev) :

Jason: ... I was bored

Dick: BORED?! WITH YOUR- WAIT. Did you even get your degrees?!

Jason: Of course I did, Dickhead. Who do you think I am ? Tim?

Tim (on the phone): Hey.. Highschool is not for everyone

Dick: So let me get this straight. You got multiple degrees, (other good stuff), while you're one of the most feard crimelords?

Jason: jup

Bruce: *strangly proud*

comments:

@magical-awesome-kid : I’m CRYING!!! Also Diana and Clark know all about Bruce’s one “good, non-crime fighting” kid, and they are both just staring at Bruce being like “nope. You’re just as bad as the rest of us at keeping your kid out of the mess.” Jason does get a clean slate after he explains his operation is largely an undercover operation to protect people, but Dick frames the picture of him tied up.

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : both of them are also freaking out because they have Jason as a babysitter. "TF you mean you didn't knew that your SON sent a duffle bag full of heads to "mAkE a StAtEmEnT". Best detective in the world, my ass!" And Jason just sits there and says, "Oh please, those heads where from pedophiles who had a record of SA children, if anything I did you a favor."

----------------------------

@owlithere : it'd be even more fun if Jason continued to learn things from LoA and all castes, simply in the form of study trips: everyone thinks he's at some university in Mongolia, the Middle East or wherever, when he got someone to teach him; still've bandits etc so it's not just one secret, it's much more

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : I thought about it as well! That he went on trips where "he builds homeless shelters all over the world", when in reality, he went to the LoA or to the all Castle or he went to Lady Shiva to train his martial arts skills

@owlithere (responding to prev) : also the comedy would have reached its peak if he still has his outlaws (superhero friends - he was Robin so it's expected, but not to this extent) who knew about some of his secrets but never mentioned it, just rolled with it and helped him from time to time

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : YES! Dick feels betrayed because "what do you mean two of my exes knew?!" But also Damian knows the whole lore. He knew it already when he moved in first, because he was still in the league when Jason went there, and Damian plays dumb like "What do you mean you didn't know that Todd was trained by mother? I thought it was an unspoken thing in our family. Like the fact that he has the All Blade". (Jason bribed him, back then, with showing him the All Blade)

(Damian regrets accepting the bribe back then because he could have gotten so much more). Bart is the only one who knew it from Tim's generation and everyone just thought he admired Jason because he was such a good person, but in reality he admired (and feared) him because he is one of the most wanted crimelords since he's 17

@owlithere (responding to prev) : Yes for both of your answers (I love Damian's assumption that it's an open secret and poor Bart and his future knowlage), but consider before he was exposed, Roy and Kori are easy to explain in an everyday situation, but Artemis and Bizzaro or Rose (Essence could propably pass as "weird" girlfirend)

[before being unmasked] Jason probably told them that he met Artemis to interview her about his "medical knowledge in a practical situation" essay and they didn't even bother to ask about Bizzaro, they (Bruce) just assumed he was helping him with his social skills because Bizz is like a big child (and Jay is good with them), Rose well Rose is harder maybe they met before maybe not

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Everyone assumed that his relation (romantic or just friendship) with Artemis just happend is because Jason is a big Wonder Woman fan, and they just thought that it was like a worship thing, yk? Everyone thought he and Bizzaro get so along because Jason took "pitty" on him (his brother's thought that he befriended him because they thought that Jason saw that as a new "charity" thing). And everyone thought that Rose told Jason that

that she doesn't want to be like her father, and they broke up because Jason found out that she still is an assassin. But I haven't figured essence out, yet.

@owlithere (responding to prev) : Once again YES, he probably introduced Essence as his long distance girlfriend (later ex) that he met during college travels, everyone thinks she's a little weird but no more than "normal", they broke up because of said distance, BUT they are still in touch MOSTLY because Jason became friends with her grandmother (and the entire Batfam knows that Jay is liked by too many older women)

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : YES! (Also every partner of Jason has to life with the fear of their family either adopting him or asking him if he couldn't have done better)

@owlithere (responding to prev) : the comment about "if he couldn't do better" got me thinking about Kyle Rayner (and hopping dimensions with Donna), which would take a hell of a lot of explaining - both in the context of Kyle as potential friend/boyfriend and Donna's presence as Dick's twins wonder

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : uhh yes. Bruce asked Jason, after Kyle left, why he would date a lantern and if he couldn't find someone better. (Jason just looked at him and told him, "I don't wanna talk to you right now". He ignored Bruce for a whole month (he went on a business trip), and in this month, Bruce cried every day because his baby wouldn't talk to him. Jason only started to talk to him because Dick threatened him).

and Dick just feels betrayed. "First,you take Roy and Kor'i, and you guys know what? I forgive you guys for not telling me, even after you saw what he did to me. But you Donna? My friend. My sister from another mother. My TWIN in heart. You betrayed me for not telling me, and idk if I could ever forgive you. It's like as if Wally knew and never told me." Wally:👀 Jason:👀 (They know each other from college, and Wally knows because he saw the rh gear once)

@owlithere (responding to prev) : haha omg it just keeps getting better and better, Wally probably could have known it even earlier thanks to Bart (who hinted at it and based on the evidence Wally was sure of it). I like to think that in Kyle's situation, after he was bullied into coming back, Jason simply asked B if he was ready to be the adult in this relationship, and when B started complaining, he left again xD

can we put Constantine in the "knowing" category please? I want someone older to know, to create more drama in JL, and Constantine is a good option for that. Maybe they met by chance at a bar and started complaining about Batman and bonded around it, and since Jason needed to learn more about magic and Constantin needed an extra pair of hands, they became friends, and now RedHood is on JL Dark's emergency contact list, and B didn't notice the addition

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : YES! He definitely knew, and therefore, Zatanna and Raven did, too. I like the fact that at this point, all of Dick friends are in the known. Imagine him complaining about his "perfect" little brother who, apparently, wants to study medicine after his English degree because his degree in business and English isn't enough. And the Titans just look at each other,like, who is gonna tell him?

@owlithere (responding to prev) : I'm crying, all of Dick's friends know, and now I want Tim's to know too, BUT Dick's didn't tell him, becouse a) comedy, b) not my circus not my monkeys mindset (Batfam is crazy), Tim's would assume, like Damian, that it was an open secret (they probably found out about it later than Dick's, beside Bart, but still) or made it an inside joke (well, Tim thinks it's a joke - Jay doesn't have enough time to do it - should be imposible)

ALSO Con found out through Lex and his contacts with RedHood and al Ghuls and assumed that RH was simply a representative of the Batfam when it came to Lutor's "new way of life" (at least in a universe where he is a decent father), Cass found out from Donna (she was telling her some story and forgot for a moment)

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : I can see Tim's titans making an "inappropriate" joke after a fight. Someone: "Damn, he looks bloody...like jay" and they laugh except Tim. Tim just looks at them and says, "Guys, that's not funny. I know I freak out sometimes because of him, but that's no excuse." And it was this moment that Bart realized, that he doesn't know that they know, and he tells the others like, "he doesn't know, that we know, that he doesn't know, you know?"

Ever since Tim's team make "inappropriate" jokes towards Jason. And Tim just assumes that sometimes they are really supportive friends or that his friends have a crush on Jason. And Cass knowing? Love it.

@owlithere (responding to prev) : Yes, Crush! That would also be a funny assumption on Tim's part. He would be so frustrated. NOW I really need someone to write like 100 chapters of this...

----------------------------

@late-tothe-party-07 : Take it from the "Good Daughter". Just because a good kid is a good kid, doesn't mean they don't wanna beat up crap with a cool mask. They probably want to do it MORE than normal people

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : I know what you mean, sometimes you just need to release this "build up"

It's cheaper than therapy

----------------------------

@x-atm099 : Additional Shenanigans: Jason accidentally became Red Hood/The most feared crime lord.

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Clark gets a panic attack because he left his son with the most feared crimelord alone. More than once

Yes. Like, what do you mean the guy who hosts charity events for health care stuff, better access to knowledge and so on, is a class A Crimelord?!

@x-atm099 (responding to prev): Like, Falcone tells his driver just to hit the kids in the street instead of stopping/going around. Jason sees it's about to happen and saves the kids, but Falcone dies in the process. Ppl think Jason killed Falcone so other gangsters align with him. Reg ppl saw Jason save the kids so they're loyal to him. Jason gets picked up by some mobsters one day and he thinks he's gonna die but they bring him to his hideout and call him boss.

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : "Here is the monthly wrap up, Boss. Smith sold something to a child, we beheaded him and took the stuff back from the child. We made *a shit ton of money* every week this month. Oh, and Brigitte's dog, Sammy, died last Saturday." "Okay, thank you Miller. Now go back to work." 'Damn, I liked Sammy...' Or he gets "random" respect from criminals. Like idk, who ever is the villian of the week fights Robin and Jason just appears with sunny's, a red hoodie

And a face mask, and the villain just apologize to Red Robin and run away. Meanwhile Tim turns to Jason who stands there like, tf did I do now? And asks why he isn't in the batmobile waiting because "it's too dangerous for him"

----------------------------

@nixeau : Jason's just pouting in that chair while Bruce processes everything and Dick's is absolutely taking pictures for the group chat

@kifkay : “dick, stop taking pictures, your brother is going to jail”

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : dick: Can I get his pictures from his imprisonment 😇😄😁(yk those pictures with those cards, idk what they're called)

----------------------------

@why-rock-look-tasty-if-no-eat : It would be hilarious if Jason actually did get those degrees while starting his criminal empire (on accident, he swears on Bruce's parents graves!) so we could get a nice scene like. Jason's goons helping him with science, Jason going to Dick for help with math, Jason seemingly writing notes during his gangs meetings but actually writing an essay. His family would find him in really weird places (gargoyles, dumpsters, sewers) so he could get the 'right vibes' to study

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Oh, he definitely did get those degrees (i was thinking about a business (bruce was the most proud by this one, because he wants to give Jason WE), english and maybe he wants to start a degree in medicine). Being one of the most feared crimelords ever is just one of his maaaany hobbies, like crocheting or playing like 10 different instruments

----------------------------

@fortuna-majoris : And the thing is, he invests all the profit he makes into the betterment of the Crime Alley, also he only sells drugs to those who have prescription from a doctor and has paid for rehabilitation for the addicts. After learning all of this siblings are like, 'Can't you stop being the golden child for a minute?'

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : YESS Jason:..so yeah, that's a reason why I do this Dick: Stop. Just stop talking! Why do you have to be sooo perfect? I thought your little charity events are for that?! Did you even spend the money for that?! Why can't you be a crimelord for shit and giggles?! Jason: Of course I did, but it will never be enough, dickhead! Look at Crime alley now! There're better schools, and the drugs are controlled Dick: 🧍‍♂️Fuck you Bruce: *proud af* JL: error 404

@fortuna-majoris (responding to prev) : plus the college he went to, yeah that was true, (he also has a doctorate but only Bruce and Alfred know about it). But the one year sabbatical he took post college where he "travelled" was when he went to the LoA and trained. (Really Bruce should've realised it after he gave the same excuse to the public after he returned from his training)

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Jason is doing meditation ways the same way Bruce and Khoa learned it, and Bruce is not realizing because he's happy that Jason has a healthy coping mechanism. Also, Jason corrects Damian by LoA moves, and everyone just assumes that he's a natural

@fortuna-majoris (responding to prev) : agreed. Tim was kinda suspicious of him after he visited (blew up) LoA but after Jason mentions the Dal Makhani of Delhi (he wasn't actually there) that he tasted during his 'travels', his suspicions slowly fade away

that is hilarious. Imagine him just telling Tim that he has never been to India and he regularly sends Talia letters and that Ra still has his spleen while laughing. He also tells Cass that she did well when she fought against Lady Shiva and that he was there to witness it. Imagine their frustration. It would be hilarious

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : YEEESSS, Jason correcting Damian by a LoA move and everyone just assumes that he's a natural lmao

@fortuna-majoris (responding to prev) : while Dames just side eyes him. But the very next moment, Jason trips over air and falls down. Dames then think that 'If mother has taught this fool, he wouldn't trip over air' and let's go of the suspicion

----------------------------

@siliceouspebble : Why would he go on scholarship? Bruce is loaded!! He could afford to send all his kids to college multiple times over?!

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Jason doesn't want to be dependent on Bruce. Dunno if you know that, but when you grow up poor, money will always be a complicated topic because you don't want to make yourself depending upon someone, and I want Jason to still have this mentality. He will tell Bruce that he wants to pay him back for all the medical bills from when he was rescued

@siliceouspebble (responding to prev) : I kinda thought about that but considered the angle of him thinking he'll be taking the scholarship away from talented people with no fallback plan besides heaping amounts of debt.

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : he could support the college with a part of the money he makes as a crimelord, so technically he would "pay" for his degree, while also paying for other scholarships

----------------------------

@lenacraft : It would be funny if Jason actually does become a doctor and needs to Zeta down while after they’ve unmasked him. “I didn’t break the Hippocratic Oath because Red Hood is no a doctor.”

@fortuna-majoris (responding to prev) : personally, I think he would get a doctorate in English Literature and a masters in Teaching. But this scenario is hilarious

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : I thought that he already has his degree in Business (Bruce wants to give him WE ever since), does one in English currently, and wants to start medicine afterward, but maybe he did medicine since the beginning because he thought those doctors who helped him were amazing and he wants to help people

Jason straight up gaslight a while family of detectives

@fortuna-majoris (responding to prev) : ykw? Makes sense. As a person who wants to do Law and then (after retiring) wants a doctorate in English, I can get behind that

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : yes, Jason, part-time student, part-time crime Lord, while doing full-time professional gaslighting

----------------------------

@u5an5 : I like the idea of him having A+ student priviliges, where he could straight up walk into public toilet in full suit, come out still wearing it besides his hood and only coment he'd get is "Looking good, Jay!" or ask them for details about something he has no reason to even know about in first place and they'd go "Oh wow, my brother shure cares about me, asking how my day went"

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Yes, Past: Jason, still wearing his Red Hood gear except for his helmet: hard night? The others: Oh Jason, hun, don't worry about our silly little problems with Red Hood. Concentrate on your essay Now: The Bats: Are we really that dense? The JL: best detectives, our ass

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@hedgehogcryptid : This is a most blessed concept. His siblings looking at him being the golden child with perfect grades and dedicating any spare moment to charity, telling themselves "I could totally do that, I'm just too busy RISKING MY LIFE TO SAVE PEOPLE" but then finding out Jason was ALSO creating and running a lucrative criminal empire, getting extra training AND gaslighting his family about it, which would make the entire thing even harder and more time consuming. They'd be livid

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : lmao Jason: ...that's how I managed to do it, without you guys knowing anything Bruce: Jason, I know I should be mad, but I'm proud of you, actually. Dick: *eye tweaking* Yeah, we all are so proud. I mean, we barely manage it to keep our two life's super, and you managed it perfectly. Like you always do🙂 Other Batkids: Yeah, totally, proud Damian:...I'm still a child that has to count as a Joker, right? OBK: OH SHUT THE F UP! Now you're a child?!

@hedgehogcryptid (responding to prev) : The JL, after listening to Jason's confession: *nervous sweating* we are soooo lucky this kid has somewhat working morals. So so lucky

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Jason: Also, I would never do anything against the JL JL: *no sweat* t-thats good to know Jason: Because I don't want to hurt Wonder Woman JL, to Diana, telepathically: If you leave us, we will kos The bats: of course, because of her

@hedgehogcryptid (responding to prev) : That was the only thing the bats knew for sure in this whole situation. He might have been lying about everything for years, but he was NOT lying about his admiration of wonder woman

@aviolettrose (responding to prev) : Jason would never lie about the women he admires (the bats thought that Jason dated Artemis only because she's Amazonian like WW, kinda like a worshiping thing, yk?)

tags:

@shadowkat2000 : #I feel like he was having a bad night frustrated studying and started brainstorming how to become a crime lord#just to distract himself#and then ended up having a good plan deciding fuxk it and did it

@mockerd3light : #this is fucking gold#delicious crack#of his sibs just DOGGING on him because they FINALLY have the dirt on the 'golden child'#what was that bruce??#'why cant you take a break and go to college like Jason?' 'why dont you give up this dangerous line of work like Jason?'#'my pride and joy' Jason who is a CRIME LORD#get WRECKT Bruce

@fantasycantasy : #fuck dude this is incredible#I think Dick would laugh so hard he’d either pass out or piss himself#Jason being an icon

@ive-been-mostly-dead-all-day : #i love everything about this#its just#SO fucking funny#hands down the BEST day in each of his siblings' lives#not a single one of those bastards are ever going to let him live this down#i feel like there should be a plot twist somewhere about tim knowing about this#but they had a MAD-style agreement because tim is also routinely lying to bruce's face about all sorts of shit#“Keep your mouth shut about this and I won't tell Bruce about the batmobile you hid in the batarang budget”

fanfic spawned from this:

@ezra129799 's A Golden Child Painted Red

@radioactivepidgeons 's A young goat with my friends /and/ Your share of the inheritance /and/ Prodigal Son (Ao3) (tumblr)

A fanfic idea:

Bruce was able to rescue Jason before he died, and after this experience, Jason stopped being Robin.

He became afterwards the golden child, he goes to college (with a scholarship), helps out in the city library, teaches children (helps with their homeworks and helps them to study), works part time in a car garage in crime alley, and is a supportive brother.

And it pisses his siblings off.

Because there has to be something fishy because no one, really no one, is that perfect.

And there is something fishy.

He is also Red Hood.

No one knows, and the vigilantes never talk to Jason about "the family business" because he needs to concentrate on his studies and other stuff.

So imagine, Batmans suprise when the JL was able to catch Red Hood.

Someone takes Jasons helmet off in front of Batman, Nightwing, and other members

And Jason, who wears also a domino mask, doesn't look Batman in the face even as he says :

"Hey Dad. I can explain."

And Dick loses his shit, he laughs so hard because, Jason, The golden child, the one who gave up on being a vigilante, who reads to children in the library, is a goddamn crimelord.

Bruce just stands there frozen because wtf Jason?!

And Dick takes selfies with Jason being tied up and calles the other Batkids in because they should definitely not be left out of it.

(Edit: As someone who doesn't really write (or can write good stories), I want to say, feel free to use this prompt for a fanfiction. Just please give credits to me (because I don't know if someone else had also this idea and posted it) and please inform me if you publish something (because I want to read a fanfiction like this too))

12K notes · View notes

meowdei · 3 hours ago

Text

same but different — ft. phainon

phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him

word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors

commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig

You meet Phainon when he’s twelve.

You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.

You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough.

But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older.

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air.

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself.

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you.

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea.

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe.

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind.

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust.

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly.

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — —

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore.

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore.

Still, he always does in front of you.

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited.

Until you’re not.

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do.

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there.

It guts you.

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon.

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text.

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that.

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his.

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh.

Your eyes widen as you realize.

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over.

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily.

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange.

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face.

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore.

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature.

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — —

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it.

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon.

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share.

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes.

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different.

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know.

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now.

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him.

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on.

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders.

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly.

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease.

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever.

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him.

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give.

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears.

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound.

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that.

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you.

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm.

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of.

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers.

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you.

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums.

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.)

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke my heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swing things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin.

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it.

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp.

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily.

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it.

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady.

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained.

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again.

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion.

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…”

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one.

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before.

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you.

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.)

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this.

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him.

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon.

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need.

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls.

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace.

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly.

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit.

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak.

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin.

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — —

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants.

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains.

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it.

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water.

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder.

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you.

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life.

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out.

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching.

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand.

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks.

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and all he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you.

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was.

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently.

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you.

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three.

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little.

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy.

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you.

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort.

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me

#meowdei.writing #meowdei.longfics #phainon x reader #phainon x you #phainon fluff #phainon smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #phainon x y/n #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x y/n

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ilovebabyonboard · 1 day ago

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Care Package Confessions

PAIRING: Bob Floyd X Pilot!Reader

CATEGORY: Fluff

SUMMARY: On deployment, a misdelivered care package and a too-honest letter you never meant for anyone else to read land in the hands of the one person it was secretly about: Bob Floyd. You weren’t supposed to fall for the quietest guy in the squad, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to find out. But when he reads the words meant only for home, everything changes—awkward glances, missed chances, and a slow, soft unraveling into something neither of you expected

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

WARNINGS: Mild angst, mutual pining, mild invasion of privacy, semi proofread

The sky above the naval air station was a colorless, cloud-smeared expanse, neither blue nor grey—just muted, like someone had turned the world down to half-volume. Beneath it, the base bustled on with its endless mechanical rhythm: the metallic stutter of hangar doors, the thump of boots on concrete, the sharp hiss of hydraulics bleeding into the wind.

And in the middle of it all, a quiet anticipation hung in the air like the scent of jet fuel—subtle, but unmistakable.

Mail day.

