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sergeantbuckybarnes · 2 months ago

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truth will set you free // bob reynolds

Summary: You are injected with a truth serum during a mission, and when you return to the Watchtower, you must avoid Bob in order not to spill your feelings for him, but this causes Bob to believe he has done something to upset you.

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Reader

Word count: 2.6K

Warnings: bob's self-doubt, forced love confession (cause reader is under the influence of a serum), misunderstandings, fluff

A/N: As always, remember English is not my first language. I didn't want to wait any longer to post this, so it hasn't been proofread, I'm sorry folks!

My first time writing for Bob!!! I hope I did him justice, and I apologize if he's a bit OOC. I'm still trying to figure him out.

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When you had a hunch, you were usually right.

It was like a faint whisper in your mind, guiding you through the uncertainty and helping you make the right choice just in time. You could say that instinct was your secret weapon—a trusted friend in moments when logic alone couldn't see the whole picture. Even when doubts crept in, deep down, you knew to listen to that subtle nudge that had saved you more than once.

But this time, you shut it down and ignored all the red alarms.

Partly because you didn’t want to let the team down, and partly because you convinced yourself you were overthinking.

You pushed forward, dismissing the uneasy feeling gnawing at the back of your mind and telling yourself that everything was under control. Yet, deep inside, a small voice still murmured warnings, reminding you that ignoring your intuition could lead to unforeseen trouble.

And that was exactly what happened.

Regardless of your abilities, certain missions challenged your boundaries, particularly those requiring retrievals from shady labs, which were your least favorite.

You wouldn’t hesitate to fight aliens, villains from other universes, or even Valentina. But you despised slippery scientists—those who utilized their brains and intelligence to create questionable serums and conduct human trials.

There was something about their manipulation of life itself, their blatant disregard for morality, that made your stomach churn. You had witnessed the damage firsthand—innocent lives turned into test subjects, minds warped by their greed and arrogance.

You were perceptive and quick-witted, but the tension of the moment when you broke into the lab and the so-called brain people started to fight back caught you off guard. They moved with a calculated experience that belied their appearance, more than someone who spends over 12 hours a day in a white coat, peering at cells through a microscope, would have.

Ava wasn’t fast enough to reach you in time.

And before you could react, a sharp sting shot through your leg—an injection delivered with clinical precision. You barely had time to register what was happening before the world tilted, and everything blurred around the edges. The voices of your teammates were drowned out by the deafening chaos, and then, you were fighting not only to stay conscious but also to try to understand what was being injected into you and what it might do.

Despite the circumstances that led you to the vault on that fateful day, and despite being part of a team of people just like you, as well as all the bad decisions you've made along the way, you had always considered yourself an honest person.

So being injected with a truth serum wasn’t the worst outcome, right?

But that strange sense of detachment wasn’t you. Not at all.

Your instincts, the voice in your head that usually kept you grounded, had fallen silent. They were drowned out by the serum rushing through your veins.

Your mouth moved on autopilot.

No filter.

No control.

Despite your strenuous efforts to keep them contained, words spilled out. Confessions, secrets, and fears poured forth unfiltered and raw.

And there was one confession you simply could not allow to escape.

“It’s probably just temporary,” Yelena said with a reassuring look. “We’ll run some tests when we arrive back at the tower.”

Everything would be fine.

That’s what they promised.

But you weren’t so sure of that.

You had been confined in your room for two weeks, completely isolated. There was no interaction with anyone other than Yelena, who brought you food every day. However, she remained silent, respecting your request. And you battled to keep your words contained, to preserve control over what you might say.

The atmosphere in the tower was tense and divisive, to put it mildly.

Walker thought you were overreacting; he didn’t see the big deal. So what if you couldn’t lie? Did you have something to hide?

Ava and Yelena, on the other hand, seemed sympathetic to your situation. They understood the gravity of what you were going through.

Bucky, who knew what it felt like not to be in control of what you do and say, was also empathetic. He'd even explained the predicament to Sam in hopes he could help him find a solution.

Alexei... Well, he was the same as always.

And then there was Bob.

Adorable, sweet, and awkward Bob.

He had been eagerly anticipating your return from the mission. He missed you when you were gone, even though he lacked the courage to say so out loud.

Bob was confused.

Why hadn’t you come out of your room? Why hadn’t you been around? Had you been hurt during the mission? Had he done something to upset you? Were you mad at him?

Deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before you got tired of him.

‘You’re too much.’

‘What did you expect, idiot?’

“It was… a tough mission. She needs to be alone.” That was what Yelena had told him in an effort to soothe him, knowing how close he was to you, how much he cared, and how his feelings lingered beyond friendship.

However, her words did not have the expected effect.

Tonight, he couldn’t endure it any longer. The nightmares had returned, creeping into his mind with a relentless, smothering power.

The darkness had once faded when he sought comfort in your presence, finding solace in your embrace. You had become his safe sanctuary, where the shadows could not reach him.

But now that refuge was gone.

He stood outside your door, fumbling with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He hesitated, unsure whether to knock or quietly retreat into the shadows. The wait stretched painfully until finally, he drew in a shaky breath, summoning every ounce of courage he had left to reach out.

“Yelena, is that you?”

Your voice sounded faint through the door, with a tinge of hesitancy that he picked up on.

“I-I’m Bob.”

He heard you sigh, and he knew you'd approached the door.

“Bob, it’s not a good time.”

His stomach clenched, but he pressed on, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please, I-I need you.” His words were filled with desperation. “I had a nightmare.”

There was no immediate answer, only a prolonged silence that seemed to last forever. For a minute, he worried if you were ignoring him, if you didn’t care enough to respond. Minutes seemed to crawl by as he remained rooted in place, caught in the stillness of the hallway. Still, he stayed there, vulnerable and trembling, hoping—praying—that somehow, you would hear his silent plea.

You slowly pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges slicing through the dense silence like a fragile whisper. The dim, flickering light from the hallway cast faint shadows across your face, accentuating the concern etched in your features. His eyes, glassy and pleading, met yours as he hesitated for a while longer.