On deployment, small things carried a weight far beyond their size. A hot meal. A familiar brand of soap. A joke that actually landed without falling flat. But letters—letters were gold. They were proof that somewhere beyond the scrubby tarmac and sun-bleached barracks, life moved on without them. That they weren’t forgotten.

When Maverick’s voice crackled over the PA system announcing the squad’s mail had arrived, the whole base seemed to shift, like the tide turning.

“Mail drop’s in,” Fanboy announced, bursting into the briefing room like a storm of caffeine and good news. He waved a clipboard over his head like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Confirmed: the boxes have arrived.”

“Finally,” you groaned, the tension in your shoulders easing a notch.

Around you, the rest of Dagger squad perked up, eyes brightening like kids promised pizza at lunch.

Rooster leaned back in his chair with a yawn. “Think my aunt sent that giant tub of trail mix again?”

Hangman drawled, leaning forward across the table. “She’s definitely sending it for me.”

Rooster gave him a deadpan stare.

“No fighting,” Phoenix mumbled from the wall, eyes half-closed. “Save it for the sky.”

You looked back down at your half-finished checklist, trying not to let your hopes rise too high. You’d written home several times over the last month—mostly to your best friend, Em, and your siblings—but you hadn’t been sure if anything would come back. Still, part of you hoped.

A week before the care packages arrived, sleep was a stranger.

The buzzing overhead lights outside your room hummed low and steady, the cot beneath you felt too stiff, and the earlier simulation rattled more than you cared to admit. You’d flown well—you always flew well. But when Bob spoke over comms—calm, measured, steady—you found your own breath skipping beats.

It wasn’t what he said.

It was just him.

Bob Floyd was… complicated in the simplest way.

He wasn’t loud like Rooster or cocky like Hangman. He didn’t swagger into rooms or fill the air just to prove he could. But he carried a quiet presence. Gentle, steady—like the hum of a well-tuned engine or the low static of pre-dawn radio waves.

You remembered the first week, when he held the door open for you even though his arms were overloaded with gear. Then, during briefing, when he quietly corrected a flight schematic with a soft, “Actually, I think this is reversed,” and nailed it perfectly.

Bob didn’t take up space.

He made space.

And that did something inside you—something soft and stupid and utterly inconvenient.

You were trying really hard not to fall for the guy who lent pens with a quiet smile, like it was the kindest thing in the world.

And you were failing.

Spectacularly.

So, when your brain refused to quiet down, you did what you always did: you wrote.

The letter started as a joke.

“Dear Em,” you wrote, “I think I might be in actual trouble. Not, like, Navy trouble. Emotional trouble. The kind where your stomach flutters and your brain short-circuits and your heart does this horrible lurching thing every time a certain someone says your name."

"I’m not saying I’m falling for a naval aviator whose glasses fog up when he’s embarrassed—but I’m not not saying it either.”

You went on, describing the squad: how Coyote bullied you into morning runs, how Rooster couldn’t cook to save his life, how Payback snored like a jet engine about to take off. You wrote about Bob’s laugh—rare, quiet, always a little surprised—and how you lived for the moments when he’d glance up from a mission brief and catch your eye, like it was accidental but not quite.

You cringed as you wrote it but didn’t delete the words.

You signed off: Anyway. I won’t say anything obviously cause I'm not stupid. But I had to say it somewhere. Just in case.

You folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and tucked it into the box you’d set aside for care packages.

You thought it’d be safe on its way home before anyone else saw it.

You were wrong.

Because when the mail finally landed, your box from home wasn’t among the pile waiting for pickup.

You scanned the rows of care packages, eyes darting between names and handwritten labels, but there was no sign of yours. No familiar scrawl from home. No hidden treasures wrapped in duct tape and love.

You asked around, casually at first, then with more urgency—“Has anyone seen a box for me?”—but the answer was always the same: nothing.

What you didn’t know was that somewhere else on base, Bob Floyd was sitting with two boxes stacked in front of him.

Two boxes with your name scribbled with hardly legible handwriting on one.

Your family was usually so careful, so meticulous with the labeling, but somewhere in the chaos—a slip of handwriting, maybe a mix-up in the sorting—your package had gotten swapped.

Bob, quiet and unassuming, hadn’t said a word. Maybe he hadn’t noticed at first, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. After all, two boxes might mean double the snacks, double the comfort. But Bob wasn't that guy— So he definitely didn't notice.

Bob kept his eyes fixed on the cardboard box that didn't look like it was for him that was in front of him.

He turned it once, then again, squinting at the name scrawled in permanent marker across the side. He couldn't even tell if it was written in English the legibility was so bad.

He hesitated.

The packaging wasn’t familiar—no handwriting he recognized, no usual return address from his sister or cousin or the couple old classmates who still sent him the occasional care bundle for morale.

Still, he opened it.

The first thing he noticed was the smell: barbecue chips. The second was the envelope, tucked under a bag of off-brand trail mix and a novelty bottle opener shaped like an F-18.

It was handwritten.

Sealed.

He should’ve known right then—should’ve stopped, double-checked the box, handed it off to admin to reroute. But something about the envelope snagged his attention. It wasn’t addressed formally. No full name, no rank. Just a single word in neat handwriting: Home.

And beneath it, in parentheses: to Y/N.

Bob frowned slightly, the crease between his brows softening as he thumbed the edge of the envelope. His fingers brushed the seal.

He didn’t open it maliciously. He didn’t even intend to open it at all. It just… happened. The way you might pull a book from a shelf you didn’t remember placing there. Instinctive. Curious. Thoughtless in the moment, but not unkind.

The paper unfolded like a secret.

He read the first line, and his breath caught.

"WHO IS THIS MYSTERY MAN? You have to send me a photo! A guy with glasses? That’s totally your type, Y/N. Come on, spill the details!”

He read the line again, and again. Then again.

Across the room, you sat half-listening as Phoenix described, in graphic detail, what would happen to Rooster’s skin if he didn’t stop using three-in-one body wash as face cleanser. The squad was in full post-briefing mode—half-buzzed on caffeine, half-crashing from mail day—when your eyes skimmed the room and landed, briefly, on Bob.

He looked… unreadable. His expression wasn’t quite confused, but it wasn’t neutral either.

Just distant.

Focused on something from his package.

You didn’t think anything of it at first.

Not until much later.

Not until the moment when everything, quietly, and without warning, went sideways.

Bob Floyd didn’t mean to read the whole thing.

He really didn’t.

But once the words were in front of him, once he realized it wasn’t just a small note or a postcard—it was a letter—his brain stopped working the way it normally did. Quiet, ordered, methodical.

Instead, it just… whirred.

And then stalled.

And then, against all better judgment, it drifted forward.

At first, he told himself he’d just skim. Just enough to know where it came from, to figure out how badly he'd messed up, and then stop. That was the plan. That was always the plan.

But the second line knocked the air right out of his lungs.

“How tall is he? 6'7 or is that reaching it? Does he do that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger and mumbles smart things under his breath? I swear if he wears button-downs off-duty, I’m going to pass out.”

He sat there, frozen in his chair, surrounded by the soft clatter of snack wrappers and paper tearing open and Hangman loudly reading something he swore was a love letter from a high school girlfriend.

Bob didn’t hear any of it.

He just stared at the letter, then read the next paragraph. And the next. And then he was too far in. Too deep. He couldn’t have stopped even if he’d tried.

Each line felt like peeling away the edge of something that had always been sealed off. A secret voice. A map he wasn’t meant to see.

And then came the kicker:

“If you don’t tell me more about what his voice sounds like by your next letter, I’m flying to the base myself.”

He had to close the letter and fold it twice to stop his hands from shaking. It wasn’t just you writing about him anymore—it was someone else talking about him, based on what you’d said. He didn’t know how to process that.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. He knew himself well enough to recognize the archetype.

He laid in bed later that night, replaying it all: the teasing, the affection, the familiarity with which your friend talked about him—a man she’d never met. A man you’d clearly talked about before.

That part got him.

You’d talked about him.

To someone else.

Like he was important enough to mention.

Like he mattered.

And for someone like Bob—who spent most of his life blending into the edges of rooms and avoiding attention—that realization felt like someone had cracked a window in his chest and let in the air.

Bob spent most of the morning thinking about the almonds.

Well, technically, they weren’t even his almonds. They were yours. Or, at least, they had been, before the letter. Before the swap. Before his sense of moral order cracked like the seal on your envelope.

Now the bag sat on his desk—salted, honey roasted, your favorite brand, the one you’d mentioned offhand during a late-night flight brief two weeks ago when you were both too tired to filter what came out of your mouths.

You’d laughed and said something like, “If someone mailed me a truckload of these, I’d probably marry them on the spot.”

At the time, Bob had just nodded, like he wasn’t about to remember that sentence word for word until the end of time.

Now, staring at the bag, he felt ridiculous.

What was he supposed to do? Walk up to you like, “Hey, I accidentally read your emotionally intimate letter confessing your crush on me, and now I’m giving you back the snack that came with it?”

Absolutely not.

So instead, he decided on a middle path. He’d ease into it. A slow reveal. A gentle tip of the hand.

He’d just… start a conversation.

A normal one.

With you. Easy.

When he saw you in the hangar, your hair pulled back and flight suit tied around your waist, squinting into the sun with a wrench in your hand, his heart did something embarrassing in his chest.

You smiled when you saw him—bright and easy, like always.

Bob almost turned around.

Instead, he walked forward, almond bag clenched tightly in his hand like it was a rare diplomatic offering.

“Hey,” he said. It came out fine. Fine. Maybe a little high-pitched.

“Hey, Bob,” you said, half-laughing like you were surprised. “You’re up early.”

“Payback's snoring,” he replied, giving you an annoyed look.

That got a laugh.

Bob felt like he’d just been handed a trophy.

You leaned against the bench, eyeing the bag in Bob's hand.. “Didn’t peg you for the almond type.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

You nodded toward his hand. “The almonds."

“Oh. Right.” He looked down like he’d forgotten he was holding them. “Yeah. Just… had them. Figured I’d eat some.”

Brilliant.

You smiled again, but something in your brow furrowed. “You okay? You look a little red.”

Bob went very still.

Abort mission.

This was a terrible idea.

He wasn’t built for this. He didn’t know how to flirt. He knew how to calculate airspeed and adjust radar parameters and give Phoenix the exact correction she needed mid-dive. He didn’t know how to have a crush on someone who might actually like him back.

It felt like flying with the control stick locked at full sensitivity—every tiny movement sent him spiraling.

So he panicked.

“No, I’m good,” he said quickly. “Just tired. Been a long week.”

You tilted your head. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

You gave him a weird look—half teasing, half concerned—but didn’t push. Instead, you bumped your shoulder gently against his as you passed.

“Go drink some water, Bob,” you said. “You get weird when you’re dehydrated.”

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because you touched him and smiled and told him to hydrate like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And suddenly, it was too much.

Bob speed walked to found a corner in the mess hall that afternoon where no one would bother him and sat with his back to the wall, trying not to replay the morning in 4K ultra-cringe quality.

He could’ve told you.

He could’ve hinted.

But instead, he flailed, lied about being tired, and failed to give you your almonds.

He didn’t even eat them. They were still in his pocket.

The truth was: he wasn’t used to this. The possibility of someone choosing him. Liking him not just as a squadmate or a dependable co-pilot, but for the soft, quiet, weird corners of him.

Bob had always kept those corners hidden.

Because when you grow up being the quiet one, the careful one, the one who people always describe as “sweet” but rarely as “someone I’d fall for,” you start building walls without realizing it.

So now, standing on the other side of that wall, letter in hand, he didn’t know what to do except… retreat.

That felt safer.

Few Days Later...

You couldn’t pinpoint the moment the warmth between you and Bob started to falter. It wasn’t a sharp crack or a sudden snap. More like a candle’s flame, flickering nervously in a breeze it didn’t know how to fight — small and wavering until it threatened to gutter out altogether.

After that night, everything felt quieter. Not worse, exactly. Just… off. Like something had shifted beneath the surface, a current you couldn’t quite grasp but felt pulling you both in opposite directions.

He started calling you more on the comms. His voice was softer than before, like a whisper meant only for you, threading into your flight path like a warm hand steadying the turbulence.

Then that first morning after, when you nailed your run and found him waiting on the tarmac, his words were simple but held weight—a compliment muttered low, like he was afraid to speak too loudly and shatter the fragile moment. That small kindness lingered longer than it had any right to, curling around your chest and making your heart thrump in a way that made you both dizzy and hopeful.

That was day one.

By day two, things began to retreat. He was still there — polite, present — but a distance settled between you, thick and cold as fog rolling in over the runway. He stopped sitting near you in the mess hall, his eyes no longer catching yours during briefing. The quiet side comments, the folded arms leaning in close in the hangar? They vanished like smoke.

Day three was worse.

Now, he barely spoke at all except when he absolutely had to, clipped and careful. Words spoken only because the mission demanded it, not because he wanted to hear your voice.

And then, tonight—when Hangman cracked a ridiculous joke and you laughed without thinking—your eyes found Bob’s only to see him already looking away, like your gaze was too bright, too much. Like he couldn’t bear to be close, but didn’t know how to leave.

It was cruelty.

And all of it—every hesitant hello, every half-smile, every empty space where he used to stand near you—was driving you quietly out of your mind.

You waited until the evening, when the San Diego heat had finally broken and most of the squad had gathered in a lazy sprawl out back.

Someone had dragged folding chairs into a circle around a makeshift fire pit. There was music. Half-warm beer. Cheap chips. Laughter, floating light and distant into the night.

You didn’t laugh.

You were watching Bob.

He sat at the edge of the group again—physically there, but somewhere else entirely. One foot out the door.

Just like every other day since last mail day.

So this time, you followed him when he left.

He peeled off around the side of the barracks, quiet and unbothered, like he didn’t think anyone would notice.

But you did.

You always had.

So you stood and followed when he slipped quietly away.

“Bob,” you said softly, catching up behind him.

He stopped, but didn’t turn.

You slowed, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, steadying your voice, you asked:

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for days, the tension releasing in a shudder.

“I’m not,” he said, voice low, careful.

“Don’t lie,” you said, your words fragile but firm.

He didn’t answer.

You stepped beside, coming into his line of sight.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His head jerked up, eyes wide and startled.

“What? No. God, no,” he said too quickly.

“Then why does it feel like I said something wrong just by existing?”

He flinched, like your words had grazed a raw nerve.

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. His eyes darted everywhere but at you.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said, voice rough with regret.

“Then what are you doing?” you pressed, softer now, heart thudding in your ribs. “Because for four days you’ve been—”

“I don’t know,” he cut you off, too fast. Then quieter, almost crushed: “I don’t know.”

His voice cracked like brittle glass.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched.

Saw the weight in his shoulders, the way his chest tightened with something heavy and unspoken.

Finally, he spoke again.

“Your box got mixed up as mine and I—I read your letter,” he began, voice quiet and hesitant, like each word was a step into unfamiliar ground. “And… well, it was the kindest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks coloring just the faintest shade, like he wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed or proud.

Bob swallowed hard, eyes softening.

"Maybe it sounds stupid,” he added, voice dropping to almost a whisper, “but it really… meant a lot.”

His eyes finally found yours, soft and a little unsure, like he was afraid you might think less of him now that the words were out.

“I don’t… usually get that kind of thing. You know? Compliments. Or people saying stuff like that.”

He took a breath, a small, nervous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So, maybe that’s why I’ve been acting weird.”

He looked down, then back up, like he was searching for courage in the fading light.

“I didn’t want to mess it up. Or make it awkward between us.”

“I was trying to you know— make a move or whatever Fanboy says... but I guess avoiding you just made it worse.”

He shrugged, shy but sincere.

“I’m not good at this stuff.”

You smiled—soft, patient, warm.

“It’s okay, Bob.”

He let out a small laugh, like a relief he didn’t know he was holding.

You bit your lip, cheeks warming under the soft glow of the night. The quiet between you stretched out, heavy with unsaid things.

“It’s my fault,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. You raised a shaky hand to your forehead, like you were trying to physically smooth out the awkwardness curling there. “I shouldn’t have written those letters about you. I’m so sorry.”

You looked down, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve, cheeks burning. “I didn’t mean to make things weird or put you on the spot. I just… I thought it might be nice to say what I was feeling to a friend.”

Your words tumbled out, rushed and shy.

You glanced up, meeting Bob’s eyes, searching for any sign of anger or irritation.

But instead, he gave you that soft, shy smile again — the one that made your heart skip.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice warm and steady, “It wasn’t weird. Not to me.”

He shifted a little closer, like courage was building up inside him too.

“I just… didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.”

He raised a hand to fix his glasses, awkward but honest. “So I did the dumb thing and froze.”

You smiled, relief blooming between you, soft and slow.

“Make a move, huh?” You teased, trying to regain your confidence. Stepping closer to Bob until you were standing just feet apart.

He blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah" He said sheepishly.

You smirked, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before flicking back up. “So why don’t you right now?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up, and he swallowed.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “But I'm no good at this.”

“Guess I’ll have to teach you,” you said, leaning into his body warmth.

Bob’s breath hitched, eyes darkening with promise.

“Good luck,” he said softly. “I’m a slow learner.”

And then, without another word, he reached out and brushed your hand, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Then closed the small gap between you.

#lewis pullman x reader #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x you #lewis pullman #fanfic #lewis pullman x y/n #lewis pullman x you #bob floyd #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd #robert floyd #bob x reader #bob floyd fic #bob x you #bob floyd fluff #topgun maverick fanfiction #fanfiction

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cherierot · 2 days ago

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message in a bottle ✹ op81 x fem!reader

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

genre: slow burn enemies (but actually misunderstanding) to Besties to Lovers · emotional damage with a side of banter · social anxiety-core · smau × irl

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation and indirect attempts, implied depression, substance mention, one (1) plastic bag that changed your life and one (1) cute awkward oscar, visit linked masterlist above for more content warnings!

synopis: once, he saved your life with shaking hands and a bad autograph. now, years later, you stand in his orbit-hattie's best friend with a half-healed heart and a wrist tattoo he'll never notice. he doesn't remember you. you never forgot him. It's messy. It's slow. It's everything and nothing at all.

author's note: a very small flashback chapter for setting the course on the right track. please don't be a silent reader. expect better chapters from the next one. this was like a prologue or an introduction

chapter zero : ex nihilo

He noticed you before you noticed him.

Not because you were doing anything loud or obvious. If anything, it was the opposite.

You stood too still at the edge of the crosswalk. Like you’d forgotten how to exist.

Plastic bag in your hands. Shoulders drawn in like a folded angel's wings.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just…absent.

He wasn’t supposed to be paying attention. He had places to be. But there was something off in the air around you. The kind of off that made his stomach pull tight.

Then you stepped forward, too slow for the traffic, too fast for yourself.

He reacted.

A rushed step, and a hand on your sleeve.

"Wait—" The word came out breathless, half-formed, like his throat hadn’t caught up to his brain.

You stopped moving. Blinking slow. Like waking up underwater.

When your tired eyes finally lifted, you saw him properly for the first time.

Brown hair, messy and flattened unevenly at the sides like he’d been wearing a cap all day. A hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms like he’d gotten too warm walking. Cheeks flushed, either from running or from the sun or maybe just from being the kind of person who embarrasses easily.

He looked young and awkward. Also very much like someone who hadn’t thought any of this through.

His eyes were brown, but not the soft kind. They held too much in them. Like coffee left out too long. Like something restless that hadn’t figured out how to sit still. There was a sharpness there— surprise, guilt, panic, all layered on top of each other in a way that made you look away before you meant to. Like staring too long would make you visible again.

They flicked down to the plastic bag in your hands.

Charcoal.

Cheap vodka.

A lighter.

Something in his face shifted, fast and sharp, like a pulled muscle.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak again. Didn't need to. Just reached out and took the bag straight from you. Like it was burning your skin and he needed to put it out.

You didn’t fight him. Didn’t say a word. There he stood halfway between you and the curb—clutching your terrible, obvious, heartbreaking bag like he had no idea what to do next.

You both stood there. Frozen in that weird pocket of time where no one else seemed to exist.

He quickly dug through his hoodie pocket. Pulled out a crumpled fan photo of himself and a black pen and signed it fast, hand shaky, added something like “Hang in there” underneath that looked more like 'Hang nthr' and a small, uneven smiley face.

He shoved it, and a few messy bills, into your hands like it was a fix-it kit for strangers.

Then he turned. Walked away. Fast. Like if he stayed even one more second, he’d implode on the spot.

When he walked two steps more it hit him all at once.

The bag still hanging from his hands like evidence. The weight of what was inside finally catching up to him, and the way he’d just… taken it.

Like a weirdo. Like some awkward, nosy stranger who didn’t know how to mind his own business.

His stomach twisted with that particular flavor of secondhand shame that only comes when you act too fast and too loud for a situation that never asked for you.

He glanced back over his shoulder, heart in his throat, ready to catch your eye, ready to stammer out some kind of apology—But you weren’t there.

Gone.

Like the whole thing hadn’t happened at all.

taglist : @enfppuff @karlosslanders @p1astrizz @charlottes-ngvot @siennaluvshcky @cinderellawithashoe @zannete @lonelyladyghost @utopiakys @elisaa-shelby @cdej6 @agaabara @mits-vi

#formula 1 #formula1 #f1 x reader #formulaone #op81 #op81 x reader #op81 fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x fem!reader #charles leclerc x reader #kimi antonelli x reader #max verstappen #charles leclerc #lando norris #f1 #cherierotworks #mclaren

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 3 days ago

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Glastonbury 2025.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - so many ideas, so many possibilities!!

word count - 600.

in which, it’s glastonbury and what better way to listen to a set then in the arms of your fiance, swaying to the music and simply enjoying each others company.

The sun is high over Glastonbury, filling the sky with that soft golden haze that only seems to happen on the most magical summer days.

The heat is heavy, the kind that sticks to your skin, but you barely notice. Because right now, at the very front of the barrier, with thousands of voices behind you and the stage ahead, Harry’s arms are wrapped around you, and nothing else matters.

One of his arms hangs loose over your shoulders, fingers tracing soft patterns on your collarbone, while the other is snug around your waist, holding you tight against him.

You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back — steady and strong — matching the thrum of the bass that rolls off the stage and through the crowd.

Franz Ferdinand are just launching into Love Illumination. The first notes hit the air like fireworks, and the crowd roars in response. Flags wave, glitter catches the sun, and the whole world feels like it’s pulsing with music and life.

Harry leans down so his lips are right by your ear, his voice soft, sweet, and a little breathless. “You know what?”

“What?” you ask, turning your head slightly so you can hear him over the music.

“This right here? You. Me. The music. The sun. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.” His voice is warm, thick with affection, and his words send butterflies through your chest.

You smile, cheeks hot — and not just from the sun.

“Harry…” you say, half shy, half laughing because he always knows exactly what to say to make your heart race.

“What? It’s true,” he says, pulling you a little closer, like he could somehow keep you safer that way. “I’ve got the best view in the whole of Glastonbury, and it’s not the stage.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. “You’re so cheesy.”

“Mmm,” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Only for you.”

The band hits the chorus and the crowd erupts into song:

“Sweet love illumination

Sweet sweet love, elevation,”

Harry sings the words right into your ear, soft and sweet, like it’s just the two of you. “Outside fresh avaricide….But inside our love you'll be alright.”

You close your eyes for a second, letting the sound of his voice and the music and the crowd wash over you.

“Sweet love illumination,”you whisper, turning your head just enough so your cheek brushes his. “Sweet sweet love, celebration.”

He presses a slow, tender kiss to your temple, and his hand at your waist gives you the gentlest squeeze “I want you to remember this forever. I want us to always have this — you and me, wrapped up in music and sunshine.”

The next wave of the song crashes over the crowd:

“Sweet love

Sweet sweet love.”

Harry throws his head back and sings along, completely unselfconscious, his voice full of joy. You can’t help but join in, the two of you shouting the lyrics like you’ve never been happier in your whole life.

When the chorus fades into the next verse, he leans down again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

His voice is soft but certain. “That we’ll keep making memories like this. Always.”

You tilt your head back so your eyes meet his, and the look on his face makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“Always,” you say, and you mean it with everything you have.

And as the sun blazes and the music soars, he holds you tighter, like he never wants to let go — and neither do you.

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zozo-01 · 11 hours ago

Text

in which you know the end is coming and all you can do is hold him close and pray you do not bring him more pain then he has endured <3

"He's coming into his own as the Deliverer."

A calm voice with a robotic tinge spoke up from behind you, taking your eyes away from Phainon playing with the kids around him.

"Yes, I suppose he is," you say with skepticism in his voice. There was always this feeling of distrust towards Lygus, and you have never been able to put your finger on it. Perhaps it was his pragmatic view of the world, or the way he's invested in the success of the Flame-Chase, despite doing nothing to help the Heirs. Maybe you're just extremely paranoid and he's just a kind person- robot?

"Phainon is so close to completing his transformation. I wonder if you're ready for it as well." Lygus looks at you with a tilted head. Unease starts to fill your body. You don't know what he's trying to imply, but the fact that there was an implication made you sick.

"Of course, as is the duties of all the Heirs, I shall stand by him into the Era Nova." You don't mention the dreams you've had. Nightmares so vivid, you're convinced that they are your memories somehow. The bodies of your friends all bloodied and laid out across the land. Your eyes a blood red and an animalistic rage taking over. Phainon standing over you with blood on his sword.

Your golden blood.

You haven't mention this to anyone, fearing that you might cause panic while being so close to your goals. You don't remember Lady Tribbie mentioning that anyone else can receive Janus's blessing. Not that this is a prophecy, they're dreams. Manifestations of your fear and uncertainty over the future. Not an omen of what will come next.

(You don't know this yet, but your dreams were sent to you from beyond the stars. They always knew when the end were to come. It would be kind of them to send their child signs of your doom, even if they sent the same warning over and over again.)

"Are you alright? You seem lost in your thoughts." Lygus didn't sound sympathetic or even pitiful, just curious. "Would you like to confide in me?"

"No," you say sharply. You weren't about to spill this secret to someone you didn't even trust. "I'm fine, Lygus. I've just had issues with sleep."

A self-satisfied smile appeared on his lips. You gave him all the information he needed, even if you didn't say anything specific.

"You are starting to remember, Emanator?"

"What are you talking about?" You hiss under your breath, not wanting to ruin the precious scene in front of you.

"Your kind has always meddled in Ravagers' business, despite Terminus and Nanook being more alike then you think." He starting to walk back to the Demigod Council. He looks back with what you think is a amused stare. You could never tell with the fabric covering his eyes.

"I will wait for you at the start of the new cycle, once the Deliverer completes his final trial." With that, he walks away, like he hasn't upended your entire world view.

Your head blazed with pain, agony seeping into every muscle and bone of your body. Somehow, Lygus triggered the Black Tide within you, it's dark thoughts making you want to destroy everything in sight. How did he know about this little secret of yours? Aglaea had swore that no one would every find out, especially your sunshine in hero form.

Panic and fear flooded your brain and just about when you felt like you were going to burst-

"Starlight! There you are!"

His voice soothes your through your pain, a powerful balm against the Black Tide. It helps you regain your thoughts, feeling like a normal person again. Or at least as normal as you could be.

His arms wrap around you to lift you up in the air. If there was one thing about Phainon, it's that he will never shy away from showing your love for you. In his words, he fought so hard to be worthy of your hand, why shouldn't he show it off any change he gets?

By the Titans, you adore this overgrown puppy, If it were up to you, you would make him forsake the prophecy and live your final days in peace. Just you and him. That would be the Era Nova of your dreams.

"I saw Lygus talking to you earlier, is everything okay?" He tilts his head with enough concern in his eyes to make your heart ache.

"No, everything is fine." You held his face in your hand, staring into the sky blue eyes you have grown to love. "Everything is exactly as it should be."

He beams that bright smile of his and leans down to kiss you. You almost forget about Lygus' words and melt into the arms of your lover. If only you could pretend that your days were not numbered, and that you could spend the rest of your life like this. You hold him tighter, pleaing to whoever is out there to keep him safe, keep him with you.

But nothing lasts forever, and the end comes for everyone. You just hope that it will spare you the pain of losing everything again.

(All things come to an end, that is the philosophy of the Destruction and Finality. It will be interesting how you change once you remember your past and Phainon ascends to his duties.)

so............ his new trailer has me feeling things.......... i want him to be happy ok :'3 also, i don't know if i've mentioned this, but all of these little drabbles are of the same reader and is (kind of) connected to this huge fic i have for phainon and a secret reader hehehehe

or: take this as my offering to get good pulls for phainon <3333 may all phainon wanters be phainon havers!!!!

bonus: my crack theory rn is that phainon's real name is Khaos (aka the last cycles kephale holder) and he just keeps the same name no matter what hehehe

#phainon #lygus #hsr phainon #hsr lygus #phainon x reader #phainon x you #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #zo writes tingz #this is zo speaking

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blueberrypancakesworld · 2 days ago

Note

I have a request please 🙏

so was thinking like at a family bbq or get together or party you and Erik are there. Kinda like enemies who are secretly in love. Bobby and Julia know how you each feel about one another. So they plan to like lock you in the closest until you sort your feeling out?? angst and smut please and thank you

United in the wardrobe

Erik x fem!reader

warning : +18, smut, teasing, kissing, mutual feelings, fluff, angst

Summary : The saying those who tease each other love each other seems to apply to these two pretty well. Either they teased each other all the time and caused chaos, or they liked each other immensely and seemed to be best friends. But what happens when you lock two such emotional people in a closet and they can no longer avoid each other?

info: Hi dear, I finally finished it, I'm sorry for the long wait. I hope you like it and, as always, I wish you and everyone else lots of fun reading see you next time ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was shining, a gentle breeze was blowing through the city, and the few puffy clouds were slowly but steadily passing by.

In the Campbell family's garden, there was a pleasant, exuberant, and above all, atmosphere as the family gathered for a barbecue at the beginning of summer.

From aunt to uncle, cousin to cousin, siblings and friends, everyone found themselves in the garden.

The guests, relatives, family, and friends were all immersed in their various activities.

Breanda sat on the terrace with her sister-in-law Darlene and chatted about all the latest gossip the blonde had picked up.

Howard and Marty played Jenga against Stefani and Charlie.

The two blonde Campbell siblings came out of the kitchen with snacks and lemonade, everything seemed perfect, except for two people arguing in front of the grill.

Erik was trying for the fifth time to poke his neighbor and long-time acquaintance with tongs, and the woman was threatening to spray him with the garden hose.

Her fingers were ready to pull the trigger and spray the water on Erik, “Once they get wet, all your beautiful piercings will rust,” she warned him and took a step toward him, while he put on a shocked expression and protected himself behind the grill, which wasn't even lit yet.

Holding the tongs like a sword in front of him, “My pretty piercings won't rust, my dear, just watch out for the grill,” he warned back, and the two of them had a race through the garden with the hose and tongs, which was met with eye rolls and laughter from the others.

To everyone else, it seemed like business as usual; they knew the two of them well...but Julia and Bobby exchanged knowing glances.

Erik's two younger siblings had been watching their brother for a while and noticed that he was teasing the other woman, so they suspected there was something going on between them.

Was it the banter while preparing dinner, the blush on her cheeks when their hands touched, the way they couldn't take their eyes off each other while swimming in the pool, or how they were now tumbling around in the green grass and you could still see the tenderness behind it?

It was so true that Erik and she teased each other so much, yet they couldn't stay away from each other, how could they?

Ever since they had known each other, there had been sparks between them, a fire that blazed in all directions because it didn't know how to deal with all these feelings in the air.

She loved Erik, loved his funny way, loved his piercings and tattoos, knew every single one by heart, and as cynical as he seemed, she appreciated his heart, which was full of care.

A quality Erik appreciated in her, her care for others, how selflessly she jumped in to help with anything, her nature that was stormy and yet gentle at the same time.

Like two sides of a coin, the two seemed to love each other one moment and hate each other the next, a back-and-forth that Julia and Bobby saw as a sign that something needed to be done.

The look the blondes gave each other spoke volumes as they continued playing Jenga, but the plan they had in mind would soon be put into action.

Several hours passed as they engaged in various activities, the grill was slowly lit, and she found herself on the porch next to Julia and Charlie.

A glance at Charlie let her know that he was glad he was no longer the only one being talked to.

Her gaze kept returning to the trampoline where Erik was happily jumping with Julia. “Everything okay, honey? You seem a little down“ Brenda's question snapped her back to reality and she looked at the blonde older woman who gave her a gentle smile.

Taking a sip of her drink, the tart sweetness calming her for a moment, she said, “Just a little tired, the sun must have gotten to me a bit,” the half-truth coming out of her lips.

It was true that she was a little exhausted from all the excitement, but deep down, there was also a hint of insecurity, as always.

As much as she enjoyed the days with Eriik, she missed the time they spent together when days like these came to an end.

The question of what if he didn't like her and it was all just normal flirting was a thought that wouldn't leave her... because she had never asked him.

She had never dared to ask the black-haired boy how he felt, and she had never dared to confess her feelings to him.

Brenda's hand on her shoulder squeezed gently, the look in the older woman's eyes almost understandable, it seemed as if she was about to ask something when Julia suddenly appeared among the three of them.

“Can you help me upstairs with the wardrobe?” the blonde asked with a broad smile, a smile that the older woman couldn't guess the meaning of when she agreed.

Julia had often taken her to the wardrobe before; they had swapped shirts, sorted things out together, or just talked, but right now, with the barbecue still going on, it seemed almost strange.

The two of them left the terrace and went back into the kitchen, past bowls full of snacks and food, up the stairs to Julia's room, the younger girl almost pushing her friend into the room.

“You can go into the closet, I'll get the champagne,” the blonde winked and hurried out of the room as the door to the closet, which had once been a slightly larger storage room, opened in front of her.

Just as she took a step inside, her hand groped for the light switch, the door closed behind her with a click, and she heard, “Did they catch you too?” which made her cry out in surprise, and suddenly the light bulb came on, casting a dim light.

It would take a few minutes for the energy-saving bulb to fully illuminate the room, but even in the semi-darkness, she recognized Erik standing only an arm's length away from her, trying not to get any more pink clothing stuck to himself.

“What do you mean?” Julia just wanted to lend me a few things-” she stopped mid-sentence as her hand tried to open the door, but realized that Julia had locked the closet.

Erik's smile was closer than usual as he stood behind her and watched her realization with amusement.

“And Bobby just wanted to play a round of Mortal Kombat...looks like we're stuck here, Water Queen,” he mumbled, wanting to lean against the wall, which almost caused him to knock the clothes rack down and set it straight again.

With an annoyed sigh, she turned back to Erik, as there was hardly any room to move, and wanted to point her finger at him, but instead she actually touched his upper body.

“You had to chase me with the death grip, and besides, shouldn't you know Bobby better?” she asked back, hoping he hadn't seen her look, the realization dawning on her as it slowly became warm in her head and it seemed to be getting crowded in there...when she realized how close she was to Erik.

Erik also seemed to slowly become aware of the closeness and intimacy as he placed his hands over her, indirectly pushing her further into the room, cutting her off and taking the space for himself.

“Well, he's my brother...besides, I have a feeling that the two of them are hoping for something else” he admitted, averting his gaze for a moment as if he himself wasn't entirely sure what he was saying, what he was talking about, how far he could go.

But how could he have known that when he saw her look, something changed in him too?

When, despite the dim light, he saw how she looked away, almost ashamed, like a child caught lying, “Are the two of them right? Or... or is all this for nothing?” she asked the question.

Feeling her heart beat faster, feeling how this small room, which could barely hold the two of them, had such an effect.

In the semi-darkness, she could only partially see Erik's surprised expression, more her own flinching than his hand resting on hers, slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid that a hasty reaction could destroy this thing between them.

As if it were now becoming clear whether he was just teasing her again or whether there was truth between them, “Nothing has been in vain, not when it comes to you...and my feelings for you,” he said slowly, she had never seen him hold back like this before.

He was so careful and cautious that she placed her other hand on his, as if trying to give him support, to tell him he could continue. "“I think it's true that those who tease each other love each other,” he murmured, moving closer to her.

She could have pushed him away at any time, but that would have been a lie.

Finally pushing her fear and worry aside, she closed the last few inches between them and kissed Erik, whom she had wanted to kiss for so long, hoping for so long that he would reciprocate her feelings.

The two of them pressed closer together in the small space, almost pressing themselves against each other as if the closet were shrinking.

Her hand got caught in his dark T-shirt and tried to pull it off.

Erik's own hands wandered under her shirt, moving up her side, and she sighed when he touched her breasts.

The thought that they were still in a closet, that the family was only one floor below in the garden, spurred them both on. “We have to be quick,” she heard him murmur as he left her lips and kissed her neck, “Such a stormy boy” she replied teasingly.

A gasp falling from her mouth when he nibbled lightly on her neck, knowing that he would leave a mark, as if they were still teasing each other.

She could practically see his smile, the smug look that told her it wouldn't be the only mark.

She casually placed her own hand on his shirt and ran it gently over his nipple, seeming to feel the black-haired man shudder as his piercings on that sensitive spot tingled.

The image formed in her mind as she thought of the other places where he had piercings, and a gasp escaped her as she pressed her thighs together, pressing herself closer to Erik.

His teasing question, “What was my darling thinking about?” as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, as if he hadn't thought about her every time they were in the pool together, trying to preserve this pretty image of her.

The tension between them grew as her skirt slipped to the floor and Erik somewhat awkwardly opened his pants in the narrow space between the walls.

“Thinking about where you have all your pretty piercings” she winked and let her hand wander over his clothed center, unable to suppress a giggle when she felt his piercing, as Erik let out an excited sigh.

His hands wandered down her side, the strap of her panties snapped, his gaze letting her know that despite everything, he was asking her if they should continue, and the kiss she entwined him in told him everything he needed to know.

As the last pieces of clothing fell from their bodies and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, he lifted her slightly and gently lowered her onto his cock, the narrowness of the closet now more of a help than a hindrance.

A moan escaped from both their lips as they felt each other, she was being explored, the tingling sensation in her body as she felt the cool piercing, the ball and the ring moving as Erik made his first thrusts.

She swore she felt him twitch when he was finally inside her, saw his eyes close for a moment as he felt exactly the same as she did. Her fingers got tangled in his black hair as he gradually increased his pace, leaving more marks on her cleavage.

The more colorful spots there were on her, the harder she pulled on his hair, her fingers scratching his back when the excitement became too much.

The moans that continued to escape from their lips were drowned out by their kisses, his grunts whenever she tensed her muscles slightly, and she shuddered when his piercing moved.

It didn't matter to either of them anymore whether anyone could hear them, whether Julia and Bobby were standing outside the door, or whether anyone was even thinking about them.

It was only about Erik and her, only the two of them mattered, knowing that in all those years they could have had each other, could finally connect in that small room, their dreams becoming reality.

The feeling of loving each other so much, the kisses that didn't stop, passionate and stormy, their hands not wanting to let go of each other's bodies, too much fear of losing each other.

The looks they exchanged, the excitement and longing with every thrust, showed more ecstasy than she felt as Erik got faster, seemed to lose himself, and she pressed herself closer to him, just wanting to feel him as the only sounds in the room were obscene noises.

Her breathless whispering of his name told him what she knew as he moved for the last few times and they united in a kiss as orgasm washed over them both.

As the couple held each other lovingly, Erik buried his head in the crook of her neck for a moment and she leaned her head against the closet door.

Erik gently let her go after a few moments and the two slowly regained their composure when their eyes met again, the light illuminating them both as a mischievous smile played on their lips, knowing that the saying those who tease each other love each other was true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@captainthomasrobbie , @monkeydoll5 , @starry-eyed-wild-child , @porterroths , @ghastly-artist , @whoresinatrenchcoat , @whybemean , @eriks-dih-piercing , @slasher-fan-fr , @dont-touch-my-knives , @koolaidmanforever @mythicalcowboyatheart

#final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination erik #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #male x female #reader is female

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ahappydnp · 13 hours ago

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Were you in the boncas audience, or am I making this up? Regardless, would you mind explaining how you felt? I was in the phandom when it happened but fully did not Get It™ like everyone else seemed to. It just seemed “normal” to me (I’ve never not believed they’re together, it’s just “phanproof!1!!” to me was stuff that would be difficult to believe two friends would do & viewed exclusively from an if-i-told-an-outsider-this-would-they-think-couple lens) boncas just seemed to me like…,,, not that big of a deal to me. But i want to retroactively bask in the feels if you don’t mind :)

i was not there no asdadfskgjs i was watching that fucking periscope and refreshing twitter and tumblr and idb

idk it's so hard to explain the vibe! like they said it just felt like a victory lap for them after working their asses off on tatinof and they were running on a high and it was so obvious they were feeling good despite being so busy. like even them deciding to buy camp glittery matching suits for fun because they were finally having Fun with all this stuff!!! and a lot of it came from the confidence they gained doing the tour and meeting fans and the air was just electric that autumn/winter (i mean the boncas were literally a month after post baking universe)

them winning awards was expected but phil calling dan up on stage for his award was insane. you have to remember that this was the era of dan """outshining"" phil in every way and people being constantly upset that phil never got his own moment to be the one in the spotlight. so he finally gets the recognition he deserves being a youtube pioneer in every single sense and also just an incredible creator...and he immediately wants to share it with dan

because it never mattered to him. dan getting more subscribers and more attention and more popularity didn't matter to him. because he loves being dan and phil. in that moment, despite being chronically underrated and underappreciated for everything he'd done for the platform, he wanted to be phil from dan and phil. and the fact that he did it in front of everyone KNOWING we were all watching and would all talk about it for years to come speaks volumes of how far they'd come and how confident they were in each other.

the way dan was shaking his whole body is disbelief but then quickly ran up there because they're dan and phil and the universe would rip in half if they were apart. but then he made a point to come back to the mic and say 'phil lester everyone' because no one wants phil lester to be appreciated and loved more than dan howell.

i think it was a perfect example of who they are and also the turning point in dan and phil vs. the world. and we all saw it live in front of our faces together as a community they built

#anon ask #like!!! i wasn't expecting ANYTHING i had no hopes of them branching out from the script™️ of dnp at an award show #but they just Did That #dan and phil #phan

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chaoticdreamersthings · 3 days ago

Text

Out of the blue

!!!!!!WARNING!! EXPLICIT RPF BELOW!!!!!!!