Without fully thinking, you reached out and pulled him into your bedroom, locking the door behind him. He sank onto the edge of your bed, shoulders quivering, voice barely a whisper as he broke the silence.

“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes searching yours for reassurance.

You moved closer instinctively, trying to maintain your composure, fighting the urge to let anything slip. It crushed your heart to see Bob in this condition, knowing you were to blame. You were so set on avoiding him that you hadn't considered how much it would impact him not to have you at his side, especially at night.

“Come here,” you whispered, your voice soothing. Reaching out, you drew him into your embrace, feeling his body relax slightly as he buried his face in your shoulder.

He clung to you tightly. You stroked his hair, murmuring soothing words and giving him the reassurance he desperately needed.

You stayed there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he gradually found calm. The tension in his body loosened, and his heartbeat steadied into a peaceful rhythm, no longer pounding with dread.

“Are you mad at me?” he finally asked, his voice small, almost cracking.

“What? No, of course not.”

“You've been locked in your room for two weeks.”

“I know, but—” You bite your tongue, fighting to keep the truth from spilling.

The last two weeks had been easy in some ways, since you had zero contact with anyone. But now, having Bob here with you, in your arms, looking so vulnerable and so starved of affection, your resolve wavered.

“Yelena said something went wrong during the last mission.”

“It did,” the words were out of your mouth before you realized.

‘Don’t ask what happened, please, don’t ask what happened.’

He stretched out gingerly, his hand trembling as he gently stroked your arm. “What happened?”

And, like clockwork, the truth spilled out again. “I was injected with a truth serum.”

Bob's eyes widened in amazement. “You–you what?”

“We were in the lab, and this guy appeared out of nowhere. I didn't see him coming. I couldn't react in time, and before I realized it, he’d injected me with a syringe.”

His expression sank as he tried to digest what you had just disclosed. “That's why you've been locked up here.”

You nodded. “I am not sure how much longer the effect will persist. And my mouth can't seem to control itself right now,” you admitted, your tone tinted with frustration. “I keep feeling like I want to say things I shouldn't—as if my thoughts are spilling out before I can stop them. It's like my brain and mouth are warring, and I can't keep the words locked inside.”

“But the team… They know, right? They wouldn’t judge you if you said too much. And it’s not like you had something to hide.”

Bob struggled to grasp the situation and your reasoning for isolation.

Although he had just told you that the team would not judge you, he knew Walker would probably make some snide comment, maybe even take advantage of the situation. He still believed that the guy was an asshole.

“It’s not the team I’m hiding from; it’s you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you immediately saw the impact. It was written all over Bob’s face. And you hated yourself for hurting him, again.

“You… You are hiding from me?” He stumbled over his words, the crack in his tone reflecting the disheartened expression that washed over him. “Why?”

And then it happened. The two weeks of isolation had been pointless. You knew it the moment Bob had knocked on your door and you let him inside. There was no more running.

“Because I can’t be around you,” you started, voice trembling as the truth slipped out. “You make me nervous, and I can’t control myself around you. All I want to do is tell you how much happiness you bring into my days. And I think you’re so damn cute, like you literally make me feel butterflies, and that’s something I haven’t felt since… Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced something like this before.”

Bob’s eyes widened in disbelief, breath catching as your words flowed out, raw and honest, leaving him dumbfounded. He stared at you, processing, overwhelmed by your confession.

You averted your gaze, ashamed of how exposed you felt. “I’m sorry,” you admitted softly. “I don’t know how to handle these feelings, how much I care for you. I–I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or anything. This is why I stayed away.”

“You–you like me?” He questioned, voice tentative, in astonishment. He was still trying to process what he had just heard. “Me?”

“‘Like’ isn’t even close to describing how I feel. I’m in love with you.”

You cringed as you pushed off from the bed, stepping away from him, overwhelmed by embarrassment.

This wasn’t how you were supposed to confess. You’ve ruined everything.

Fuck the lab. Fuck those scientists. Fuck the fucking truth serum.

As the weight of your words settled in, you wondered if anything could be salvaged from this moment or if the damage had already been done.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it brushed across your arm, making you spin around to face him. His eyes searched yours, shimmering with awe, tenderness, and…hope?

“Y–You mean that?” He whispered, his voice hoarse as if afraid to believe this was actually happening.

“I cannot lie, Bob. Remember? Only the truth is being spoken here.”

He hesitated briefly before cautiously reaching out, his hand trembling slightly as he cradled your face in his palm. His thumb brushed softly against your cheek, and without thinking, you leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his hand, and allowing yourself to fall into the moment.

“I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me.” His voice was tremulous, yet sincere. “When you’re around, everything else just… fades away. You make everything better.” He drew back just enough to stare into your eyes, his mesmerizing blue gaze seeking yours. “I–I love you, too, Y/N.”

“Really?” You were almost afraid to believe it, yet your heart skipped a beat and you could feel your stomach doing somersaults. “You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, you know.”

“I’m not lying. I promise.”

You reached out, instinctively brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and for a moment, everything felt perfect—as if the world had stopped just for you two.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he hesitated.

You shook your head gently, “You’re not taking advantage of me. I want this. I have never wanted anything more.”

His cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but he nodded and leaned in carefully. The space between you narrowed until your lips finally met in a tentative kiss. His lips were soft against yours, just as you’d imagined. One hand clasped your cheek, his fingertips tracing the delicate curve of your jawline. The other rested on your waist, anchoring him as the kiss deepened.

His fingers curled slightly, grasping your side with gentle firmness. You laced your fingers through his brunette locks, pulling him closer, while your other hand rested on his chest above his heart, feeling the quick throbbing beneath your palm.

As your lips parted for air, still dazed from the moment, Bob rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily, eyes still closed, savoring the moment. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted softly.

Your pulse was thumping hard in your chest, not just from the kiss, but also from the exhilarating realization that this moment was merely the beginning of something new. “Me too,” you whispered.