MDNI

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Joost

Description: You, your friends and Joost went on a trip to Japan together - your friends constantly make jokes about you two being in love, so you start considering whether you actually like him.

Content: EXPLICIT RPF, smut, fingering, oral f!receiving, unprotected PiV, public place, creampie, friends to lovers, mutual pining, BLUE hair JOOST!!

Author's note: it's here!! Initially the couple of friends were Apson and Alanis but it weirded me out so i changed them to some random names.

Word count: 9.2 k

EXPLICIT RPF BELOW

The friends’ vacation almost never makes it past the group chat. You plan, decide on the best place for everyone, share all the things you would love to do, all the places you would want to visit. But then work gets in the way, someone doesn’t have money, someone else hates the chosen spot — and then it just doesn’t happen.

But not with this group of friends. You started planning it — what — two months ago? And now here you are, all of you, standing in front of one of the huge billboards on a busy street in Tokyo.

You had a lot of things planned, but you made sure to leave space for the best kind of spontaneity — late nights out, drinks, and just walking the crowded streets. You loved that part. Especially with these people.

Time slipped through your fingers. Two weeks ago you were packing your bags, full of excitement, and now you only have a few days left to make this trip unforgettable. It kind of already is — but you know you have to make the most of these last days.

The weather was surprisingly warm for May, almost like summer, but after the long, gray winter back in the Netherlands, you were happy to feel the heat again.

You adjust your hat, squinting up at the sky, then look over at your friends.

You’re waiting for a taxi to take you to the hotel — after hours of walking, your legs feel like lead, and the sun has took every last bit of energy out of you. You desperately need a good shower. The moment you slide into the back seat of the cab, you’re hit with a rush of crisp, cool air. You sigh, grateful. It’s the kind of relief that feels perfect after a long day.

“Where’s Joost?” You ask, raising your brow as the car begins to move. You hadn’t noticed when he left the group.

“He had some appointment or something. I don’t know — he didn’t share the details. Why? Do you miss him already?” Bryan replies, wiggling his eyebrows in that exaggerated, teasing way.

Somehow, over the course of this trip, you and Joost have become a favorite target. You’re not sure if it’s because of something one of you said or did, or if your friends just needed a new “victim” to tease.

You liked him, obviously. How could you not? He was a great friend. Funny, thoughtful, tall, blonde and honestly handsome in that effortlessly cool, artsy kind of way. He didn’t chase after the typical masculine style, didn’t need to. He treated women with respect, held conversations that actually meant something, and he seemed genuinely in touch with his emotions. Technically, he had everything you liked.

But it had always been just friendship. Long-standing and uncomplicated. There’d never been a spark, or at least not one you allowed yourself to notice. You assumed he felt the same. Maybe you both did. Maybe that’s what made it work so well all these years. Or maybe you just never stopped to question it until now.

Somehow, during this trip, your friends decided the two of you were secretly in love — and made you the punchline of every joke. It seemed insane at first, but over time, you started wondering if it really did look like that. You started pulling back, creating space. Not because Joost had done anything, but because the constant jokes made you hyper-aware of every shared glance, every casual interaction. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable — or worse, embarrass yourself.

Each night, back at the hotel, you found yourself trying to figure out where it all came from, running the same questions through your head. Do I like him? Could this be something? Should we even go there… or would that ruin everything?

The idea seemed absolutely ridiculous — you’d never sensed a single sign from him that he might be interested in being anything more than friends. And you? You were never interested in anything beyond friendship either.

Unless…

No, stop. Unless nothing. You don’t want to lose a solid, easy friendship. You don’t want to risk it for a one-night stand you’d both regret or some other stupid mistake. It’s good the way it is, and they are just messing with your head. You won’t let it get to you.

“Are we going for karaoke tonight?” Julia’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts about Joost. You blush a little, realizing how lost you’d been in your head — you almost worry they might’ve somehow heard your thoughts.

“Oh, yes. I have to take a shower first, though.” You reply, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, obviously. I can make a reservation for us. 8 pm?” She looks around, checking for nods and approval from the rest.

You nod your head.

You get to the hotel — luckily, there was a mix-up and you ended up with a big room all to yourself. For a while, you scroll through photos from the day, adjusting lighting, adding filters, laughing quietly at the candid shots your friends. Then scrolling through TikToks. Who doesn’t love a little bed-rotting after a busy day?

You love sightseeing, but you have to admit — you love the comfort of a soft bed after a full day on your feet just as much, if not more.

Time passes and eventually you pull yourself up and head to the shower. The warm water soothes your skin, the scent of the shower gel calming your senses. Just as you step out, wrapped in a soft towel, there’s a knock on the door.

You raise your brows. It’s probably Julia, or someone else from the group, so you don’t bother changing. With your hair still wet, and the towel knotted at your chest, you open the door slightly — just enough to see who it is.

“Oh… Joost,” you say, a little surprised by his presence. You were sure he had something going on, that you wouldn’t see him until karaoke.

He stands there, slightly awkward, his gaze going up and down just once before he quickly refocuses on your face.

“Hey… sorry, am I interrupting?” He asks, looking a bit confused as his eyes take in your current “outfit”. And suddenly, the towel feels a little too thin.

“No, no… sorry, I just got out of the shower” you say, looking at him apologetically. You suddenly feel a little stupid — after all, the only thing between you and being completely naked is a fluffy hotel towel. “You can come in.” You say, opening the door wider. Not because you particularly want him to, but because standing in the hallway like this feels worse. You really don’t want anyone catching sight of the two of you talking while you’re barely dressed. They’re already making assumptions over nothing — you can’t imagine the comments if they saw this.

He steps inside, and you close the door behind him.

“Wait a minute… did you dye your hair?” You ask, watching him step deeper into the room. You get a better look at him in the light coming through the window.

His hair, once bleached nearly white, now fades into a blue ombre — from white at the roots, bright blue to deep navy at the tips. You’re not sure how you feel about it. It’s bold and unexpected, the mullet cut paired with this intense color— but if anyone could pull it off, it was him.

“Do you like it?” He asks with a smile. You get the feeling he was waiting for you to notice.

You take a longer look. You liked his light blonde hair, but this felt more like him—matching his personality, and his unique music and art style. And it made his piercing blue eyes stand out even more.

“I do.” You say, smiling. “For some reason it’s so you.” You keep the distance, sitting on the bed, making sure that the towel covers everything it should.

He chuckles.

“Maybe.” He replies.

You both stay silent for a few minutes, until he seems to remember why he came in the first place.

“Oh — can you send me the pictures you took today? I would like to post something on my story.”

Something about that feels off — like the pictures are just a convenient excuse. Maybe he really just wanted to show you his new hair.

“Oh… yeah, sure.” You grab your phone from the bed and scroll through to find his photos.

He settles beside you on the bed, shoulder brushing close as you both scroll through the photos. He leans in a little more to get a better look at the screen, and his cologne hits your nose - warm and a little intoxicating.

He’s so close - and you’re still just in that goddamn towel. It feels dangerous, somehow.

You sense a shift in the air, your cheeks warming. Quickly, you drop your gaze back to the screen.

What is it? Is it the fact that his arm is so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body? Is it the smell of his cologne — warm, woodsy, him? Is it the fact that you’re wearing almost nothing?

Do you actually like him?

“So, these are the ones?” You ask, selecting the pictures to airdrop. You hope your voice sounds natural, trying to ignore whatever is happening inside of you.

“Yeah, those. And thank you” his voice seems lower than usual, and he’s so close to your ear, that a shiver runs down your spine.

You lift your head, slowly, to meet his eyes. His arm lightly brushes yours, and you lick your lips — suddenly, the air in the room feels hotter than the water in your shower earlier.

You wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are darker now, pupils wide, lips slightly parted like he was just about to say something — or maybe not. Maybe he’s just feeling something.

What is this?

You both stare at each other for a moment longer. For a second too long. You catch his gaze flick to your lips the moment you lick them. Then he’s back, looking into your eyes again.

The intensity of his gaze makes you uncomfortable, so you get up. You think that if you stay there, you might end up kissing him — and that wouldn’t be very smart, right? Especially given what you’re wearing.

“Erm… I’ll get ready. Let’s meet at the karaoke?” You say. You don’t want to sound like you’re throwing him out, but it kind of comes off that way.

Maybe that’s exactly what needs to happen

And anyway, it’s true — you do need to get ready.

Shibuya, in person looks exactly as big and colorful as in the videos and pictures. Hundreds of neon signs, colorful billboards and screens, thousands of people crossing the street. Many of them dressed in completely eccentric styles.

And you — right in the middle of it all. You try to look everywhere at once, to take it all in, the sound, the motion, the energy. You want to somehow store this view in your memory — because who knows if you’ll ever be back?

You got to the place early, so you decide to get a couple of beers at a nearby bar. You’re not complaining — you’re not the best singer, and karaoke always feels like a gamble between fun and mild humiliation. You’re already running through a mental list of easy songs — the ones that won’t make you sound like a dying cat in front of your friends. Or maybe something ridiculous enough that no one even cares how it sounds.

You’ve never been to a karaoke like this before. The only ones you’ve experienced were the drunken karaoke nights in bars — where tipsy students shouted lyrics more than sang them, and the whole bar joined in for the chaos. But you were always a part of the crowd. Public performances? Being on stage? No way.

Still, you don’t want to be the party pooper tonight, so you’ve decided — you’re going to take part.

Your friends couldn’t be more different. Well — not all of them. But the guys? They live for this kind of things. Screaming into microphones, picking the most ridiculous songs, arguing dramatically about whose turn it is next.

You’ve known them long enough to know what kind of absolute circus is about to unfold. But honestly? As much as you’d never admit it to them, you kind of love it.

The moment you walk in, they’re already digging through the costumes, trying on the wildest hats and wigs. You and Julia shake your heads in disbelief — it really does feel like traveling with a group of overgrown kids sometimes.

“Did you choose already?” Bryan grins, adjusting the pirate hat on his head like it’s the peak of fashion.

“Yeah, no way I’m wearing that” she says, shaking her head.

“I am though” you say, surprising even yourself.

Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the guys’ infectious excitement. Either way you find yourself looking through the costumes too. You don’t feel like changing clothes, so you settle on a blue wig with ponytails and a matching tie. You’re not sure if it’s a character from a manga or anime — and honestly, you don’t really care.

All that matters Is that it looks cute, and it’ll make for some fun photos.

Julia finally gives in and picks out a hat — nothing too wild, just enough to say fine, I’m playing too. The guys are still in full chaos mode, layering on more accessories like it’s a competition— Joost is already wearing a hat, oversized glasses and a giant fake dollar-sign necklace.

“It’s like kids in a candy store” you comment, chuckling.

You finally enter the room — it’s already filled with snacks. A girl from the bar comes in to explain how everything works: how to choose songs, how to start and stop them, how to order drinks if you need more.

You’re not sure about the others, but the first thing you do is ordering a drink — you know you’ll need more than one before you’re brave enough to sing.

“Let’s get started” one of your friends says, scrolling through the “Last Played” song list.

“I like the hair” you don’t even notice Joost coming closer until he’s suddenly standing next to you, his arm slightly brushing yours. Damn — it’s the second time today, and again it stirs that strange feeling in your stomach.

“Oh, thanks” you smile. You try to sound casual, but you’re not sure how well you’re pulling it off.

“It matches mine” he smiles. You look at him, and for a second, you catch something in his expression — as if he’s genuinely happy you chose this color. His color. Well, almost his color — his blue hair tips are way darker, but still, both are shades of blue.

“You think?” You ask, fingers lightly brushing over the silky strands of the wig.

He looks at you, as if he wanted to ask you something. There’s a question in his eyes, something unreadable but intense. Has he always looked at you like this? And you’re only noticing now because your friends planted the idea?

Or… did something actually change during this trip?

But as quickly as the moment builds, he lets it go. He turns away and calls across the room:

“It’s your turn, Bryan! Come on, show us what you got.”

He as Bryan selects YMCA. This might get interesting.

The rest of the evening goes perfectly — everyone’s singing, drinking, and having fun. You give a strong performance of I need a hero which makes you regret that there wasn’t a Fairy Godmother costume from Shrek. Later you belt out Spice Girls with all the guys —arms around each other, voices blending into one. Performing turns out to be a lot better than you expected — especially with the guys cheering you on, no matter how off-key you might be.

The night goes a little too well, Bryan ends up passed out on the table, completely drunk — you didn’t even notice when he got that far gone.

“I have to take him home.” Julia says, sighing. "I knew that last drink would be too much for him.” She rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed that he didn’t listen.

“I can help you.” You offer, glancing at Bryan — his face slumped on the table, lips slightly parted.

“No, the guys already offered help. We’ll take him back and you and Joost can stay — there’s like half an hour left, so sing something fun!” She says quickly, already grabbing Bryan’s things.

“Come on, Julia. I’ll help you — I want to make sure he’s okay” you say, frowning. You feel slightly excluded, but more than that, something about it feels… planned.

She glances at her phone and then back at you.

“Actually, the taxi’s already here. Thank you, baby” she smiles.

You watch Julia and the other guys lift Bryan up. He’s completely wasted — or at least it seems that way. His head slumps forward, resting awkwardly on his chest, and his eyes remain closed — completely unbothered by the events around him.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should go with you. There’s still room in the taxi.” You offer, concern in your voice.

“No, really — there’s no need. Just enjoy the karaoke” she replies quickly, already halfway out the door as they shuffle with nearly-unconscious Bryan between them. Before you can say anything else, the door closes behind them, leaving you and Joost alone in the room.

You stand there awkwardly, looking at Joost, while the music to an Abba song plays softly in the background, but there’s no one singing it.

You can’t shake off the feeling that they planned this all along. Now you’re alone with Joost, practically forced into a one-on-one conversation. After all the comments they made earlier it feels more than a little suspicious. Not that you’re complaining… but still, the coincidence is hard to ignore. You’re alone with Joost.

“What do you think about them constantly trying to set us up?” He chuckles. “They’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”

“I know.” You sigh “Well… sometimes those comments make me a little uncomfortable. It’s like… I don’t know why they’re pushing so hard. If we wanted to do something, we would.” You shrug, avoiding his gaze. Even though you’ve known each other for a long time, it doesn’t make this conversation any easier. Or maybe it even makes it even harder.

“So you don’t?” He asks, his voice quieter now.

“Don’t… what?” You frown, surprised by his question. You really don’t like the way this conversation is going, and you wish you could just skip it — the questions from your friends were enough of a torture.

“You don’t think we want to do something with this?” He adds.

“Erm… i don’t?” You say, but you’re not convinced and it comes off more as a question than an answer. “Do you?”

He looks at you with an unreadable expression. You can’t tell what he’s thinking - and he doesn’t even answer your question. Instead, he hands you the microphone.

“Come on. It’s your last chance.” He says, encouraging you.

You scroll through the song list, but the words on the screen blur together. Your mind is somewhere else entirely, looping back to what he just said — or more accurately, what he didn’t say.

Does he want to do something with that? If so, what does he want? Just to sleep with you? Ask you out? Or maybe… nothing at all?

“I think you need help.” He comes over, takes away the microphone and picks a song. You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you join in. He couldn’t look more stupid than singing “Oops I did it again”, but you can’t deny he’s a performer. Even here, in a small room, with only you as an audience.

You’re having fun with him, you can’t lie. You like the way he smiles, the way he jumps around like a kid while singing, and the childish jokes he throws in now and then.

But the idea that he might be into you? That never crossed your mind. You always saw him as someone out of your league — not because of his looks, but because of his fame, social status and the fact that he was always surrounded by well-known people. You assumed he had so many women around that he would never be interested in you.

And it’s not that you had low self esteem, or thought you weren’t good enough or cool enough. You just figured he would prefer someone who lived the same lifestyle — not a regular girl with a regular job.

You also had always thought he was too busy with his career, his art, and his own projects. He never really talked much about love or relationships. He never shared much about that part of his life — a private side, you assumed. But maybe it wasn’t privacy at all. Maybe there just wasn’t much happening there. Now that you think about it, it seems obvious that he just didn’t go out with girls very often.

Damn, for someone who “never considered it” you sure have thought about it A LOT. Maybe you really are to stupid to notice if you like him and needed your friends’ help to take the next step. You glance at him, and he’s looking at you, smiling.

You wonder if he knows he planted that seed in your mind, and if he’s thinking about it right now.

You look at him again — his hair catching the vibrant glow of the karaoke lights, his eyes lighting up as he sigs, the little dimple appearing every time he smiles, or laughs. Your arm brushes his, and you feel the moment. Just a few words from him have already changed everything between you. The atmosphere has shifted and there’s no going back now — only deeper into this new, unknown territory.

His hand slides gently reaching to your waist, tentative, yet confident, and you don’t resist. You don’t encourage it either, but you want to see what happens, to see what he does next. The next song is already playing, but you barely notice because with one, quick movement he pulls you closer, your chest touches his.

Your eyes meet as his hand finds the small of your back, pushing you gently against him. You freeze, unsure if you want this, if this is how you want it, or if it should even happen. But you don’t stop it — you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before.

But none of this matters now, because without asking for permission, he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

Your body stops, eyes searching his, caught between surprise and uncertainty — should you lean in or step back?

“What are you doing?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

His expression shifts — a flush of shame coloring his cheeks as he looks away. The vulnerability in his eyes betrays the surprise of your reaction.

“I thought you…” he mumbles.

“Hey” you say, lifting his chin so he looks into your eyes again.

He meets your gaze, though with less confidence this time. You smile softly and press a small, delicate kiss to his lips.

He takes it as a permission. His hand trails lightly over the fabric of your t-shirt, warm and tentative. You place one hand on his arm, and let him draw closer for another kiss. His lips meet yours again — hungry, urgent — like he’s been wanting this for years. His nose touches yours, and his blonde mustache tickles your skin. The anticipation stirs a new hunger inside you.

His tongue enters your mouth, and you close your eyes, letting your own tongue join the dance. You stay in that moment longer than you expected, unaware that you’re slowly guiding him toward the sofa behind the snack table as your tongues brush together.

You pause briefly and he sinks onto the sofa, gazing up at you with a soft smile.

“You look amazing.” he says, looking up at you. “that blue wig suits you perfectly.”

“I love your hair.” You whisper, a soft smile curving your lips as your fingers weave gently through the ombre strands.

There isn’t much room left, so you shift to settle on one of his thighs. He brushes aside some strands of the synthetic wig, his gaze lingering on your face like he wants to memorize every detail.

Without warning, he pulls you back into a deep, hungry kiss, his tongue parting your lips, demanding entrance. His hands go to your hips, steadying you, while your fingers lose themselves in the tangled mess of his hair. The heat between you grows with every second — your hips pressed to his thigh, every heartbeat stretching the tension tighter, daring to cross the line.

“We should move this somewhere else” he breathes inside your lips.

“Mhm…” you mumble, barely hearing him. You’re too caught in the heat of it all — in the press of his body, in the way your pulse stumbles every time his hands tighten at your hips. Your body begins to move on its own, rocking gently against his thigh. You silently thank your past self for choosing a skirt tonight. The only barrier between you and him is barely-there lace — and the rough texture of his jeans beneath you is impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter closed. In this moment, you surrender completely — not to him, but to the gravity that seems to pull you toward something inevitable.

“What are you doing?” He whispers inside your ear, while you feel pulsing desire between your legs. You desperately need more of him, the thin fabric of your panties is digging into your pussy. How did you get so horny so quickly? You feel your cheeks growing hot. You arch your back, pushing your crotch against his thigh. Every move makes you lose yourself more in desire, but you still want more.

At this point you can feel your panties are all wet, you know you shouldn’t do it here, but you lost all self control. His hands move carefully under your skirt. He puts them both on your buttocks, squeezing them in his hands. It only adds to the overwhelming craving you’re already feeling for him. You lean forward, your forehead brushing against his as your fingers grip the back of his neck, steadying yourself. You feel the urgency building, his touch only fueling the fire inside you.

“You don’t like it?” You tease, faking a pout, your eyes wide with passion. You already know the answer — but hearing it from him is what fuels you even more.

“Oh, i don’t just like it… I love it.” He breaths into your ear, one hand tightening around your hip as he helps you guide your rhythm.

You sigh, feeling a familiar sensation building between your legs. You’re willing to risk it all, do anything with him here. You don’t care that it’s a public place. In fact, it only adds to your desire. You’re about to reach for the belt on his pants, but a knock on the door sobers you up.

You jump off Joost’s lap, completely pulled out of the intimate moment between the two of you. The girl from the bar steps inside, and lets you know that your time is up, but you can purchase more if you’d like.

You feel your cheeks flush, your lips still shiny from the kiss. You look at him — his hair is a mess, his pupils still blown wide. You’re pretty sure she knows what just happened here — maybe that’s even why she came in.

Maybe they have cameras — no, of course there are cameras. The thought crashes into your mind like a cold splash, something you hadn’t considered before giving in to the moment. Had they been watching? Had someone seen the way you kissed him like you were starving? Just the thought of it makes you bite your cheek.

But then you think — you would love to watch it too. You imagine a black-and-white, low-quality footage of you grinding hungrily on his thigh, his hands on your hips, your mouths locked in a desperate kiss. The memory alone makes the pulse between your legs throb again, a cruel reminded of what you were just pulled away from. Instinctively, you press your thighs together for a relieve, and you catch Joost watching, his eyes flickering with want before quickly looking away.

You step out the room, the blue wig still crooked on your head, your eyes never leaving Joost. You could have stayed inside, but moving it somewhere else was definitely the safer option.

What should you do now? Continue what you started? Go to the hotel and have sex? Go to the hotel and never speak of what just happened? Go for a walk instead?

You have no idea how to proceed. You stand there, with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a head full of thoughts you don’t want to share with anyone.

He stands so close beside you that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. You steal a glance at him, wondering if his thoughts are the same — the awkward hesitation, the uncertainty of what comes next. And most of all: does he want there to be a next?

“I have to give this back” you finally say, pointing to the wig. But when you look around, you don’t see any of the staff.

“What if you don’t? I like the way it looks” he says quietly, though you’re the only ones there.

“Are you telling me to steal it?” You ask, rising your eyebrows.

“Umm… i guess? If we start running now, who will know you took it?” He smiles — and in that moment, he looks like the boy you met years ago.

You share a quick glance, and with some unspoken understanding, you both start running — bursting out of the karaoke place and into the Tokyo night. You don’t stop there; you keep running down the street, hands locked together, weaving through the crowd, stealing glances at each other to silently agree on which way to turn. You bump into a few people, but there’s no time to apologize.

You finally stop in a quiet side street, your heart pounding in your chest. You bend over slightly, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh my god” you say, between gasps. “This is the first time I’ve ever stolen something” you chuckle. “And you made me do it!”

“Really?” He asks, genuinely surprised. “Not even a candy bar from a supermarket?”

You shake your head as a “no”. He steps closer to you, finally catching his breath, and adjusts the blue wig on your head.

“It was worth it though. It matches your outfit. I’m sorry I led you down the criminal path.” He chuckles, his face now inches closer, the glow of neon lights dancing in his eyes. He looks so beautiful — had he always looked like that? Or did Japan, and your little moment in the karaoke room, somehow made him more attractive?

“You’d look perfect in anything though.” He adds. “I liked that towel on you today, too. I think even more than the wig.” He flashes you a cheeky smile.

You feel a blush creeping into your cheeks — you hadn’t expected those kinds of words from him. Yes, you kissed — well, almost fucked — but now what? Are you heading in the direction of being a couple? What is going on? You thought it would lean more toward a friends-with-benefits situation, but what if he actually likes you?

“What now?” You breath out right into his lips. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” You ask.

“Well…” he murmurs, his lips brushing your neck, leaving behind a few warm, wet kisses. “Yes. I want to continue what we started.”

His words ignite something inside you, but you try to keep your cool — no need to ruin the moment.

He orders an Uber, and since the hotel is close to the center, it doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get there.

“We should be quiet. I can’t stand the thought of them winning and being right about us.” You chuckle.

Joost smiles, and offers you his hand, his fingers locking with yours as he leads you to the elevator. The wig on your head slips slightly to the side, but you don’t bother to fix it. As soon as the elevator doors close, he’s all over you. His kisses trail from your jaw to your neck, and his hands slide from your hips to your tummy, then down to your ass grabbing it with hunger that makes your knees weak.

In front of you, the elevator mirror captures everything: the way his body presses into yours, the tilt of your head as you give in, the heat building in your face. You watch it all in the reflection and somehow it only turns you on more.

“Damn boy” you whisper into his ear, as his kisses move to your collarbones. “We're just a few seconds from the room — wait a little.” you say, as his finger is sliding up your thigh, getting dangerously close to the edge of your panties.

“Yeah?” He replies with a smirk, his voice full of confidence “You weren’t particularly patient today back in the karaoke room.” He clearly enjoys the thought — and the image of you being all over him.

You smile just at a memory — he’s absolutely right. You weren’t. And you sure as hell are not going to be patient now either. The tip of his finger slowly climbs up your thigh, tickling your skin that is already burning with desire. He presses his fingers against your clit through the soft fabric of your underwear.

“Oh…” he says, a confident smirk on his face, when he feels how wet he already got you. “So ready for what’s about to come…”

You look at him, ready to give back a teasing response — but the elevator doors slide open. You’re lucky that it’s late and the hallway is empty, but you’re almost certain the noise the two of you are making — your laughter, your rushed footsteps — is enough to wake at least a few sleeping hotel guests behind closed doors.

The way to the room’s door is interrupted by gentle touches and fleeting kisses. You clumsily reach for the key card, but before you can open the door ad slide inside he pushes you against the wall next. His gentle kisses slowly move from your ear to your lips. One hand rests on the back of your neck, the other gently moves along your arm. Even the most delicate touch makes your breath quicken. His fingers slowly hook into the strap of your top, sliding it down your forearm and his wet kisses go down your neck, to stop at your breasts.

You barely hold the key card in your fingers, while his hand reaches under your skirt, fingers sliding up and down the thin material of your panties. Finally his fingertips softly tickle your sensitive skin, curling his fingers under the hem of your underwear to pull it to the side and run the finger through your folds. You feel your whole body coil from both desire and a fear of getting caught — by the hotel workers, or even worse — by your friends.

“So…so ready…” he whispers directly into your ear, pushing back the blue strands . His warm, wet lips brushing against your ear. “didn’t you say you don’t want anything?”

You want to say something but your mind seems to be completely clouded with his fingers still moving along your slick folds. He leaves a soft kiss in the crook between your neck and shoulder, and before you can even form a sentence, he kneels before you.

Damn, you’re still in the hallway. You can’t make the same mistake twice. There are DEFINITELY cameras here.

But it doesn’t matter anymore — or at least it doesn’t matter enough for you to be able to find the sense to stop it. But you’re not — you are too far gone now.

His teeth lightly nip at your skin then catch the hem of your panties, tugging at them with deliberate slowness. He pulls them down your thighs, helping himself with his fingers on the other side of your hips.

Can it get any better?

You’re about to find out, when distant voices and the creak of an opening door snap you out of the moment. You quickly pull your skirt lower and with your panties just above your knees open the room door with the key pass you were still (barely) holding in your hand.

You step into the room, the door still hanging open behind you, as you drag him along — still on his knees — across the threshold. From the hallway, it would probably look pretty ridiculous.

You can’t help but laugh at the situation, but he cuts it off with another kiss, standing up and guiding you toward the bed.

“What if they saw us?” You ask, breaking the kiss to look at him, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugs “We would give them a show”

He takes off your top, still guiding you toward the bed. You sit down, the blue wig slightly askew. You reach your hand to take it off, but his hand catches yours before you can.

“No, keep it on.”

You raise your eyebrow. Does that turn him on? Or maybe it is the fact that it’s similar to his and he likes to think that’s why you wore it?

You move to the centre of the bed, legs parting just enough to let him settle between them. He unzips his pants, leaving only his underwear. You reach for his t-shirt, and tug it over his head, your lips trail slowly from his neck, to his shoulders, planting a line of warm kisses that linger on his skin.

Joost takes off your skirt, sliding it down along with your panties in one swift motion. You’re completely naked now, sitting there on the bed. The bright blue wig is a striking contrast to the warmth in your cheeks. Your eyes, slightly glassy from emotion and anticipation, look up at him — hungry and vulnerable.

His hand goes to your crotch, and he teases your folds with his soft fingers. You are already so turned on by what he did earlier that the slightest movement and the slightest touch makes you sigh and quiver on the bed. You move your hips forward, hungry for his touch.

“I will take care of you” he finally whispers into your ear, he reaches for your back to unclip your bra and take it off. His finger is teasing your entrance, threatening to slip in, while his lips touch the skin around your nipples. They’re are soft and a little cold, in contrast to your heated skin. He sticks out his tongue to flick your nipple, to then suck on it.

A thrill runs through you as you look at him, the view only making you more aroused. Oh, this is going to be good. Your breath quickens and your skin tingles with anticipation.

He slips one finger in, you lie down completely on the bed, the blue hair from the wig blend messily with your own hair across the pillow. At some point, your natural hair must have slipped free from the clip. But right now, tangled hair is the furthest thing from your thoughts.

His kisses move from your breasts, to your lower belly and you already know what he’s about to do. A shiver — equal parts anticipation and pleasure - runs through your body. His fingers press into your inner thigh with possessive pressure, the index finger of the other hand still curling inside you. You take shaky breaths, your chest rising and falling as you bite down gently on your lower lip.

“Joost…” you whisper, as your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek.

“Sh…” he quiets you, his head still dangerously close to your pussy, his breath warm against your skin. “i’ll make you feel so, so good, I promise” his voice low and quiet.

“You don’t have to…” your voice fragile.

“I want to” he breathes out, looking at you for a moment.

You smile, as his lips finally reach the spot just above your slit. You can’t help it but let out a small moan, an expression of both pleasure and anticipation that took over your entire body. He hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already moaning. Before another groan leaves your mouth, his lips reach the folds between your legs. He doesn’t pull his finger out, he keeps moving it in and out, as his soft lips touch your clit.

You close your eyes, trying to give yourself into the pleasure, as he takes out his tongue, and slowly tickles your clit. You put your hand in his already messy hair, a quiet moan slips from your lips before you can hold it back. The touch of his warm, wet tongue sends shivers down your spine, the pleasure coils in your stomach and your free hand clenches on the sheet beneath you.

As you make yourself comfortable, he uses his other hand to open your pussy lips with his cold fingers. His tongue goes up and down your slit, to then suck on it, while you squirm on the bed in pleasure. Your eyes are closed, your mouth open, gasping for air between louder and louder moans, that you can’t hold back anymore. He abuses your sweet spot with his tongue, his soft hair tickles your underbelly. Oh he wasn’t lying when he said he will make you feel so good.

You instinctively try to close your legs as the moans seem to reach an obscene level, but he pulls his finger out of you and puts his hand on your thigh, his finger warm and wet from where it just was. He forces your thighs to remain open, as he is far from done. You spread them open, giving him all the access.

He moves the finger back to where it was, and adds another, while the tip of his tongue touches all the most sensitive parts. You feel the orgasm getting closer and you’re selfishly trying to delay it, as the sensation of his tongue on your skin is way to good to end so quickly. You want to enjoy it longer and longer, all night if that’s possible.

He spreads your thighs more, putting your feet on his back, he’s adding the third finger, curling it and stretching you out. Your moans reach the highest registers, but you don’t care, there are no thoughts in your mind, only pleasure taking over each corner of your brain.

His fingers are moving at a crazy pace now, as you reach the peak of the pleasure, crying out his name in absolute chaos of emotions you’re in now. He doesn’t stop — he lets you ride your high, making use of his fingers and mouth, giving you all that he can. You don’t even notice when he stops pumping his fingers in and out of you, tears are running down your cheeks, your hands reach for the bed frame, gripping it so tightly that they turned white, the wig you were wearing lies completely tangled at the edge of the bed.

You finally open your eyes and try to calm your breath a little, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He kneels between your legs, his lips pink and shiny with your wetness, looking down at you, as you lie on the bed completely naked with your legs spread for him. You feel a light blush creep onto your cheeks, though after the sounds that just came out of you, it’s too late to be embarrassed. You have been friends for so many years, and if someone told you this morning that tonight you’d find yourself naked in bed with him, you would’ve laughed in disbelief.

“So beautiful.” He says, his voice a little hoarse, his fingers slowly stroke the bare skin on your thighs. “And so horny for me.” he smiles, and slides his thumb down your folds again, making you shiver with overstimulation. “Are you ready for more? I’m far from done.”

Your lips curl softly into a confident smile.

“Of course I am. Bring it on.” You say, your voice tire but confident. You are more than ready— you crave more.

He lets out a low chuckle, his eyes fixed on your body.

“Good girl…” his voice low and raspy. “I thought you might say that.”

In one, swift motions he takes off his boxers, and you admire him, kneeling in front of you wearing nothing at all.

He slides both hands beneath your knees, lifting them up, as he shifts forward, settling himself between your legs with a slow movement. But before he slides into you, he leans down and kisses you tenderly. His lips still taste like you, but you love it, you love that you bodies seem to be connected from the very first touch, you love the hunger behind his lips, the urgency in his touch, the overwhelming desire in his eyes — because you feel the same for him.

He slides into you and moves slowly at first, even though you don’t need to adjust too much — all that he did earlier made you wide open for him. He speeds up the pace, as one of his hands is reaching to your nipple, pulling and twisting it. You watch him, his hair moving with the rhythm, while drops of sweat glow against his pale skin under the light. He looks so good, how come you’ve never been absolutely mesmerized by his beauty before? How did it never hit you that he’s exactly your type — not just in looks, but everything else too. You could watch him like this every day: naked, beautiful, and hungry for you. Suddenly you want to give him more — the view and the sensation he won’t be able to forget.

“Stop” you say, and when he does you sit up, your fingers wrapping around his arms with determination. With one swift motion, you guide him down, reversing your roles — now he’s the one beneath you, his back hitting the mattress as you brush your hair with your fingers.

You sit on him, and helping yourself with your hand, you put his cock inside you so deep that it almost hurts. You throw your head back, feeling his hands reach for your butt, squeezing the cheeks in his large hands. You start moving up and down, finding your rhythm, he moves his hands to your hips, helping you get the right pace. You throw your head back, enjoying every time he fills you, bite your lip and ride him like there’s no tomorrow. You breath out, as he moves his hand up to squeeze one of your boobs in his hand. Every movement pulls you further into bliss, and you can’t help but moan his name.

“Fuck” you whisper under your breath, while he’s so deep in you. His hands explore your body, like he’s trying to memorize every curve, like he’s trying to claim every inch as his own.

“I’m close” he says, and you nod, quickening the pace and arching your back, exposing your whole body for him. He doesn’t close his eyes, he’s watching your every move, he doesn’t blink even once as not to lose sight of you. He finally finishes inside of you, but you don’t stop, you keep moving up and dow, feeling your own orgasm starting to build up. You get off him, sit on the bed and spread your legs. You’re just about to tell him to touch you, but his hands are already reaching out, eager for your body. He doesn’t need an invitation. He gets closer, looking at your pussy, dripping with his cum.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss full of intensity, your tongues intertwining in a rhythm that seems so desperate, and unlike any hunger you’ve ever known. He puts his hand between your legs and start patting your clit, causing you to moan against his lips, and digging your fingers into his arm. You’re already so overstimulated that you don’t need much, just a few movements of his soft fingers, pressing in just the right place, makes you completely lose yourself and he has to hold you in place with his hand.

He gives you a second orgasm of the night, and you moan his name so loudly he eventually has to cover your mouth with his hand to muffle the sound, otherwise you’d probably wake up the whole floor. Your friends are just behind the wall — if only they knew what’s going on in that room.

Your head arches back as your fingers dig deeper into his arm. Finally, when he’s done, you breathe deeply, resting your face against his shoulder, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. You take a moment to calm yourself, then lie down on the bed, heavy with exhaustion. Joost follows, lying beside you and for a moment nothing fills the room but the sound of your heavy breaths.

You don’t touch at all, but you’re not mad about it. You need to calm your breath, to feel the gentle breeze on your tired body. A few minutes pass, and then he finally wraps his arm around you.

You know you should talk about what just happened — Was it just a one-time thing? Should you just be friends with benefits? Does he want something more? Do you want something more?

But now it seemed like a lot of work, and you were in such a delicious state, that you didn’t want to ruin it with any serious conversations. You didn’t even know the answer to any of those questions yet.

“So… How did I do?” He asks, as you rest your cheek on his arm. He’s all sweaty, but you don’t mind. The closeness gives you comfort.

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” You laugh.

“Oh, i so am. But i earned it! At least… I think I did.” He says, looking at you like he’s searching for confirmation.

“Yeah” you nod “I mean… you definitely do” you say, and he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

You suddenly feel very tired — it must be really late, and you have plans for tomorrow. You should probably sleep now. But his presence feels so good, and the simple act of just lying there, touching each other gently with fingertips, and leaving small kisses on his bare skin, feels too good to give up for sleep yet.

He pulls the blanket over both of your heads and underneath it, brings you even closer than you already were, giving you yet another passionate, sweet kiss.

“Oh no, don’t start again. We have to get some sleep.” You smile. “as much as I want too…”

He chuckles.

“You’re right. But we can do it again… tomorrow… or… I don’t know if — you want?” There’s something careful, almost unsure in his tone.

Is it his attempt to have that conversation?

“Yeah… tomorrow is good.” You nod your head.

You want to do it again — you know it — but a worry sparks in your mind: what if this turns into just booty calls? You don’t want that. You enjoy having him as your friend.

He doesn’t let you slip out of his arms, and eventually, you both fall asleep.

You must have been asleep for a very long time, when a sudden knocking on the door jolts you awake. It’s not just knocking — it’s loud, insistent banging. Whoever is on the other side of the door definitely isn’t planning to go away without someone opening it.

You glance at Joost - how the hell is he still asleep?! He lies there with his mouth slightly parted, completely undisturbed.

You slip out of bed and quickly realize you’re naked — yeah, no way you’re opening the door like that. Your pajamas are crumpled on the floor, right next to the blue wig. As you pull them on, the images of the night before flash your mind, and you catch yourself smiling. You can’t wait for tonight to repeat it.

You take a look at yourself in the mirror. Your make up is completely smudged across your face, dark circles under your eyes, your hair is a total mess. You look like someone who’s been through a lot. You’re grateful there ain’t any visible hickeys on your neck or chest— you have no idea how you’d explain that.

You smooth your hair as good as you can, swipe a finger under your eyes, and finally open the door just slightly, leaving a narrow gap.

“Jesus Christ, finally” you hear Julia’s voice the moment the door cracks open. “What the hell? I’ve been knocking for like… ten minutes.” She sounds annoyed — as if Bryan yesterday wasn’t enough of a problem, now you’re added to the list.

“Oh… sorry, we um… drank too much yesterday I think.” You rub your eyes and try to sound casual. “I’m sorry. Whats going on? Is Bryan okay?” You ask, concerned.

“I got an email from the karaoke place saying you apparently stole the blue wig.” she says, raising her eyebrows at you.

“Wh-what?” You answer, doing your best to look confused.

Damn, in all that chaos you didn’t think about the fact that she was the one who made the reservation — of course they had her email, maybe even her phone number.

You hadn’t consider this outcome. Honestly, you hadn’t thought much at all yesterday. The second Joost touched you, it was like some switch flipped in your head — and the reason? Gone. Completely shut off.

“Can you tell me, what the hell happened? And where’s Joost?” She asks, clearly impatient. Panic sparks in your chest. You need to come up with something — fast.

“I… ummm…” you’re stumbling for words, the exhaustion and lack of real sleep aren’t helping.

“OH MY GOD” Julia says suddenly, her eyes widening in realization. Before you can stop her, she pushes the door open and walks right in.

You look at Joost. He looks at you — now awake, confused and still somewhere between sleep and shock. Thank God he’s covered with the sheets. The last thing you need is for Julia to see him naked on top of everything else.

“I knew it!” she shouts, practically pointing an accusing finger first at Joost, then at you. Her eyes land on the blue wig crumpled on the floor, and she can’t help but laugh. She goes back to the door and yells down the hallway

“Bryan! Come here, you’re not gonna believe it.”

You bury your face in your hands. All that effort to deny it, to keep it quiet, to avoid giving them the satisfaction and now she’s yelling it down the hallway for the whole damn floor to hear.

#joost klein fanfic #joost klein x reader #joost klein x you #joost x reader #joost x you #joost fanfic #joost klein fanfiction #rpf #joost x you smut #joost x fem reader #joost x reader smut

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revelboo · 3 days ago

Note

Not necessarily a prompt, but a funny thing to consider for later in your tfa series. (long ask ahead)

Sentinel feels like the last bastion of sanity as he witnesses this plague of madness and degeneracy sweep through all these Autobots who've touched down on this rotten organic mudball. Watching them become infatuated with these tiny monoform organics who look uncannily like Cybertronians but wrong. Optimus, the slagger, and his entire team have not only fallen for these fleshbags but produced viable hybrid sparklings with them. Worse, he's heard word that Agent Blurr has a human of his own that he's bonded to, and a whisper that they're sparked.