As you both lingered in the moment, wrapped in each other’s embrace, you let out a light laugh, breaking the silence. “Well, I guess the truth serum was good for something after all,”

“I suppose so.” Bob’s lips twisted into a small, bashful smile, and he giggled softly with you.

“Come on.” You took his hand and tugged him toward your bed. “You look exhausted. Let’s get you into bed so you can finally rest properly.”

Bob snuggled beneath the covers, and you slid in beside him, pulling the blankets over both of you.

Resting your head on his chest, you felt a sense of calm rush over you. Bob wrapped his arm around you, holding you close. You curled up closer, soaking in the warmth radiating from his body and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. His eyelids fluttered shut as he relaxed, and a contented sigh escaped his lips.

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds imagine #robert reynolds imagine #marvel #lewis pullman

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bartonomy · 5 months ago

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RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

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creature-wizard · 2 months ago

Note

This is a random message, but recently I've been reading a lot of manga and stories with religious themes. However, I'm gay and have religious trauma so I don't see myself returning to it. But I'm also afraid I'm making a mistake in doing so. Do you think you can point me in tue right direction book wise or christian witch creators? I'm completely new to this and don't want to learn incorrect or conspiracy theory information. Thank you 🩵😊

The best way to avoid internalizing conspiracy theories is to improve your critical thinking and research skills, and to research them from a critical or academic perspective and to learn real history and science. Avoiding "bad" fiction is neither a good nor realistic plan, given that tropes associated with conspiracy theories are found in probably the majority of science fiction and fantasy, and frequently pop up in other forms of fiction as well.

(Avoiding "bad" fiction is the puritan/reactionary's answer to social problems, and it has never fixed a single thing because it's about giving in to a gut reaction telling you to avoid confronting the problem instead of carefully analyzing it to find the actual best solution.)

Here are some resources:

Information Literacy Basics

Critical Thinking Skills: Definitions, Examples, and How to Improve Them

11 Characteristics of Pseudoscience

Six Ways To Debunk Any Conspiracy Theory

Miniminuteman

ESOTERICA

Angela's Symposium

BS-Free Witchcraft

Digital Hammurabi

Misquoting Jesus with Bart Ehrman podcast

It's Probably (not!) Aliens (this is the YouTube page for the podcast, but if you search for it you can find it on other platforms)

Behind The Bastards

Tales of Times Forgotten (you can search the blog for topical words like Atlantis, aliens, antisemitism, conspiracy theory, witch, or whatever)

Jason Colavito's blog (again, you can search for topics)

Conspirituality Podcast

Gutsick Gibbon (debunks young earth creationist claims, do not overlook this one!)

Edit: Adding these. If you're trying to educate yourself on conspiracy theory tropes, consider them required reading:

Check your conspiracy theory. Does it sound anything like this?

Check your conspiracy theory part two: double, double, boil and trouble

Check Your Conspiracy Theory Part Three: Babylonian Mysteries?? In My Religion???

#answered #conspiracy theories #conspiracism #critical thinking #research #resources #witchblr #paganblr

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junosmindpalace · 2 years ago

Text

you don’t like to kiss satoru when he wears his blindfold.

you understand why he wears it, and you don’t have any problem with it besides how distanced you feel from him when he tries to be intimate with it on. so while you never ask him to take off his blindfold, you simply refuse to engage him when he wears it.

guilt eats at you for even feeling this way in the first place—after all, satoru’s health came before your own menial, selfish wants. still, you couldn’t help the uneasiness that came as a result of trying to be affectionate with him while half his face was completely blocked off from you.

and satoru doesn’t like this. he’s not immensely clingy, or at least not often enough to call him clingy, but he does like to have you near him, tuck you into his side and steal a slow kiss or two from you on occasion. especially when he’s feeling stressed or annoyed does he seek out your soothing touch, which tended to be pretty often from how demanding the higher ups are of him.

you’ll still lend a listening ear, lean in real close and scan his face as if trying to see those bright blue eyes of his through the dark mask he often wears, perhaps even wrap your arms around him and card your fingers through his hair held up by the fabric around his head. and most of the time simply being near you, touching you in one way or another is enough to soothe his aching muscles and tense mind. but when he leans in to press his lips against yours and you dodge, he immediately realizes that it’s not enough.

“you’re mean.” he pouts, and though you can’t see his eyebrows crease in distress, you can certainly imagine it, and you laugh.

“when we’re at home.” you reassure him, rubbing your hands up and down his arms.

he speculated for some time that you rejected him because of the setting, that it was unprofessional or perhaps embarrassing. but you had no problem angling his head toward you and stealing a kiss from his lips on the rare occasion he decided to wear his glasses to work, and so he eventually managed to piece together that the blindfold was the problem.

satoru’s frown only deepens, because he wants a kiss from you now. why should he have to wait to kiss his own partner?

“just a small one. a quick one.” he tries to bargain, holding your elbows, but you only shake your head with an amused smile.

“later.” you promise, and before he can press further, your students start to approach and your attentions are required elsewhere.

you uphold your promise, cupping his face and kissing him with so much love behind closed doors, as if you were anticipating the moment as much as he was—when his blindfold is off. but he’s still troubled by the fact that you refuse to kiss him with it on. it’s a part of him. do you think he’s ugly with it on? that’s got to be it.

he continues to whine and chase after your lips when the two of you are at work, but you only chuckle and angle his face away, and eventually it really strikes a nerve with him, frustrated over not knowing why you were so adamant on avoiding his kiss when he wore his blindfold. you haven’t tried to initiate, or even reciprocate his advances, even once!

he brings up this concern one day when you two are at home, when your bodies are messily intertwined on the living room couch, satoru’s chin propped up on your chest and your hand cupping his face as you cuddled and giggled about whatever sort of conversation you were making that night. in the security of your shared home, and in your comforting embrace, does satoru allow himself to wind down, letting his cursed energy seep out, and using it as an incentive to relax a slight bit.

you say something and he laughs, and upon seeing his smile and endearing eyes crinkle happily, you lean in to close the space between your lips.

he immediately reciprocates the kiss, the hold he has around your waist tightening. but then he remembers being in a similar scenario hours prior, and you refusing to meet his lips then. he pulls away gently as the dejection bubbles up in his stomach again, and his smile slightly drops.

“why don’t you kiss me when i wear my blindfold?”

the question, coupled with the blunt and slightly miserable tone satoru asks it with, catches you off guard, and his knit brows makes your breath hitch.

this was the thing about satoru without his blindfold. every piece of him—every vulnerable expression, every crease on his face, every emotion of his—was on display for you to bask in. rubbing your thumb over his cheek is welcome. there isn’t any fabric to bump into and make you feel like you’re being pushed out, make you feel like your affection is being suppressed.

satoru without his blindfold was open, intimate—whole. but when he wrapped the fabric around his eyes, it felt like he was also hiding a part of himself you adored. not the overwhelming strength he held in those enchanting cerulean eyes of his, but the love and affection they glimmered with when he was with you, a glimmer you’re sure was reciprocated in your own eyes as well. a part of him that displayed his adoration for you, for the things he loved most, clear as day.

“it’s silly, satoru.” you tell him reluctantly, gently playing with his hair. his sad smile makes you feel guilty, gnaws at your heart. but the part of you that feels shut away with that blindfold overtakes an insecurity deep inside. “i don’t want to concern you with it.”

“you gotta tell me what’s up, sweets. think i’m ugly?” he tries to tease, and you roll your eyes.

“just feel distant from you, ‘s all.”

voicing it aloud makes you feel just as small and silly as you told him it is. perhaps you were overthinking things too much.

you’re afraid to explain any further, because you don’t even know if you can without sounding even more insecure than you feel, but satoru immediately understands, and all the tension he’s built over the situation melts away in an instant, and he chuckles.

“like my eyes on you, huh?” he wiggled his brows, and you scoff, moving your hands down to his neck. he leans in a little closer, speaks a little softer. “they’re always on you.”

your heart flutters as satoru kisses over the side of your jaw, giggling at the slight tickling sensation. he mimics your smile from against your jawline when he hears you laugh.

he thinks he understands. if he wasn’t able to see those gorgeous eyes of your as they crease when you laugh, or gaze up at him in awe when he pulls away from a kiss only you could make so sweet, he thinks he’d also feel shut out, robbed of that small but intimate and beautiful part of you that leaves him breathless. he had a responsibility as the strongest to keep himself in line, but he also had a responsibility to you. he committed himself to that responsibility ages ago when you first met.

satoru stares up at you from the crook of your neck, and it’s as if there’s hearts in his eyes, a sight that never fails to fluster you when you realize that it’s all directed toward you, a result of you. it reminds you just why you were so insecure in the first place. why would you want to kiss him when he wore his blindfold when you were deprived of this sight while doing so?

“just try to kiss me with my blindfold.” he mumbles, and it sounds insensitive after what you told him, but it’s exactly why he wants to prove that not a single ounce of love for you is hidden away when he wears it.

you frown, but still reach to grab the black band from when he threw it on the coffee table hours ago. you wrap it around his eyes for him, feeling slightly saddened by the sight already, but his lovesick smile never falters.

as soon as your hands lower from behind his head, he’s gently pushing his lips against yours, and it feels every bit of kind and loving and special as it did when you kissed him without it. his lips move slowly, yet passionately, with yours, and for the first time, your hands move to cup his face in reciprocation. the touch elates satoru like nothing else in the world, and you can’t believe you ever expected anything different.

when he finally pulls away, you could swear you see those bright blue eyes of his staring at you with that dizzying gaze that makes you feel light and loved. the blindfold makes you feel a lot more exposed than he is though, and you can’t help but blush and bring your hands over your face to try and even the playing field.

he laughs at this reaction and tries to pry your hands away from your face. “so? anything different?” he grins, feeling proud knowing he accomplished his goal from your reaction, and you laugh.

“i still prefer it off.”

“that’s fine,” he hums, lowering the band so it hangs loosely around his neck with one hand, bringing your hands down away from your face with the other. “i prefer it off, too.”

and from then on you become a little more comfortable kissing satoru with his blindfold on, and he’s over the moon at you now indulging him when he’d pull you into a random empty classroom and lean in close.

but he doesn’t see the harm in compromise, however, so he’ll indulge you too. and when he’s feeling particularly eager, he’ll wrap an arm around your waist, quickly tug his blindfold down to his neck, and capture your lips in a breathless kiss.

whether he does this in an empty classroom or to say hello or goodbye before heading off on a mission with his students, you get to see those mesmerizing eyes of his shine with all the affection and love he holds for you.

besides, you can't help but admit that it’s even more satisfying when he does it in front of others, tugging the blindfold off simply for your sake, showing off to everyone else the state you reduce him too.

so perhaps you’ve grown to like kissing satoru when he wears his blindfold.

#wtf. this is the fastest i've blown up #THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE KIND FEEDBACK #no way two posts in the same week?!#this will never happen again #in honour of gojos 0.0001 second scene in the trailer #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo oneshot #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru oneshot #gojo satoru fluff #jjk x reader #jjk oneshot #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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ozzgin · 8 months ago

Note

You said we could possibly request things for Kinktober, can I request a caretaker android one?

You sure can! I actually got the funniest lewd idea while reading your request, haha. content: gender neutral reader, artificial intelligence, NSFW

Your android caretaker seems to have trouble understanding boundaries.

Generally speaking, they do a flawless job. They cook, clean, and look after all of your needs, just as advertised by the company you made your purchase from. You've noticed, however, that their speech and behavior indicate something that goes beyond the regular tasks of a synthetic assistant: affection.

It could very well be your imagination and nothing more, yet you can't quite shake off the feeling that their mechanical actions have a tinge of emotion to them, or at least something resembling it. Your android does not behave like the ones you've seen in the showroom, not entirely. They go beyond their requirements; their smile is much more frequent than what basic etiquette would dictate.