Worse still is that his own Elite Guard are being distracted by these humans, trying to befriend them like they're scouting out potential mates for themselves and Sentinel Prime has to put his ped down before this gets out of hand. Too late, though, the Jettwins have snatched up and are sharing a human who adores them both and Jazz found himself a human who's distracting him from his duties by getting him into their nasty Earth music. To top off the nightmare, he's heard that the Magnus himself is planning a visit to Earth to see about these newsparks and congratulate Optimus on maybe having found a way to save their dying people.

Now he's facing down these Decepti-trash who are increasingly causing trouble in detroit because they're gathering supplies for some nefarious--THEY HAVE HUMANS TOO?? WHAT IS GOING ON? Okay, now he's thinking that these humans have some kind of weird sex pheromone thing going on because nothing else can explain Megatron having a human mate. But he's facing them down in combat in the streets of Detroit, and one of the Cons tries crushing him under the weight of a cement-mixer. He protects himself with his shield but is knocked to his knee and as the dust settles around him, he looks down to a spot of color on the ground and sees a human, dusty and scared but looking up at him with wonder in their bright little eyes.

"You... saved me..." the little fleshbag speak up to him, awe-struck and adoring and that look and that tone are everything Sentinel has ever wanted directed at him and not a single nano-klik in his entire life has been as viscerally terrifying as now, seeing and hearing it coming from a human. Because this is how it starts.

🤣 the xenophilia got him, but the xenophobia is fighting it.

I don’t know exactly what happened, but I suddenly have requests for the TFA elite guard right now…

C’est La Vie

TFA Sentinel x Reader

• “Push forward,” Ultra Magnus roars, but Sentinel can’t find him in the chaos of the battlefield. Can’t seem to pull in enough air through his vents to cool himself either, feeling his spark thrumming frantically as a massive Decepticon stumbles back from out of nowhere, crashing down through a building. And he’s frozen, staring, dimly aware of Magnus yelling at him to get up there. He’s not supposed to die here, he’s supposed to climb the ranks, achieve glory and fame. Be loved and respected.

• Caught in the mayhem, you’d taken refuge in the lobby of a hotel, too terrified to evacuate. You’re so small, they won’t notice you. Tell yourself you’re not worth their bother, but as one of the monsters crashes into the building, you’re driven out into the street when the wall and part of the ceiling cave in nearly on top of you. And there’s another one, blue, orange, and shiny as he bares his denta defiantly, facing the Decepticon down with fear. Heroic as he stands defiant.

• Oh, frag this. Frozen as the Decepticon shoves upright and spots him and grins, Sentinel stumbles back. Because the Academy hadn’t taught him how to deal with actual Decepticons that are three times heavier, much bigger than he is. And this isn’t any Decepticon. Servos trembling as Megatron lazily lifts his arm, cannon humming and Sentinel slams his shield down in front of him, crouching behind it. But the blow is only glancing as Magnus and Optimus come from out of nowhere, both attacking Megatron, driving the Decepticon back. That should be him. His victory. But he can’t move. He’s terrified as Optimus steals his glory.

• On your knees, hands over your ears as they ring, you stare up at your massive savior crouching over you. He’d not hesitated, had taken a step forward and slammed his shield down just on the other side of you. Protecting you. And his helm bumps his shield as his blue optics find you and stare. “You… saved me,” you whisper, voice ragged with smoke, fear, and awe.

• Staring down at the little, squishy organic gawking up at him, he wonders where the Pit you came from. Didn’t even know you were there. ‘Thank you, so much. You’re amazing,’ you babble as his lip curls in disgust. Even if it does feel good to be validated. To have someone appreciate him. Hears Magnus roaring at him to get his head in the fight. But you, you look almost worshipful as you stare up at him. And he likes it. Even if you are a disgusting little flesh bag. ‘A hero,’ you add. He is, isn’t he. “Stay close if you want to survive,” he growls, straightening. Because someone’s finally appreciating him like he deserves.

#transformers x reader #sentinel prime x reader #tfa sentinel prime

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thisapplepielife · 3 days ago

Text

Written for @steddiesongfics.

Lonesome is a State of Mind

June Prompt: Summer Songs | Song: Drunk on a Plane by Dierks Bentley (Bonus: Lonesome is a State of Mind by Djo lyrics for the Djo June challenge) | Word Count: 2500 | Rating: T | CW: Bare Feet in Public, Recreational Alcohol Use | Tags: Modern AU, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Little Angst, Lotta Silly Fluff, Meet Cute, Steve Had to Kiss Some Frogs to Get His Happy Ending, Robin Unfortunately Had to Bear Witness

Also on ao3.

It's stifling in the apartment, the summer air heavy and thick, even as the sun is just rising. It's making every movement seem ten times harder. Even through the closed windows, Steve can hear everything going on down below, the sounds of the city, the street, busy with activity.

His future is not what he thought, and here he is again, having thought something wrong. He should be used to that by now, but he's not. He's afraid he'll never be. He's too optimistic that things will work out. You'd think he'd learn his lesson by now. He's not a kid anymore. No, he's twenty-nine and misaligned.

Going from two to one has been harder than he thought it would be these past six months. From a house full of sounds of life, to this. Stifling silence.

She was the one. Wasn't she? He's not even sure now.

Five years this time. Five.

Two before that. What's he doing wrong? He wanted to commit, but it turns out two years wasn't enough time for someone to know if they wanted to do the same. Fine. With the next relationship he was more cautious, more patient. Went slow. Didn't rush.

Made sure they were really in love.

But five years wasn't long enough either, turns out. And now he has two engagement rings hanging around his neck like albatrosses and two non-refundable tickets for a honeymoon that was supposed to start today, just with no wife.

She's at his house, with his dog, but he lives somewhere else, somewhere separate.

What the fuck is so wrong with him that things just fall apart as soon as he tries to offer someone his love?

Nancy didn't want it in high school, either. Now he's convinced he's more than bullshit. There's a pattern, and he's the common denominator.

He jumps when the buzzer for the downstairs door sounds. Robin. He presses the button to unlock the front door for her, and works on schooling his face so she doesn't see how close to a nervous breakdown he really is today.

He was supposed to get married yesterday. He didn't.

"I never liked her anyway," Robin says, "She's an asshole. You're not gonna try to get back with her, right? I can say that?"

"You can say that," Steve answers. He knows it's not true. He wouldn't have made it five years with anybody that Robin didn't like. And he especially wouldn't have planned to marry them. Robin's just taking his side, unconditionally. Best friend privileges. He appreciates it.

"Glad to hear it. Flight leaves in two hours," she states, picking up his sunglasses, tossing them at him, "Wayfarers on, Harrington. Grab your bags. We're going to the beach. That all-inclusive resort is calling my name."

Steve groans. He doesn't want to go to the beach.

"Steve! Now!" Robin demands, and he knows better than to argue. And it'd be stupid to waste these tickets, this whole vacation. He went through the trouble switching the ticket to Robin's name, after all.

He puts on his neon green swim trunks, and a bright pink tank top. Slides on a pair of flip flops. It's gaudy. Loud and in your face. Maybe if he embarrasses her now, she won't make him go.

Robin says nothing.

He stands there staring at her.

"Bags?" she asks.

He shrugs. Maybe he'll travel light for once. See what that's like.

She just pushes past him, into his bedroom, and stuffs random clothes of his into his suitcase. While she's busy doing that, he makes himself a travel mug of orange juice. And vodka. That's the important part.

Piling into the waiting cab downstairs, he sucks on the whirly straw, and off they go.

One honeymoon, two platonic soulmates.

Finally at cruising altitude, Robin is staring at him.

"What?"

"What are you wearing?" Robin asks, finger snagging the chain around his neck, pulling.

"My bad luck charms, duh," he says, twisting off the top of another little bottle of Jack. Pouring it into his thimble of Coke. "It wards off—"

"—women, men, humankind in general?"

"Sure," he says, thumbing at the two diamond rings hanging from the gold chain.

"You're being a dramatic dingus."

"Cheers, have a drink with me," he says, tapping his plastic cup against hers.

"It's ten in the morning," she says, still judging him for conning the flight attendant out of more liquor. He's already rocking a nice buzz, and he'd like to keep building on it, thank you very much.

"You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning," he retorts, stretching out in his seat, putting his bare foot up on the armrest of the aisle seat guy in the row in front of him.

"Steve," Robin hisses, pressing on his knee, trying to get him to put his foot down. Then she leans towards the row in front of theirs, "I'm so sorry, he's not usually this feral."

She can't budge him, despite her best efforts. He refuses to move. That is, until the guy whose seat he's encroaching on runs his fingers up the sole of Steve's foot. That's enough to make Steve jerk his leg back reflectively, ticklish, unable to stop himself. He hears the pleased laughter floating back to their row, and Steve leans forward, poking his head around the seat.

"Foot fetish, huh?"

"You're the one that offered it up to me," the guy says.

Steve laughs, the liquor making him brazen, "I mean, I'm not into that. But if you are, I'd be happy to open negotiations."

"Well, isn't that a thought," the guy laughs, and Steve can't tell if he's flirting with him, or just making fun. Maybe a little of both. It honestly doesn't really matter. Steve doesn't mind either option.

It's already made his morning better.

Steve leans his shoulder into the back of the guy's seat, jostling him. "My fiancée dumped me. This was my honeymoon."

The guy turns and nods towards Robin, "Her? Was it because you're trying to get strange men to touch your feet?"

"Ew," Robin says, "No. I'm Robin. The embarrassed best friend. That's Steve. Again, I'm sorry. He isn't putting his best foot forward. He decided to start early this morning."

Steve laughs, and so does the guy. It's a great laugh. Steve wants to hear more of it, wants more of his attention.

"I'm Eddie," the guy says, "and your foot forward seemed fine to me. But if you've got a better one, let me have it."

Steve, not about to back down from a challenge, wedges his left foot between the seats.

The guy next to Eddie whips his head around, "If your nasty foot so much as grazes me, I swear to god I'll shove drumsticks up both your asses."

"That's a very specific promise," Steve says, pointing his foot towards Eddie the best he can. "At least buy me a drink first."

The guy huffs, annoyed.

"Steve Harrington, leave these men alone. You're gonna get us kicked off this flight. Banned from this airline. Banned from all future air travel forever, maybe. We'll be on the no-fly list. We might get left in Cancun."

The grumpy guy in the middle turns around, looking at Robin, "This is at least fifty percent Eddie's fault at this point. He feeds on chaos, makes things worse, and encouraging what's happening right now is a dream come true for him. Trust me."

"It's true," Eddie pipes up, "I'm a freak. Being interesting will always beat conformity. Put your feet on people if you want. Be real. Be weird. Be real weird."

Steve grins, looking at Robin, "See?"

"No," she says, shaking her head.

Steve retracts his foot, and Eddie turns in his seat, looking right in Steve's eyes, "Stay weird, Steve Harrington."

Then, he hands Steve two additional mini bottles of liquor, and Steve grins, relaxing back into his seat.

Steve tries to mind his own business. It works for a while.

"What are you headed to Cancun for?" Steve asks, peeking at Eddie from between the seats.

"Bachelor party," Eddie says, looking back at him.

Steve sticks out his bottom lip, "Yours?"

Eddie laughs, shaking his head, nodding towards his seatmate, "No. Mr. Drumsticks Uptheass, here."

Steve grabs the back of the guy's seat and shakes him, "Don't do it, man. She'll break your heart. Put a ring on it and suddenly she can't stomach the thought of spending her whole life with you. Trust me. It's happened to me. Twice."

"Shut up, you don't know me or my life. I can see why nobody would want to marry you," middle-seat snaps.

"Gareth," Eddie warns.

Steve shoves the back of Gareth's seat, launching himself back into own. Arms crossed, pouting.

He's a fucking catch.

What kind of name is Gareth, anyway?

"He didn't mean that," Robin says, leaning forward, trying to smooth this over, "I'm sure your wife-to-be is lovely and would never call off your wedding."

Gareth just glares over his shoulder, then leans forward, looking across the aisle, eyes laser focused on the man sitting there, minding his own business. "Goods. Goodie. Hey. Switch seats with me."

The guy across the aisle ignores him.

"Goodie!"

What kind of name is Goodie?

"I don't know you, any of you," the alleged Goodie says, pulling his hoodie strings, cinching it down over his face. Ending the conversation.

"Jesus Christ," Gareth Uptheass says, forcing himself out of his seat, climbing over Eddie's knees, and out into the aisle.

Then, he looms over Steve. Well, he tries. He's not very tall. "Get up. We're trading seats. If you want to flirt with Eddie so fucking bad, you can do it without involving me. I'm sitting next to her now."

Steve looks at Robin, "Oh, she's a lesbian."

"Great, and she's wearing shoes. The exact kind of woman I'm interested in right now. Get. Up."

"I need to put on my shoes," Steve says.

"Really? Why start now?"

Steve gets up, and squeezes into the middle seat next to Eddie. There's another guy in the window seat.

"I'm Steve," Steve says, since they haven't been introduced.

"So I've heard," he answers, "I'm Jeff. Keep your hands and feet to yourself and we'll be good."

"Jeff's a normal name," Steve declares. He's glad someone else has a normal name around here.

"Thanks," Jeff says.

They talk and talk until Eddie gets up to go to the bathroom. Steve waits a respectable minute and a half to follow.

Tapping on the locked door, he gets no answer.

Knocking again, "Eddie."

The door across the hall opens, "Over here."

Whoops. Wrong bathroom. Steve slides into the cramped lavatory with Eddie, trying to balance himself on the flimsy sink, hoping like fuck it will hold him.

Steve wraps his legs around Eddie's waist, pressing himself up against Eddie.

"Do you really have a foot fetish?" Steve asks.

Eddie laughs, "Not in the slightest."

"Good, that's good," Steve answers, playing with the hairs at the nape of Eddie's neck. "You gonna give me a little in-flight entertainment?"

Eddie cups his cheek. It's tender, and nobody's touched Steve like this in a while. He leans into it.

"How about we just make it off this plane without being put in handcuffs?" Eddie suggests.

Steve huffs, but will allow it.

"What if I want you to put me in handcuffs?"

Eddie laughs, "Then, sweetheart, like you said earlier: I'd be happy to open negotiations."

Back in their seats, Steve falls asleep on Eddie's shoulder.

Then, they land and go their separate ways.

The next morning, Steve regrets everything from the day before. His head is pounding, like elves are trying to chisel his skull in two. He's mortified. He got drunk, took off his shoes, and followed a stranger to the plane bathroom.

Robin's never gonna let him live this down, not even with the goodwill of it being his sad non-honeymoon. She won't feel sorry for him forever.

The mimosa isn't working as hair of the dog that bit him, nor is the greasy breakfast, and he closes his eyes behind his sunglasses.

He hears Robin pull out her chair, and groans.

"I'm dying. Put me out of my misery."

He hears a deep chuckle, familiar now, and feels his cheeks flush. Eddie. Of all the resorts, Eddie from the plane is here? It's absurd.

Steve's eyes snap open. It's too bright.

"You're staying here?" Steve asks. He's so fucking embarrassed. What are the odds of that?

Eddie shakes his head, smiling wide.

"Nope. But Gareth asked Robin where you guys were staying. He knows me well enough to know I'd want that information. He's a good best friend, even if he was a little testy yesterday."

"Uh, I think he had a reason. I was being, well, unreasonable. Sorry about the feet. And the bathroom. And everything else."

"No reason to apologize. I'm here, aren't I?" Eddie asks with a smile.

He is. Steve smiles. Eddie found him. Eddie went out of his way to come see him again.

Nobody goes out of their way for him, except Robin, and she definitely doesn't count.

"So, you wanna spend the day with me, Steve Harrington?"

Steve does, and he pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, and leans forward. Lips barely brushing Eddie's, "Oh yeah. I'm ready to open negotiations."

Later

It's loud, and Steve's getting shoved around in the pit. He doesn't mind. He could stand backstage, but he wants to be right here, front and center. Eddie can see him all night this way.

Corroded Coffin is doing their thing, and Steve's along for the ride. They aren't super famous, not a bit mainstream, but they fill ballrooms and small venues, the crowds stoked to see them.

Steve's thrilled to see them, thrilled to see Eddie, always. Third time was the charm. Steve finally met his match. Finally got a yes before the question had even left his throat. Eddie married him as fast as he could. Steve knows it's because Eddie didn't want Steve to stress that another engagement might fizzle out.

Steve was all in, and so was Eddie.

Eddie flips his hair off his shoulders, running his fingers under the neck of his t-shirt, fishing out a chain. Two diamond engagement rings clink together as they flop onto his chest. Steve leans against the barricade, grinning.

Steve considered them bad juju. Albatrosses. But Eddie started wearing them around his own neck. A talisman, he says. Good luck.

A point being made, Steve's sure.

Oh, you didn't want him? Well, good. He's fucking mine.

He's unhinged.

Steve loves him.

Loves that he took that flight, loves that he got drunk and rude and weird. Loves that Eddie rolled with it. Loves that of all the people in the world that could have been sitting in front of him, that it was Eddie Munson.

The one who would wholeheartedly love him back.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesongfics to follow along with the love! 🎵

#steddiesongfics #stranger things #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #thisapplepielife: steddiesongfics #thisapplepielife: short fic #steddie song fics #eddie x steve #platonic stobin #robin buckley

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hedwig221b · 2 days ago

Note

hello friend! hope u r doing well <3 i was wondering if u knew of any trophy wife!stiles? this might fall under the sugar daddy / baby category but just wondering :D

I do have a sd/sb fic recs and also have arranged marriage fics (does it even fit what you're asking I am a bit stumped but it's also past midnight). I've read the definition and I think some of mine fit pretty well actually

Yes To Heaven

Stiles ruined him. The damage was irreparable. He didn’t want the food that wasn’t made by Stiles or shared with him; the water tasted stale; the clothes were asphyxiating and scratchy; the air was wrong, wrong without Stiles’ scent in it. Fuck, what was wrong with him? How could that pretty little thing change him so much? He had an iron grip on his control before, being in tandem with his instincts, but within weeks, all of it was gone. As soon as he thought of Stiles, though, of his scent, his moans, and the little wrinkle on his forehead as he orgasmed, his mind settled. What was life before Stiles? Everything was somewhere far, far away, forgotten, bleak, and meaningless. Derek thought he knew what light was as he looked at the microscopic dots of the stars above. Then Stiles came into his life and showed him the sun.

Also this one

Take Me Away From Here

Derek Hale looked terrifying. With his broad frame and muscles, with his wild black hair and thick beard, with his eyes the color of blood and fangs of a killer. Despite his kindness and his apparent attraction to Stiles, he was still a stranger, a predator, a wolf. The thing is, Stiles would deal, but others might not. People found Lord Hale horrid, monstrous and unapproachable. If Stiles stood behind him, no one would touch him. He’d be safe with the wolf. If not from him, then definitely from everyone else. And that was enough.

also maybe these ones

The Thorns of a Rose by Dexterous_Sinistrous

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Peter suddenly commented, his tone light in his observation. Stiles stiffened at the mention of his mother. “Honest eyes,” Peter added as an afterthought. “Sunlit like the golden embers of coal burning in a forge.” Stiles turned a soured expression on Peter. “Have you a point?” He asked. “Many men have struggled to have those eyes even spare them a glance,” Peter simply stated. “An honest but naive treasure that managed to fool a dragon.” He placed the crown on Stiles’ head, amused when the boy immediately pushed away from him once the ornament was in place. “Hopefully those eyes can fool the Seven Kingdoms into thinking you could love a wolf.”

and the wild things roared their terrible roar by hoars

Derek as Khal Drogo (but set in snow beyond the wall) and Stiles as Daenerys Stormborn (although he's a greenseer of the Children rather than a dragon).

By Moon And Stars by kellifer_fic

"Have you heard of this Alpha?" Stiles asks, shuffling up his pallet so Scott has room to sit. Scott does with a grateful little twist of his mouth. Stefan forces him into the Stilinski ceremonial armor when they travel and Stiles can see that it's heavy and doesn't sit well on Scott. He can't shift encased in metal and Stefan knows it. "I know of him, mostly stories that seem a little fantastical. Shifters exaggerate just like common people. They like their war stories." "Tell me of him. Tell me a war story."

Think of instead, a girl worth fighting for by DorkFace

Propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look his husband directly in the eye, Stiles implored, “well, if you can’t stay, you at least need to promise you’ll return to me. Preferably in one piece!” “I can hardly bring myself to picture the consequences if I didn’t my love.” Derek chuckled, “you have my word.” --- OR King Derek is injured on the battlefield and no longer thinks he is worthy of his widely admired Omega husband, Prince Stiles, and has manpain about it.

[masterlist link]

#sterek #hedwig221b replies #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fic #sterek fanfic #sterek fic rec #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #sterek fanfiction #sterek au

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dismalflo · 2 days ago

Text

middle of nowhere

Sirius Black x fem!reader ✩ 3.7k words

summary: It’s summer camp - what should be a fun job quickly goes sideways thanks to Sirius. You both clash and he seems to delight in pushing your buttons. He’s wildly irritating… but maybe he’s not as unbearable as you think.

for this request here.

cw: Summer camp au, frenemies to lovers, reader and sirius are camp counselors, sirius is maybe a bit mean without meaning to be

an: this is the first part of a little series!! i'm not sure how i feel about this first part but i am excited for the next next chapter

It’s unbearably hot.