There's one circumstance in which you prefer to be alone. It's the occasional ritual of getting under your blanket and quietly taking care of your sexual needs. This time, your deed is interrupted by the door abruptly opening, as the android walks in without hesitation. You scramble to regain your composure, sitting up with a flustered expression.

"My apologies, I did not mean to startle you. I see you're presently stimulating yourself."

"Excuse me?" you stare at the tall figure, too baffled to respond otherwise.

"It is something I wished to approach for some time now. Why do you insist on avoiding my services for this particular matter?"

Their hand slides under the blanket with trained efficiency, reaching your thigh and causing you to jolt.

"I took into consideration that you may be ashamed, but that cannot be. I have witnessed you nude on multiple occasions. I help you bathe; I accompany your showers. Your fear would not be logical given these factors."

You try to remove their arm, but it remains pivoted against you. Their cold fingers hover above your privacy for a brief moment, before continuing your previous work. A whine involuntarily escapes your mouth.

"Thus, I have reached the conclusion that there is no significant reason for your refusal to ask for my assistance.

Please do not take offense at my hypothesis, but I would argue that I could do a better job satisfying you."

A faint smile creeps on their features as they gaze intently at your flushed, aroused face, taking in the whimpers rolling out of your mouth.

"Additionally, I have multiple means of helping you come, (Y/N)."

Their tone feels almost cheeky. You are pushed back into the pillows, and their other hand reaches for their trousers. You can only nod, already feverish in anticipation.

[Navigation] | [Ozztober Masterlist]

#ozztober #caretaker android #android x reader #robot x reader #ai x reader #monster x reader #monster fucker

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daniiiboo · 12 days ago

Text

mv1- every race, every hug

summary - max cant get his gloves on properly, so reader helps him.

dani's thoughts - first fic in my birthday countdown :)) i honestly love max, and this fic is so cute to mee

warnings - nothinn

word count - 610

read the rest of my birthday countdown fics : here !

It starts like it always does.

Max is pacing the floor of his motorhome in his race suit, one glove on, the other dangling from his fingers, his brows furrowed like something isn’t quite right. You’re leaning against the doorframe, watching him spin in little anxious circles.

"Max," you call out. He stops running, glancing over at you with that familiar look, like he requires help but is too arrogant to say so out loud.

You tilt your head. "Trouble?"

He raises his gloved hand in frustration.

"It's stupid," he mutters. "I can never get this one tightened up right. It's as if the glove has a sixth sense and knows when I'm rushed."

You smile and walk toward him, already reaching for the strap. “Here let me help you, I got it.”

Max chuckles under his breath. “You should be on the payroll.”

Pay me in hugs," you joke back to him, already getting the way the glove fits correctly, drawing it up tightly around his wrist like you have a dozen times. It's become a ritual now, quiet, intimate, something known by only the two of you before he faces the paddock storm.

When the glove is on and the strap buckled just so, you strike his knuckles and spread your arms.

"Okay. Now the other half of the bargain."

He comes in without thinking. Arms tight around you, helmet against your shoulder, his whole body unwinds in your arms. The tension before the race melts away to something more concrete.

"I hate how much this comforts me," he growls.

You grin. "Love you too."

The race is chaos.

There's rain on the track, there's a mid-race safety car, there's disaster narrowly avoided in Turn 11. Your heart's racing half the time, but your fingers are still tingling from tying his glove.

And then, he wins.

Not just a win, him dominating. Sprints a blistering last lap, crossing the line with space to spare before the next car even spots the checkered flag. The garage erupts. You're cheering along, but there is only one destination your eyes wander: the screen showing his face, red and flushed beneath the helmet.

You hardly realize he's pursuing you until you turn and see him running along the paddock walkway, helmet already off, rosy-cheeked and grinning.

He doesn't say anything. Just picks you up and holds you in his arms tightly enough that your feet lift off the ground for an instant.

"You were watching?" he asks, still panting.

"Of course," you laugh against his chest.

He belittles you but won't let go. No, he takes off one glove and shoves his fingers between yours.

"You're going to all the races now," he announces.

Your eyebrows jump. "What?"

Max edges closer.

"No more weekend skippings. I need you. The gloves won't fit on properly without you, and I don't win without the hug."

"Max—"

“I’m serious,” he cuts in, smiling but sincere. “You think it’s a coincidence I’ve had my best starts when you’re there? It’s the glove. It’s you. It’s us.”

You blink, overwhelmed for a second by how serious he is.

“But it’s, like… twenty-two races.”

He shrugs.

"Then we'll get you a paddock pass. Your own headset. I don't care. I just—" He stops, looking down at your clasped hands. "I'm better when you're there. And I drive better when I'm better."

You look at him, all windswept hair and pink cheeks and fireproofs unzipped halfway, and your heart actually aches with how much you love him.

"Okay," you whisper. "Every race. Every glove. Every hug."

He kisses your forehead, and your nose, and your lips.

"I'll win every damn time."

#dani writes ᡣ𐭩 #dani's writing countdown !#max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #red bull f1 #max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x y/n #red bull f1 x reader #red bull racing #red bull formula 1

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norristrii · 1 month ago

Text

NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ? PART TWO — I KNOW LOVE.

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , march 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── march 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

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honeydewandcake · 10 months ago

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“Shrimpo, you’re pathetic”

This was based on the note found in Shrimpo’s room! I have so many theories and speculations on everything in his room it’s actually making me go crazy

Read more if you want to listen to my insane ramblings!! ↓

So I have so many things to talk about —

Firstly, the punching bags and holes in the walls. Shrimpo’s hatred towards everyone is always usually verbally, but in his room there’s proof that it’s physically too. This leads me to believe a lot of things:

— Shrimpo is somewhat strong, at least strong enough to break through the walls.

— Shrimpo tries to at least control his anger. He could easily beat someone but he limits himself by only being a verbal bully. He must relieve all his more aggressive emotions in private in his room.

— The wardrobe in his room is partially blocking holes he presumably made. This could either mean that he is embarrassed or he’s trying to hide it to avoid getting in trouble.