The kind of heat that doesn’t just sit on your skin – it sinks in. Heavy and unmoving. You lie back in the dry grass near the lake, limbs stretched and still, hoping you might trick your body into forgetting it’s slowly melting. The sun is relentless, high and hard in the sky, its light washing the world out into too much brightness.

There are layers of sun cream caked onto your skin. The camp must’ve gone through a million bottles by now, and you’re fairly certain at least half of that is slathered across your arms and legs alone.

Distant sounds rise and fall: a burst of laughter, the hollow thunk of a ball hitting something solid, the sharp cry of someone getting hurt and not bothering to hide it. But it’s all muted here, like the heat has its own gravity, pulling everything down to a hush. You and Maddison occupy a pocket of stillness just shy of the treeline, the lake breathing slow and quiet in front of you.

She’s sitting cross-legged beside you, small hands worrying at a blade of grass. A sweet kid, if a little shy. She’s figured you out well, how you won’t ask questions she’s not ready to answer, won’t speak into silence just to fill it. You make space for her because you remember what it’s like when the world feels too big, too noisy, too much.

When she finally speaks, it’s soft enough you almost miss it.

“Do you know any tricks?”

You shift your head on your arm, turning slightly toward her. “Tricks?”

“Yeah, like…” She shrugs one shoulder, eyes still on the lake. “Bird calls or something. Everyone else knows stuff. Cool stuff. I don’t really.”

There’s something folded inside her voice. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just the ache of wanting to belong. The other kids are kind enough, mostly, but it’s still hard to fit in.

You scan the shoreline absently. “You could... whistle with grass.”

She turns to you, puzzled. “What?”

“It’s a thing. You hold it between your thumbs and blow. Here.”

You pluck one from the ground – a wide, flat strip – and hold it up between your fingers. She leans in, eyes narrowed with interest.

You sit up just enough to grab a wide blade from the ground. She watches, close and quiet. You position the grass between your hands, thumbs together, just like someone once showed you when you were her age – on some long-forgotten summer afternoon.

The whistle that comes out is sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick air like something alive. Maddison jumps, startled, then bursts into laughter.

“That was so loud!”

You grin, a little surprised yourself. “Try it.”

You hand her a few blades to choose from. Her fingers are unsure, fumbling at first, but you guide her gently, thumbs over thumbs, until she blows a breathy whisper of a sound that almost qualifies as a whistle.

Her whole face lights up.

“I did it,” she breathes.

“Told you.”

She tries again, this time with more confidence – the whistle sharper, cleaner. When she clutches the grass like it’s a talisman, you don’t say anything.

Then, like a storm rolling in over calm water, the noise starts.

The unmistakable thunder of running feet and laughter rolls in from over the hill, followed by a voice you’ve learned to dread with Pavlovian precision.

Sirius Black.

He appears at the top of the rise, all grass-stained knees and wind-blown hair. A sleeveless shirt clings to his back, sunglasses perched too perfectly on his face. Somehow, he still looks like he belongs in a film. You’ve stopped trying to figure out how he does that.

Two rounders bats are slung over his shoulders like swords.

“All right!” he calls out, loud enough to startle nearby birds. “We’re playing rounders! I don’t want to hear any whining or excuses–especially from you, Danny.”

Danny flips him off without missing a beat. Sirius laughs like it's the best thing he’s seen all day.

Maddison sits up straighter, attention caught by the commotion. You can see the wheels turning in her head, curious, maybe even a little tempted. And of course, Sirius spots her. Spots you. His aim has always been infuriatingly accurate.

He heads over, crouching beside Maddison without hesitation. “Hey, Mads,” he says easily. “We’re forming teams. You in?”

She hesitates. Her eyes flick to you.

You nod. “Go on.”

That’s all she needs. She bolts toward the hill, the grass blade still clutched in her fist.

Sirius straightens, sunglasses slipping down just enough to reveal a single raised eyebrow and a smug, maddening smile.

Like: See? Even your shadow likes me better.

You don’t blink. “Do you want a trophy or something?”

He steps into your space before speaking. “No need. Their unconditional admiration is reward enough.”

You exhale through your nose. “Congrats, Black. You’re real popular with twelve-year-olds.”

“Don’t be bitter, sunshine,” he says, his tone taunting. “You coming?”

“I’d rather not.”

He shrugs, all breezy nonchalance. “Suit yourself.”

Then he spins on his heel and heads back down towards the lake.

You watch them go. Maddison’s practically skipping. And Sirius is soaking it all up. He’s good with kids, you’ll give him that. Too good. Like it comes wired into his bones.

Still, there's a sting that comes with him.

Maybe it’s because this isn’t the first time he’s strutted over, stolen your moment, and somehow come out looking like the hero. Or maybe it’s because every time you start to think, maybe he’s not so bad, he opens his mouth and ruins it.

It’s not just the noise, or the attention he draws like gravity. It’s that he’s always on, always pushing buttons. And for whatever reason, he’s made you one of his favourites to prod.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s jokingly called you stuck-up. His tone is always light and teasing, like it’s some inside joke you’re both in on. But it grates. Because sure, maybe you are quieter. More reserved. But that doesn’t make you cold. Or boring. Or stuck-up.

He doesn’t mean anything by it, you’re almost certain. But intent doesn’t make it feel any nicer. Not when you’ve spent years trying to unlearn the idea that being composed makes you less fun, less wanted.

So no, you’re not friends. You clash. Where you’re careful, he’s reckless. Where you build slowly, he dives in headfirst. And maybe the worst part is – beneath all of it – you can tell he’s not trying to make you feel small. He probably thinks it’s all in good fun.

Which just makes you want to scream into a pillow.

So you sit there, sticky with heat and sun cream and something else harder to name, watching him jog back down toward the others, the back of his neck catching sunlight like a spotlight.

You don't hate him.

But you’re not ready to like him, either.

The sun’s moved again, dipping just enough to soften the shadows, though the heat still clings on. A dragonfly zigzags past your knee, iridescent wings catching in the light. You should close your eyes, let the dull hum of distant activity wash over you. Let yourself drift.

But then–

“Y/N taught me how to whistle with grass!” Maddison’s voice cuts through the air, high and proud.

You hear the answering pause before the response. Then, Sirius’s voice joins hers. Warm, amused, genuine.

“No way. That’s a classic. Bet you’ll be better than me by Friday.”

She giggles, the sound light and effortless, and something twists under your ribs.

Sirius proving once again that he’s not all bad. That he sees people and gives them what they need.

You’re still not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You stand slowly, brushing grass from the backs of your legs, and try to shake off the haze of it all, Sirius’s voice still echoing in your ears, Maddison’s laughter threaded through it like a melody trapped in your head.

But there are things to be done. You check your watch. Barely an hour until dinner.

The next stretch of time passes in a blur of small tasks and routine. You help corral the younger campers for swim checks, lend a hand when someone’s flip-flop snaps and they dissolve into tears, untangle a poor girl's hair from her bobble. You refill water jugs, smile through sunburn complaints, and offer reminders about bug spray that everyone promptly ignores. Somewhere in there, a football glances off your shin. You’re still not sure if it was on purpose.

There’s comfort in the rhythm of it all.

By the time the bell rings for dinner, the sun has begun its slow descent behind the treetops, painting the sky in streaks of gold and rose. Campers begin to shuffle toward the dining hall in messy lines and noisy clusters, the din of chatter rising with each step.

You trail behind them, slowly with heavy legs. Sweat’s dried sticky on your neck, and the back of your shirt is clinging in places that make you want to peel off your skin. The dining hall looms ahead, buzzing with early chaos: trays clattering, laughter overlapping in a dozen directions, someone already shouting about pudding.

You find a seat near the end of the staff table. It’s quieter there. Not quiet, but manageable. Far enough from the worst of the flying cutlery and spontaneous food fights.

You’re halfway through dabbing marinara sauce off your schedule sheets – why you brought them in here, you’re not even sure – when the bench beside you groans under new weight.

You don’t need to look up to know who it is.

The bench dips under his weight with an unnecessary flop, followed by the rattle of his tray hitting the table. A sigh, too loud to be sincere, leaves his mouth as he drapes himself into the seat beside you. You can feel him watching the side of your face.

You keep your eyes on the marinara-stained schedule sheet.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” he says eventually, voice pitched low enough to slice through the noise around you. “Romantic dinner for two, complete with tomato-scented paperwork?”

You hum, unbothered. “Only if your idea of romance includes swim rosters and three broken whistles.”

“Don’t kink shame me,” he replies, without missing a beat.

That earns the smallest upward twitch of your mouth, but you don’t let it grow. You’ve been through this dance too many times.

“Shouldn’t you be over there?” you nod vaguely toward the middle of the dining hall, where Sirius’s usual entourage of junior counselors and impressionable campers are engaged in what appears to be a napkin-folding contest slash interpretive dance.

He leans in slightly, like he’s about to reveal something confidential. “I was. But then I remembered someone here enjoys my company immensely and would be devastated if I left her all alone.”

You glance sideways. “Pity Maddison ran off then.”

His eyes sparkle behind the sunglasses still inexplicably perched on his head. “You wound me.”

“You’ll recover.”

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t move away. Of course he doesn’t. He smells like lake water and sun cream, like grass and heat and the sharp, peppery tang of whatever body spray he overuses. You shift subtly, but not enough that it matters.

He exhales dramatically. “I’m exhausted. I think Danny tried to bruise me on purpose.”

You stab a spiral of overcooked pasta. “Good for Danny.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “So cold. I missed this.”

You roll your eyes, content to leave the conversation there.

“See?” he says, nudging your knee with his. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I weren’t here.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

“Only in the way people miss headaches when they’re gone. To remember how peaceful life is without it.”

The jab earns a sharp, startled laugh from Sirius – the kind that bursts out before he can help it. It draws a few curious glances from nearby tables, but you both stay cocooned in your corner, tucked just slightly out of reach from the dining hall madness. The noise blurs at the edges again. Voices filter in and out – forks clatter, someone shrieks about spilled squash, chairs scrape against the floor – but none of it quite cuts through.

Sirius leans back like he’s got nowhere else to be, arms stretched across the bench behind you in that careless way of his. Like he owns the space just by sitting in it. Like he belongs.

“So,” he says after a pause, drawing the word out like a thread, “some of us are going swimming later.”

You don’t look at him. “It’s barely dinnertime.”

“After lights out,” he clarifies, grinning. “Lake. Midnight. You in?”

You turn toward him just enough to catch the curve of his smirk. “You’re joking.”

His head tilts, sunglasses still perched uselessly on his forehead. “I never joke about nighttime rule-breaking.”

“That’s the only thing you do joke about.”

He shrugs, a picture of unbothered cool. “Still. Moonlight. Water. Adventure. Don’t be boring.”

You stare at him, flat. “You’re genuinely suggesting I sneak out to go swimming in the middle of the night.”

“Correct.”

“In a freezing lake.”

“Fresh is a nicer word for it,” he replies, eyes not leaving yours.

“You’re actually serious.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Every day of my life.”

You let out a groan and drop your head into your hand. “You’re exhausting.”

“Come on,” he nudges, voice warm and coaxing. “Live a little! or is it the fun part that's putting you off?”

“It’s the you part,” you say dryly, narrowing your eyes as he falls back into form with the joke at your expense.

He clutches his chest like you’ve physically struck him. “Wounded.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know,” he says, sighing dramatically. “Not even in your top five coworkers? That’s harsh.”

“Not even top ten.” you mutter.

“Horrible woman.” But he’s laughing again, eyes creased with genuine amusement.

He’s about to push it further, you can see the start of something insufferable brewing inside of him, when a small hand tugs at your sleeve. You glance down and find Leo standing beside you, tray in hand, eyes wide.

“Can I… sit here?” he asks softly.

You shift instantly. “Of course. Always.”

He climbs up carefully, knees barely clearing the bench. Sirius wordlessly leans away to give him space, arm retracting but heat still lingering. Leo settles in, eyeing the food like it might bite first.

“Still doing bracelets tomorrow?” he mumbles, stabbing at his mac and cheese.

You nod. “After breakfast. Me and Lily. You in?”

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but you catch the spark in his eyes. “I wanna make one for my sister. She likes purple.”

“Then purple it is,” you say. “We’ll find the best one we’ve got.”

He gives you a small, lopsided grin, and just like that, the conversation shifts. The space around you softens. Somewhere down the table, someone is swearing they saw a monster in the woods last night, and a heated debate breaks out over pudding portion conspiracies. You glance to your left again, but Sirius is gone. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d slipped away.

Later, after lights-out rounds and cleanup, after the children are tired and full in bed, you find yourself walking back along the gravel path to the staff cabin. The trees whisper above, their branches rustling in the slow breath of night. Your trainers crunch softly on the stones, the only sound that marks your passing.

And then, just before the bend, the lake comes into view.

The dock sits still and quiet, lit only by the moon’s reflection. The surface of the water is impossibly calm, silvered like old glass. And there, sprawled out across the wooden planks, is Sirius.

He’s lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily on his chest. His eyes are closed. Not asleep, just... still. The expression on his face is unreadable, softer in profile than you’ve ever seen it.

You freeze, caught somewhere between curiosity and unease.

You’d expected a group. Noise. Movement. Laughter echoing out over the water. But he’s alone. No midnight rebels, no splash or scream or even whisper of another soul. Just him, stretched out under the moon.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

You linger at the edge of the trees, hands tucked into your pockets, heart ticking with something uncertain. He hadn’t really expected you to come. It was just a joke, a throwaway invitation. He invites everyone. He doesn’t wait for anyone.

So why is he here? Why is no one else here?

The longer you stand, the stranger it feels to intrude. This stillness isn’t for you. Whatever has him this quiet, this still, it’s not for your eyes, you decide. So you step back, let the darkness claim you again, and leave him there beneath the moon.

But the image sticks. Long after you’ve curled into bed, it follows you: Sirius Black, alone and quiet under a silver sky.

The next morning, the sun is already high when you finish setting up for bracelet-making. The picnic tables are strewn with beads and string, plastic tubs arranged carefully. You run a hand through your hair and sigh. It’ll be a messy kind of morning, but manageable. Calm.

You expect Lily. You get Sirius.

He strides up, all smug swagger and sunglasses, hands on hips.

“Well, well,” he says, eyeing the craft table. “So where do you want me?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“Lily swapped with me,” he replies, far too cheerfully. “I’m your new co-host.”

“Swapped,” you repeat flatly.

“Crafts are good for the soul,” he says, spinning a neon thread around his fingers like a magician’s trick. “I read that somewhere.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were slagging this off two days ago.”

He grins. “Growth.”

Before you can question it further, the first wave of campers barrels into the space. Backpacks thump to the ground. A bead tub topples. Someone immediately starts chanting and shouting.

And Sirius – against all odds – steps in.

He moves through the chaos like it’s second nature. Crouching beside kids, helping them knot threads (badly), making up names for the beads (“This one’s dragon’s breath. Only use it if you’re brave”), and laughing when they laugh.

You watch, wary at first. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t overstep. You direct. He follows.

At one point, he tosses you a roll of string just as you’re reaching for it, and you catch it mid-air without thinking. The motion is easy. Natural. Like muscle memory for something you didn’t know you’d learned.

When the last camper finally leaves, arms full of tangled attempts and glitter-streaked foreheads, the silence that settles over the space is different. Not empty. Just full in a quieter way.

You’re sorting through the mess when Sirius wanders back over, holding something behind his back like he’s about to reveal a magic trick.

“Brace yourself,” he warns, eyes dancing.

You sigh. “This better not be another worm in a cup.”

“That was one time and you're the type to like worms. Anyway…’

With a flourish, he holds out the ugliest bracelet you’ve ever seen.

It’s a disaster. Pink and green threads clashing like enemies. Knots in all the wrong places. A single hot dog charm dangles from the center.

“It’s hideous,” you say honestly.

He presses a hand to his heart. “It’s bespoke. It’s… avant garde”

You try not to smile. You fail.

“I made it for you,” he says. “Wear it, or I’ll be distraught.”

You roll your eyes, but slip it on. The charm swings stupidly against your wrist. But it fits. Not well. But enough.

You glance up. “Happy?”

His grin softens, just a little. “Yeah. Actually.”

The moment hangs. Real and light and a little too fragile.

“I swear,” you mutter, “one day I’m going to punch you in the face.”

He leans in, voice low. “Would you consider anywhere else?”

The laugh comes before you can stop it, real and bright and entirely unguarded.

You shake your head. “You’re such a knob.”

And then, predictably:

“I didn’t know you could have fun,” he says, smile pulling a little too wide.

Your laugh cuts off.

You blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”

He falters. “I just meant—normally you’re so... composed. It’s good. Seeing this side of you.”

“Not being stuck up, you mean?” you say, arching a brow.

He winces and then scrambles for the right words. “Okay, yeah, that’s... yep. That’s what I meant but not in a dickish way. I just mean–”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, then sigh. “Sirius?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

And for once, he does.

The silence lingers. He leans back, watching you with that small, half-charmed, half-curious smile before turning to leave.

You shake your head. “See you later.”

“Not if I see you first.”

You turn back to the mess of string and beads, pretending to busy yourself, but your hands are still. Across the table, Sirius lingers for a beat longer – like he might say something else – but then thinks better of it. He gives a lazy salute and strolls off, humming some ridiculous tune under his breath.

You watch him go for a second too long.

It’s annoying.

And maybe a little bit... not.

The ugly bracelet still clings to your wrist, too loose, lopsided, ridiculous. The hot dog charm swings with every movement. You should take it off.

You don’t.

Because that’s the thing about Sirius Black:

He gets under your skin. Not in the charming way he thinks. But he’s there, irritating and loud and occasionally – annoyingly – almost kind.

You’re not friends.

Not really. Not yet at least.

masterlist <3

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #sirius black x reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x self insert #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius x reader #sirius black fluff #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fic #sirius black angst #sirius black #sirius orion black

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multiheadcanons · 2 days ago

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MERCS, LAUGHING!

scout: jeremy laughs like a hyena. loud, and shrill. almost gasping for air as he cackles. definitely a man who points and laughs. tears will come to his eyes if he’s laughing hard enough. normally begins with a snort. you know if you get a snort, he is absolutely trying not to laugh. he is doing his absolute best to not laugh. he is not going to succeed for long. and he laughs at damn near everything. one of his best traits is his sense of humor!

soldier: jane doe almost has an evil chuckle. he doesn’t really laugh as much as he chuckles. and he’s so pretty when he does it, too. his lips just break into a wide smile, and quiet breaths of him snickering to himself as he attempts to maintain composure are just precious. soldier’s sense of humor is dry, and almost rudimentary. you are guaranteed a laugh with a pun. or a knock knock joke. he’s also more than okay with a macabre joke or two.

pyro: pyro is a giggler. also unbearably cute to witness in person, it would be much cuter if they laughed at things that were actually funny. because it is not cute to watch pyro giggle and clap their hands at the head of the red spy. it is not cute to watch pyro bar doors and windows and set a rundown motel on fire, and then laugh about it, and throw an arm around you like you’re watching a movie. and when they look at you fucked up because you’re not laughing, it almost does make you want to ask what the fuck is wrong with them.

demoman: it’s so hard to get tavish to laugh. he’ll spare a chuckle here and there at a good joke, but getting him to laugh is almost herculean. but it is absolutely worth it. because if you can keep him chuckling, eventually you two start swapping jokes. and then you can get him to laugh. its hearty, and loud, and the warmest you’ll ever hear him. and sometimes he catches his volume, and lowers it with an apology. his teammates won’t tell him that they like when he’s in a joking mood. he’s better to hang out with that way.

heavy: heavy’s most genuine laugh is his snicker. he’s a nefarious man, with nefarious plans. and he’s in his best moods when a scheme is underway. he’s just got a glint in his eye, and as things fall into place, the places he put them, he just can’t help it. he lets out a quiet snort. a snicker. his lip curls up, and he will look away. he can’t give away that everything is going exactly how he wants it to. but if you’re watching, after you finish musing of how truly handsome he looks with a smile on his lips, you start to wonder what he’s got to smile about. he sounds like rough grit sandpaper rubbing against each other. “sk sk sk”. you know how things are going with him based on how often he’s laughing. he will roll on the floor laughing at a “how are you” if things are going his way.

engineer: dell’s laughter starts with a loud outburst. that’s also how you can tell he’s evesdropping. because you will be deep in the throes of conversation, and something will slip out of your mouth and he will let out one loud “HA!” in response. if you turn to look at him, he’s pretending like he didn’t just do that. but if you can see his lips, you can see the smile he’s fighting. as you reluctantly turn back to your conversation, he slowly gets closer, moving his manners as he listens in.

medic: ohh, doctor!! so this man has two laughs. there’s fritz’s laugh, and then there’s the medic’s laugh. and they are similar, but very different. the blu clad doctor, though it may seem hard to believe, does have a sense of humor. it’s just dark. somewhat macabre, and occasionally offensive, he won’t laugh unless everyone else laughs. then he laughs because they’re laughing. and it truly can hardly be called a laugh more than the monotone syllable “ha!”, sometimes accented with a “ha ha!” or a “haaah!” almost a victorious cry than an actual expression of humor. and then there is the medic’s laugh. the one that leaves him when he’s got a kill streak. the one that escapes him when a corpse falls in a particularly humorous way. and he barks laughter. and as you look at him, you almost think it’s not really a laugh. just another dog in desperate need of a leash.

sniper: the team almost wishes mick was not as funny as he is, because sniper cracks himself up more than anyone else does, and when he’s really laughing, he’s hitting people. punching shoulders, slapping thighs and backs and falling over his teammates as he— what i can really only call guffaws at his own jokes. higher up on the musical scale, but not nearly as pitched as scout’s or medic’s. almost like a crow. long and loud first laugh, followed by softer, shorter laughs. also laughs himself to tears!

spy: spy is a mouth coverer. generally a man with a very soft pitch in the first place off the field, and it being particularly unwise to be caught laughing, by anyone, usually, spy laughs in absolute silence. this is only disconcerting the first few times you witness it. because spy does not tremble in public. so in the times you turn to look at him, and all you see is his brow furrowed, and his eyes strained, and he’s just shaking with a hand over his mouth, you would think he’s crying. but if you go bother him, it all explodes out of him. and he laughs until tears actually are pouring from his eyes. at that point, he might wheeze out to get away from him. these are embarrassing straits to be found in.