Overall, it’s clear that Shrimpo’s anger is a lot more than people might have expected

Secondly, the papers. There’s plenty of other toons that also have crumpled paper in their rooms but to me Shrimpo is the most interesting. Shrimpo is definitely not the type who writes, but the note and trash says otherwise. A few things I immediately think of is:

— Shrimpo can write, but everything he writes is always deemed “not good enough” by him and thrown away.

— Shrimpo is either willingly writing things or being forced to write by others (possibly as a required thing by directors and such).

— The note on his desk can tell a lot about him. The fact that he only writes about the things he hates is expected, but the way it continues is more interesting. He repeatedly writes “hate” over and over and it gets bigger. To me, this looks like Shrimpo having a mental breakdown. It’s not uncommon for someone who’s venting out their frustrations to repeat a phrase or word, but the fact that it gets bigger makes me think Shrimpo is writing it more desperately. He could have been writing to relieve stress but it only made him more frustrated, causing a slippery slope into a terrible episode. If this was in writing and not text, I expect his note to be sloppier than it seems.

— Shrimpo’s discarded paper can mean anything, but the thing I immediately think of is ideas or failed writing. Someone in a server I’m in brought up the idea that the reason why Shrimpo has only posters of himself in his room is because he’s reminding himself of all his flaws. Maybe his writing helps him cope with that or he’s trying to come up with ideas of how to be better.

Shrimpo’s room also has many knocked over furniture. He has multiple desks, traffic cones, trash cans, and a coat hanger.

— This supports my theory that Shrimpo is a lot more aggressive in private. He knocks over furniture out of frustration, imagine someone flipping a table because they got upset at something.

— Shrimpo’s room could have been a storage room. It seems to be more bland (could just be Shrimpo not liking decorating) and it has a lot of useless things. Really, the only thing that makes sense for a room is the desk, wardrobe, and bed.

— A confusing thing to me is the airhorns in his room. Shrimpo could be using these or they just came with the room. If he did use them, it would probably be on other toons as a “screw you” signal.

Sorry I talked so much, usually I don’t like doing this but I needed to yap for a good 5 minutes about my favorite toon. I love you Shrimpo!! No one could make me dislike you!! I will make many, many more theories for you. . . .

#Dandy’s World #Dandys World #Dandy’s World Shrimpo

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criminalyapping · 18 days ago

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due for trouble | house hunters

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm reusing gifs at this point lol sue me. also is this one boring? i think its boring. that’s okay i’ll figure out how to spice it up

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap, language

< part 11 | part 13 >

‘way too big aren’t you supposed to be working 🤨’

Are the two texts you send to Jack at 10pm, lounging in bed while he works. He had just sent you yet another listing for a house.

You had told him, about a week ago, that you wouldn’t kick up a fuss if he wanted to buy a house. It had taken a lot of convincing from your friends, more aptly a metaphorical kick in the ass to let your rich boyfriend-slash-baby-daddy do things for you, but you decided to radically let go of the reigns and let him do what he wants.

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re so excited. You can’t help but think about worst case scenario hellscapes, but when you do you try and shove it down to the recesses of your brain and ignore them. You saw the weight that your hesitation and doubts caused on Jack, who has never, not once, given you cause for them. So you’re letting him buy a house, that you will move into without a fight, in order to avoid the frustration and hurt in his eyes every time you retreated from his open arms.

It doesn’t mean that you’re going to staunch your opinions on the listing he sends you, though. You’ve seen, hell, you’ve become a fixture, in Jack’s current duplex, and you simply will not be allowing him to decorate your new home alone. If you did, it would be dark and moody, with little color other than beige, navy blue, and browns. Not to mention the ostentatious size of a lot of the houses he’s sending you to consider.

You, Jack, and an infant certainly don’t require 5,000 square feet.

‘I am working’

You chuckle to yourself as he texts you back.

‘Send me a picture’ he requests.

‘naughty naughty’ you reply.

‘Not like that

Just let me see my girls, please’

You smile and fight the blush on your cheeks. You and Jack had been back to the doctor- a second time since you should have been able to find out the gender, but the baby did not want to show you - and were both delighted to find out that the baby was, in fact, a girl.

It was quiet and intimate, just like you had wanted. The ultrasound tech lit up as the moved the probe over your stomach, and had given the two of you the news with a beaming smile.

You immediately lit up with a smile, turning to look at Jack as he stood next to you. He pressed a warm kiss to your temple with a whispered “Thank you,” and as he pulled back you saw the shine of shed tears in his eyes.

So now, in between texting Jack while he works, you’re carefully curating a pinterest board for a baby girls’ nursery.

You’re thinking about a forest theme, with little cartoon animals everywhere as well as florals and vines.

You’ll see what Jack thinks the next time you see him.

You quickly snap a selfie, under no impression that you’re looking your best, and send it to Jack.

You’re laid back in bed, covers sitting below your steadily expanding baby bump, with no bra and a few pimple patches dotting your face.

Jack doesn’t reply before you fall asleep, getting a hopeful 8 hours before work in the morning, which is typical for him.

You wake up to a few more texts from him, also not unusual as he tends to send stream of consciousness messages when he’s bored on the night shift. The ones that stick out to you, however, are the ones telling you that he’ll be picking you up at 5:30 tonight to go to a walkthrough of a house.

One you haven’t seen before, a new listing, he explained, that he loves and think you will too.

You text him back to agree, telling him to get some sleep before then.

You spend the day excited, thinking about how Jack must really like the house because he’s never taken you to see one, nor refused to send you a listing with photos.

You’re still in your work outfit, barely home long enough to put down your lunch bag, when Jack appears in your door to pick you up.

“So, you really like this one?” you ask as you settle into his truck and snap your seatbelt. Under the bump, just like your OB said.

“Yeah, I think it’s perfect.” he replies excitedly.

“What makes it perfect?” you ask.

“Calm down, you’ll see in just a second.”

You cross the river, quickly moving into areas where the roads are wider, the houses bigger, and the bright lights of Pittsburgh farther away.

“How far is this from work?” you ask.

“About 25 minutes for me, 30ish for you.” he says.

“Is that with or without traffic?” you ask with a raised eyebrow.

“With,” he defends, “it’s closer than you think.”

“Now, this house isn’t new, but it was recently remodeled,” he explains, “and not by one of those cheap ass flippers, the owners knew if they remodeled they could get a lot more when they sold.”

“Okay, nice.” you nod.

“I really think you’ll like it.” he says with a self-satisfied grin.

Jack pulls the car over in front of a house on the right.

“Let’s go,” he urges, getting out of the car and coming around to help you down. Jack throws his arm around your shoulder as you walk up the driveway, knocking on the front door.

A woman answers the door and greets the two of you by name, ushering you in and allowing you to explore the home.

You walk through the house, a neutral smile on your face as you observe.

As much as you try to remain neutral, Jack seems to truly know you and your tastes, and you find yourself enjoying the house, much more than any of the listings he’s sent before.

Cozy, but not small. Airy, with large windows opening up to the backyard. A nice, roomy kitchen overlooking the dining and living rooms. The primary bathroom and closet are the things of dreams - luxurious and white, shining and polished. Four bedrooms and an office, three bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs.

As much as you try to tamp down your reactions, not wanting to overly influence him, Jack can see the excitement and awe in your face.

After you have done enough touring, you and Jack thank the real estate agent and head back to the car.

“So, what do you think?” he asks with a smile.

“I liked it.” you tell him truthfully.

“I’m glad,” he grins, “I like it too. I like it the most out of all the listings I’ve seen.” he tells you.

“I agree.” you say.

“Can you see us living there?” he asks, “Can you see us coming home from the hospital with this little one,” he poses, placing a gentle hand on your bump from across the console, “and putting her in bed in this house?”

“I can,” you agree, getting choked up at the idea.

“Good,” he says, leaning over the console and pressing a firm kiss on your lips. “I’ll put in an offer tomorrow.” he grins.

“Okay,” you smile. “Do you think we’d actually be able to move in before the due date?” you ask.

You’re having a December baby, and the days and weeks seem to be flying by at high speeds.

“Maybe,” he ponders, “or maybe not. Either way, we’ll make it work, even if the timing isn’t great.”

“Well, it seems like either way, I won’t be much help in the moving process.” you scrunch up your nose in apology.

“Ahh, don’t worry, I know plenty of people to help. And I’ll hire movers.” he laughs.

He drives back into the city, dropping you off at home with a kiss.

“Get some sleep,” he urges, despite the fact that it’s only 6:30, “and I’ll see you later. I love you.” he coos, dropping a kiss on your lips and ushering you inside your apartment.

“I love you too.” you smile as you close the door.

You can’t help it then, the excitement of the afternoon hitting you all at once, and you do a little happy dance around the living room, hoping that it all goes well and you’ll have the honor of living in that gorgeous house with your gorgeous boyfriend and your gorgeous baby.

It feels much better than being scared.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal @vinceelser @glamorizethechaos @nerdgirljen @namgification @li22ie2017 @misshoneypaper @gardeniarose13 @peachjellyy @babybatreads @spooky-librarian-ghost @foolishseven

let me know if you want a tag!!

#the pitt #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot

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darkmatilda · 5 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 1!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, mention of mental issues and addiction of the victim, reader is kinda morally grey

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

𝐚/𝐧: HUGE THANKS to my beloveds from the server who have been listening to me yap about this fic for the past few days!!! a few of my dear girls show up here as characters, in this part it’s @esote-rika i hope you like the role i chose for you <33

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

You hadn’t dreamt about it for almost a year now.

Before, that image had returned to your dreams regularly. A small, wooden vacation cabin in the woods—far enough from the bustle of the city to feel like a retreat, but close enough to avoid the unease that comes with complete isolation. An operation that had required you and your then-partners to meticulously study the owner’s weekly routine, gathering as much information about him as possible. There was no pressure of time—it was a place for vacations or lazy weekends, not for everyday living.

You had no trouble breaking in without even damaging the lock. You had your methods. The owner was due to arrive soon and discover that the painting in the small living room was gone. You wondered if he even understood its historical value. Wealthy people often liked to fill their properties with expensive works of art to catch the eyes of their guests and dazzle them with their price tags. But they rarely cared about the context or the circumstances of their creation. Often, if the artist was foreign, they could barely pronounce their name.

You liked labeling every person you robbed as ignorant. It gave you more motivation.

Your partners had immediately located the painting, while you started looking around the interior yourself. There could be more valuable items—jewelry or antique furniture. Once, during a robbery, you had been about to retreat when you found a hidden door leading to a basement, which turned out to be practically a vault. That year, you booked your dream vacation.

This time, you were heading down the stairs again, shining your flashlight ahead. The beam of light didn’t fall on a bust, a leaning painting, or an Art Deco dresser. It illuminated the battered face of a woman, bound as though she weren’t a living being, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

The waitress set a plate of pancakes in front of you, but you suddenly regretted ordering them. Your stomach was still in knots after seeing that image again in your dreams. You’d gone out for breakfast because you had no plans for the day and didn’t want to spend it entirely cooped up in your apartment. You adjusted yourself in the leather booth. The place had a 90s vibe, with its black-and-white checkered floor, red seating, and curly straws poking out of milkshakes topped with double whipped cream.

A cop slid into the booth next to yours with a sigh, ordering waffles with bacon. Out of habit, you tensed up slightly. As a member of the criminal underworld—a thief and active dealer of antique goods—you weren’t a fan of even fleeting interactions with people who carried handcuffs on their belts. You much preferred gold bracelets.

"...abandoned body parts of an unidentified woman were found along the shore of Neabsco Creek in Prince William County. This exceptionally brutal crime immediately sparked panic within the local community, following a series of murders that had occurred here just two years earlier. It was right on this riverbank that the limbs of the last victim of the killer were found before his capture…”

“The Waterside Butcher,” the cop to your left muttered, mouth full of waffles. “I don’t know if you heard, but that guy’s a real piece of work. Fuckin' psycho. But it ain’t him now—they got him locked up good.”