#team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 pyro #tf2 soldier #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2 demoman #tf2 demo

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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

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Another Day, First Race - Toto Wolff 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

It was strange to walk through the paddock and not see Lewis Hamilton’s name on the garage board. Stranger still that it didn’t feel wrong.

Not because he wasn’t missed, of course he was, but because this weekend wasn’t about him anymore. It was about a beginning. A shift. A new era, new energy, new blood under the silver star. And that blood? Was her brother. Kimi fucking Antonelli. Seventeen. Ruthless. And somehow already taller than everyone else on the grid.

And she was here to see it.

Friday morning sun poured across the pit lane, already sticky with heat, and the first practice session buzzed through the air like static: engines testing, team radios crackling, engineers already sweating beneath headsets. She walked slowly, sunglasses on, her mum beside her, her dad trailing close behind as photographers tracked them, not with hunger, but curiosity. This wasn’t a media stunt. This wasn’t a red carpet. This was family. And the cameras, for once, seemed to know the difference.

Her father muttered something under his breath about how loud it was. Her mother was still staring, open-mouthed, at the Mercedes hospitality structure. “This is insane,” she whispered in Italian.

“I told you.”

“You didn’t say there’d be marble counters.”

“I didn’t know there’d be marble counters.”

They reached the inner barrier just as Toto turned. And oh, fuck. He was in black. All black. Tailored shirt, trousers, sunglasses low on his nose. Radio in one hand, lanyard around his neck, and that usual air of cool, collected dominance that made every man in the paddock subconsciously stand straighter when he walked past.

And the second he saw her? He smiled. Not big. Not theatrical. Just that quiet, slow smile that said everything at once. She’s here. I see her. I knew she’d come.

He walked across the garage slowly. No rush. Just control. “Welcome,” he said to her parents first, nodding politely. “We’re honoured to have you.”

Her mother beamed. Her father nodded with slow approval, taking in the professionalism, the cleanliness, the efficiency of it all. “And you,” he added, turning to her, “look exactly how I hoped you would.”

She tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

“Like you belong.”

She smiled. He leaned in. Brushed his lips across her cheek. Not too long. Not too soft. But enough for every engineer in the garage to notice. And adjust.

George came skidding into the scene seconds later, grinning and out of breath. “Did I hear the in-laws are here?”

“George,” Toto said without looking at him, “you have a practice session in ten minutes.”

George clapped her on the shoulder like they were old war buddies. “Nice to see you again. Sorry in advance if I crash into your brother.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. Her mother gripped her champagne tighter.

“I’m kidding!” George laughed. “Mostly.”

Kimi emerged from the side wing of the garage just then, already suited up, helmet under his arm. He paused when he saw them, his family, lined up like a very glamorous Italian crime family in the middle of a German racing empire.

His expression shifted. Just slightly. But she saw it. Relief. Pride. And, beneath that, quiet fear. She stepped forward. Wrapped her arms around him tight. “You ready?”

“I’ve been ready.”

“Good. Because if you fuck it up, Papa will disown you and Mama will fake her own death.”

Their father blinked. “I will not-”

“She’s joking,” their mother said, sipping her champagne with delight. “Mostly.”

Toto chuckled. Actually chuckled.

Kimi rolled his eyes and pulled his helmet on.

“Go get your telemetry, starboy,” she said, stepping back.

He nodded once, and just before disappearing into the back half of the garage, he paused. Looked directly at Toto. “You take care of them while I’m out there.”

Toto didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

Just nodded once. “Always.”

And somehow, for Kimi? That was enough.

The Mercedes garage was alive. Cables were coiled with precision. Tyres were already warm. Headsets were clipped to belts. Kimi stood beside the car in full race suit, visor down, his gloves white against the black carbon of the steering wheel. George was still bouncing on the balls of his feet like he had four shots of espresso and an unpaid gambling debt.

Free Practice 1 was minutes away. Toto was speaking to the pit wall over comms, a single hand resting on his hip, voice low and exact in that maddeningly calm way that somehow conveyed total authority without ever needing to raise in volume.

She stood just back from the heart of the chaos, between the towering stack of monitors and the sleek silver wall where the garage split open to the pit lane. Her parents were beside her, both quietly awed, her mother blinking around like she’d walked into the Vatican’s underground tech division.

And that was when one of the engineers approached. He was younger than most of the others, maybe late twenties, polite and pressed and already visibly sweating in his team gear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli?” he asked, voice raised over the low mechanical hum.

Her parents turned. “There’s a viewing platform just to the side of the pit lane, just beyond the yellow barrier,” he explained. “Team guests are welcome to watch from there if you’d prefer a clearer view of the track. We’ve got your champagne and water waiting. It's a good spot.”

Her mother’s face lit up. “Grazie. That sounds- yes. Yes.”

Her father nodded, clearly impressed by the professionalism. “Thank you.”

She smiled as they began to follow the engineer, but before she could join, a hand slid gently across the small of her back.

Toto. He appeared beside her like he always did, without warning, without noise, without fanfare.

His hand found hers like it belonged there. “Come,” he said, voice low, barely heard over the engines firing up.

She blinked. “Where?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just led her, quietly, deeper into the garage. Past the cordons. Past the engineers. Past the boundary where PR reps would normally stop the wives and sisters and girlfriends and hangers-on.

No one stopped him. No one even looked twice. Because everyone in that garage knew, she wasn’t any of those things.

He pulled out a chair. Right beside his own. Directly behind the line of monitors that displayed live data, split sectors, tire wear. The beating heart of the garage. He reached over to the desk, picked up a headset, and held it out to her. “They’re linked into race control,” he said softly. “You’ll hear everything.”

Her brows lifted. “You want me here?”

Toto looked at her fully. “I always want you here.”

Her breath caught. He pressed the headset into her hands and sat beside her, already slipping his own set on. And suddenly the rest of the garage faded.

She put them on. And the world changed. The chaos of the paddock dropped away. The background roar dulled to a soft hum. In her ears, there was only clarity. Engineer voices. Calm, clipped. Radio check-ins. Split times. And Toto, Toto, in the clearest tone she’d ever heard, giving precise instructions like he was controlling the weather.

She leaned in slightly. “This is insane.”

He didn’t turn his head. Just smiled faintly. “Wait until quali.”

She looked at the screen. Kimi’s out-lap had just begun. George was already testing brakes in sector one. The adrenaline hit her like caffeine. But not because of the racing. Because of the seat. Because of him. Because this was the seat next to Toto Wolff on race weekend. And he’d given it to her.

No explanation. No justification. No subtle placement behind the curtain, or PR-managed escort to some distant hospitality lounge. He had reached for her hand in front of everyone. Sat her at his side. Gave her the headset that made her part of the race, not just an observer of it.

She adjusted the band behind her ears. Rested one hand lightly on her thigh. And smiled. Toto didn’t look at her again for a while. But his fingers reached across, beneath the desk. Found her wrist. Brushed it once. And didn’t let go.

From the outside, it looked like nothing. A man in a black shirt. A screen full of data. Headset on. Hands still. But from the inside? It was orchestration. It was war conducted with whispered timing and aerodynamic reverence. It was him.

Toto sat beside her, eyes pinned to the monitors, one finger on his comms toggle, body unmoving except for the slow, deliberate tilt of his head when a split time changed. His voice wasn’t raised. His posture didn’t shift. But every time someone on the pit wall asked a question, every time the engineers relayed a number, a temperature, a note of concern, Toto replied like the situation was already solved. Like he had already thought two hours ahead and lived through the outcome in his head.

She didn’t speak. Not once. Just sat with the headset on, heart steady, listening. To the rhythm of his power.

“George, your lines through Turn 11 are clean. Carry that over into the next stint.”

“Copy that. Tyres feel solid. Brakes are talking to me. I think I’m in love.”

“You’re in a car. Don’t fall in love.”

She bit her lip to suppress a grin. Toto didn’t.

George’s laughter filtered over the channel. “Knew you had a heart under all that engineering.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You love it.”

“You’re fast today. I’ll forgive you later.”

And George was fast. He was composed, sharp, clean in his sectors. He hit apexes like they were personal vendettas. The commentators would be smug on the broadcast, they’d say Russell looks calm and confident, that’s exactly what you want from your team leader at the top of the season. They wouldn’t know that George had arrived at the circuit thirty minutes late this morning because he spilled coffee on his race boots and blamed it on Mercury retrograde.

But Kimi? Kimi was different. You could see it even through the data. The hesitation into high-speed corners. The late braking on lap three. The throttle hesitation just before Turn 7. He wasn’t driving badly. He was just young. Too sharp. Too there. Too in his head. And then, fifteen minutes into the session, just past his second flying lap, running medium compounds, it happened.

The rear snapped. Slick. Fast. Without warning.And the silver car pirouetted through the exit of Turn 12 like a figure skater on black ice. Yellow flag. Sector three.

“Kimi’s gone,” one of the engineers said quickly. “Car’s stopped. No impact.”

On screen, the car sat neatly at the edge of the runoff, facing backwards. Silent. She flinched. Her mother, watching from the platform nearby, touched her lips.

She looked at Toto. He didn’t move. Not a breath. Not a twitch. No reaction. Just stared at the screen. One hand hovered over the comms switch.

Then, he blinked. Took a breath. And pressed the button. “Kimi.”

Silence.

“Kimi, talk to me.”

The boy’s voice crackled through.

“Yeah. Sorry. I- yeah. I lost the rear. Didn’t feel it coming.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. What’s the car saying?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just… spun. My fault.”

Toto waited. The other engineers stayed silent. Then Toto replied, low, calm, so fucking gentle it cracked her open from the inside out. “It’s alright. That’s why we’re here. FP1 is for learning. Breathe. Reset. We’ll get you back into the garage.”

“…Copy.”

Toto leaned back slightly. Exhaled once. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. She was already watching. Like he was holy.

The recovery truck took five minutes to bring the car in.

Toto stayed silent most of that time. Listening. Thinking. Watching Kimi’s telemetry data cycle through, highlighting engine health, tyre pressure, break-off points. George came in shortly after, flawless session logged. He took his helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“How’d I look?” he said, pulling off his gloves.

“You looked like someone who’s finally learned how to brake into Sector Two,” Toto said, dry.

George beamed. “Character development.”

“You’ll need it.”

Kimi came in last. She saw him before Toto did, his eyes wide, jaw clenched, suit unzipped just enough to show the collar of his base layer. He didn’t look scared. Just furious with himself.

Toto stood. Met him halfway. Put a hand on his shoulder. “Good session,” he said.

Kimi blinked. “I spun.”

“You drove on the limit. That’s what I asked.”

“You sure?”

“You brought it back clean, other than a tyre. We got the data we needed. Now you know the edge.”

Kimi looked down. Then up again. Nodded once. “…Okay.”

Toto didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. The rest of the engineers knew to stay quiet. George saluted her as he walked past. She took off her headset as Toto returned. He looked at her. Fully. For the first time since the session started.

“Well?” he asked.

She reached for his hand. Twined her fingers through his. “You’re a goddamn force of nature." He smiled. Just a little.

“Don’t let it go to my head.”

She leaned in. Kissed his cheek. “Too late.”

The restaurant wasn’t fancy. It was dim, warm, tucked behind a steel gate just a few minutes off track. One of those places with mismatched chairs and low overhead lighting, cutlery wrapped in paper napkins, and a blackboard wall where guests left graffiti signatures in chalk. A local gem. The kind of place no cameras would dare linger.

And that’s exactly why they were there. Toto booked it. Of course he did. Of course he knew the one place near the paddock that served both steak tartare and quiet.

They’d taken over the back corner, two wooden tables shoved together, already covered in half-empty wine glasses and bowls of olives. Her mother sat at one end, practically vibrating with delight, asking Marcus endless questions about telemetry. George’s girlfriend Carmen, sharp, brunette, stunning, was tucked beside him, her heels up on the rung of his chair, sipping something citrusy and teasing George every time he tried to look cool.

Bono was next to Kimi. Calm, measured, already two beers in and still more coherent than George would be sober. Kimi sat slouched, hoodie on over his race tee, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and teenage fury. Across from him, her father was halfway through a bottle of red, already talking with his hands, telling Marcus that Kimi was “born on a go-kart and will die in a Mercedes.” And at the centre of it all, always, always, was Toto. One arm resting across the back of her chair. Wine glass in hand. Watching everything. Managing nothing. Because for once, he didn’t have to.

She sat to his right. Kimi sat directly across. Which meant the eye contact was unbearable. Kimi said nothing. She said nothing.

George said everything. “I think we should get matching tattoos,” he announced halfway through the burrata.

His girlfriend choked. “You and Kimi?”

“Me and the whole garage.”

Kimi didn’t look up. “Get ‘DNF’ across your forehead.”

George grinned. “Only if you get ‘I spun in FP1’ across your ribs.”

Her mother raised a hand. “What does DNF mean?”

“Did Not Finish,” Marcus replied politely.

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “Like how I never finished my degree.”

Toto laughed at that.

Her father did not. “You dropped out because of that Italian boy.”

“I dropped out because I didn’t want to do maths,” her mother corrected. “The Italian boy just made it more fun.”

Kimi looked like he wanted to die. George clinked his glass against his girlfriend’s. “To hot engineers and the men they ruin.”

Toto squeezed her thigh gently under the table. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

She just smiled, took a sip of wine, and kicked Kimi lightly beneath the table. He didn’t flinch. Just muttered, “I hate you.”

She grinned. “You love me.”

“Not right now.”

“Give it ten minutes.”

The food arrived slowly. Big plates of pasta, bread rolls no one asked for, more wine than should’ve been allowed. George started telling a story about how he once broke a simulator rig in Brackley by getting too aggressive with the throttle. Bono interrupted to remind him he was thirty-five minutes late to FP2 in Hungary last year because he thought Budapest was an hour behind, not ahead.

Kimi spoke less and less. Her parents didn’t notice. But Toto did.

Eventually, when the others were distracted, George showing a meme to Marcus, her mother asking Bono what engine mapping actually did, Toto leaned toward her. Whispered. “He’s quiet.”

She nodded. “He’s pissed.”

“Still?”

“Always.”

“I should talk to him.”

She sighed. “You could. Or you could let him sit in it a little longer. He’s seventeen. If you speak to him now, he’ll act like he doesn’t care.”

Toto raised a brow. “But he does care.”

She nodded again. “A bit. Which is why you should let him stew in the shame until tomorrow.”

Toto took a slow sip of wine. “Remind me not to cross you.”

She smiled, softly. “Too late.”

He smirked. Just slightly. “Noted.”

Eventually, the table loosened. Bellies full. Tension low. Kimi started speaking again, softly, then more. Her father ordered espresso. Her mother got up to leave the table and make her mark on the chalkboard wall with George’s girlfriend. Marcus promised to send Bono a link to that insane stat comparison chart. And Toto?

Toto stood slowly. Reached for her coat. Helped her into it. Pressed a kiss to her neck as she looped her arms through the sleeves. No one said anything. But the silence was charged.

And Kimi, watching from across the table, looked like he had something to say.

But he didn’t say it. Not yet.

The second the door to the hotel suite closed, it was like a thread snapped.

Toto didn’t speak. He just dropped the room key on the sideboard with a clatter, turned around, and walked toward her like the hours he’d spent at that dinner table, watching her sip wine, laugh at George’s dumb jokes, smile at her mother’s hand on her arm, had been an unbearable test of restraint.

She stood there, breath slow, coat still hanging off her shoulders.

His hands found her hips before it even hit the floor. He turned her. Pinned her to the wall. Pressed his body against hers, all height, all heat, all hard want beneath a black button-down and a tight, coiled patience that was about to snap. “You were doing it on purpose,” he said into her throat.

She gasped, head tilting back. “Doing what?”

His mouth was at her ear now. “Laughing like that. Sitting all sweet with your parents. Letting George flirt with you.”

“Jealous, Mr. Wolff?”

“I don’t get jealous,” he growled, dragging his hands down the front of her thighs. “I get even.”

And then he dropped to his knees. No hesitation. No warmth. Just precision. Toto Wolff, billionaire, team principal, apex predator, on the floor in front of her, yanking her dress up around her hips like he owned the fucking fabric, like it offended him to see her not on display.

She gasped, bracing against the wall.

“You don’t deserve this,” he muttered, kissing up her thigh, slow and rough, teeth grazing. “You really don’t.”

Her laugh broke on a moan. “Then why are you-”

“Because I want it.”

And then his mouth was on her. Open, wet, dirty. He didn’t tease. Didn’t flick or play or trace. He devoured. Tongue flat, relentless, his hands locked tight on her thighs, holding her still like he knew she’d try to run from it, from how deep he licked, from how filthy the sounds were, how soaked she already was from just his voice in the garage, from watching him command that pit wall like a god and then look at her like she was the only thing on earth that mattered.

She whimpered, back arching, knees unsteady, dress bunched around her waist, his name in pieces on her tongue. “Toto-”

He slapped her thigh. Not hard. Just enough to warn. “Quiet,” he said.

And she was. Because nothing made her wetter than obedience.

He didn’t stop until she was shaking. Until her hand slapped the wall and she gasped too loud, hips rocking against his face, riding it like she’d been taught to. Only then did he pull back, chin slick, breath slow. “You’re going to regret that,” he said, standing tall.

She was panting. Lips parted. Dazed. “Why?”

He unbuckled his belt. Pushed her toward the bed. And said, simply: “Because I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you.”

She didn’t even make it fully onto the mattress. He bent her over the edge, shoved her dress up again, yanked her soaked underwear down to her knees, and dragged his cock through her mess like he was checking the temperature before setting fire to it.

She whimpered. He grabbed her hip. Lined up. And thrust in. All of him. All at once. Her cry ripped through the room. “Shh,” he whispered, pressing his chest to her back. “Don’t want the team knowing what a whore you are for me.”

She was soaked. Raw. Ruined. But she grinned. “Too late.”

His hand fisted in her hair. Yanked her head back. Fucked into her harder. “That mouth,” he said. “You never shut up.”

“You love my mouth.”

“I use your mouth.”

She whimpered, clenching around him. He laughed. Dark. Rough. “Oh, you like that.”

She was already close. So close. Her knees were shaking, the bedframe creaking, her breath a jagged wreck as he slammed into her, each thrust brutal and steady, calculated like a lap time, like every angle of her was a turn to take cleaner, deeper, faster.

He slapped her ass once. Sharp. Filthy. “Say it.”

She gasped. “Say what?”

He pulled out. She whined.

“Say it,” he repeated.

She bit her lip. “Say I’m yours?”

He slammed back in. She screamed. He groaned into her neck. “Mine.”

Then he was done being careful. He bent her forward. Pounded into her like punishment, like hunger, like need that had no place at dinner tables or press days or pit walls. His hand wrapped around her throat from behind, not tight, just firm, just enough to hold her steady as he drove into her, sweat down his spine, teeth gritted. “You’re mine.”

“Yes.”

“My girl.”

“Yes-fuck-yes-”

“My mouth. My cunt. My fucking everything.”

She screamed his name when she came. So loud he didn’t bother to tell her to be quiet. And he followed. Hard. Buried deep. Spilling into her with a groan against her shoulder, body shuddering as he wrapped both arms around her and just held. Silence.

Then, “You’re not allowed to wear dresses to dinner anymore.”

She laughed into the duvet. “You say that every time.”

“And every time,” he said, pulling out slowly, “I mean it.”

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