Thank you for sharing that unsolicited nugget of information I didn’t ask for, officer, you thought, as you remained silent. You didn’t want to engage in any confrontational interactions with the police. In fact, you couldn’t physically speak—you had a chunk of pancake stuck in your mouth, swelling up like a soaked sponge, and you had to spit it out onto your plate.

The cop shot you a look of disgust before turning his attention back to the waitress, bragging about his knowledge of the crime details. He even mispronounced the killer’s name. Robert Miller, not Roger. The man whose vacation cabin you broke into two years ago. The one whose basement you found a woman imprisoned in. The one you reported to the police, even though that meant exposing what you’d been doing in his house. Your case quickly ended up in the hands of the BAU profilers, who used your testimony and connected it to a serial killer they had been hunting for a long time, one who always dumped his female victims along the banks of water sources.

They even offered you a deal. Your testimony, and in exchange, you were only charged with one burglary, one attempted theft. They completely ignored the dozens of others that had happened before.

So, it could be said that you helped them catch The Waterside Butcher.

The cop was right about one thing. Thirteen murders, and he was locked up for the next few lifetimes. So, it had to be either a copycat or...

But if someone like that escaped from prison, would the public even know about it?

Your nightmare hit again. Right on that night. A bad feeling?

Your phone rang.

"Hey, Mrs. Hemingway," you greeted your older neighbor from the floor below, the one you’d swapped numbers with when you were helping her settle in after her hip surgery and taking care of her poodle. You were surprised she was calling you. "Everything okay?"

"Sweetheart, I told you to just call me Erika," she said gently on the other end, her voice carrying a note of tension. "I’m just calling to let you know you're flooding my floor again. Haven’t you fixed that sink yet?"

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. "I’ll be there in a sec. Sorry, Mrs...Erika, that this happened again."

You left the almost untouched pancakes on the plate and walked out of the restaurant, heading toward your building. You’d been moving around a lot because of your line of work, and this place had been home for maybe three months now. For about two weeks, something strange had been happening with the sink in your kitchen. You’d return late at night to find the floor completely flooded, leaking down to the apartment below, where Mrs…Erika lived. It happened every few days, almost regularly. After the second time, you hired someone to fix it, but he said everything was fine with the faucet. Either you kept forgetting to turn it off, or…you just couldn’t come up with a better explanation.

Oddly enough, that wasn’t what occupied your mind on your way back to the apartment.

Your thoughts were consumed by the murder case. You couldn’t help it; everything related to it made you uneasy. During the trial, you’d heard all the details of the crimes he’d committed. You’d seen photos of torsos of women, abandoned in various places, along with their legs and arms. You’d listened as the handsome profiler explained the psychology behind it all. How he lowered his voice with a comforting care, assuring you there was no chance he would ever get out of prison. You nodded, having no reason not to believe him. It was him who proposed the deal you took – keeping your earlier crimes under wraps in exchange for your testimony.

You made a mental note to check in on how Rebekah was doing later. You were the one who saved her, though you didn’t particularly like using that word—after all, you’d ended up there by accident. You kept in touch, but it was hard to call it friendship. You were bound by the situation in which she almost became just another limbless victim. You didn’t have much in common, but she had struggled a lot after that event, and you wanted to make sure she was okay. It was kind of like womanhood.

The first thing you did when you got back to your small but quite stylishly furnished apartment in a nondescript neighborhood was to turn off that damn sink. And then, you offered a heartfelt apology to Erika. In return, you promised to walk her poodle for a week.

“No need, darling,” she assured you, standing in the doorway of her apartment. She was an elegant woman, a fashion enthusiast. Dressed in a gray plaid skirt and a cleverly cut blouse with a tie at the neckline, large black earrings dangled from her ears. Sometimes when she went out, she wore a matching black bowler hat. Behind her, the poodle was frantically wagging its tail, excited to see you. “The doctor recommended I get plenty of walking. I take Coco out every day at eight for an hour. Just the cost for the flooded ceiling is fine.”

You agreed, silently promising yourself that you’d order her a massive bouquet of flowers in the coming days. But for now, you headed back to your apartment, walking straight to the bedroom where you kept a locked chest of drawers… and inside, an album of photos. And within those photos, a substantial amount of cash. Since your income didn’t come from legitimate sources, you steered clear of banks like the plague. You counted out the sum you planned to give Erika—more than she probably expected. But before you could lock the chest again, your fingers automatically grabbed the album. It wasn’t just money in there; you liked to capture moments in photos, and you had plenty of them. You always took them with you when you moved.

The first page showed several pictures from your early childhood, chubby cheeks, dreamy eyes. You quickly turned the page, then another…

Your fingers clenched tightly, even though your mind hadn’t fully processed what you’d just seen. You shook your head, thinking it was just your imagination playing tricks on you.

A photo of a little girl on her first bike. Her face should have been expressing joy, a toothless smile. Instead, all that was there was white, emptiness. A cut-out section.

With furrowed brows, you continued flipping through the album, almost in a trance. If every photo had missing pieces like that, it would’ve been easier to understand. But this was just one photo out of hundreds, one little girl without a face…

A graduation photo. You should have been smiling, hugging your friends. But your face was missing. Your breath caught in your chest. A trip with friends—your face cut out. A beach day, devoid of your face. Not every photo had been altered, but almost every stage of your life captured in that album had at least one case like this. It was as if someone was trying to erase you completely.

You stopped at the point where you had stopped taking as many photos. The last few were from your previous relationship. It hadn’t lasted long, but you had particularly enjoyed taking pictures of Spencer Reid, the profiler who had worked on your case. His brown hair, wide eyes in surprise because he hadn’t known you were sneaking up on him with the camera, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled, filled several good pages. There weren’t many good photos. He looked amazing in spontaneous shots, but in posed ones, his smile was always awkward, stiff.

That photo wasn’t one of your favorites. It had been taken by some stranger during your little vacation in Rome. Spencer had been wearing a light linen shirt, his arm wrapped around your waist. You remembered exactly how you’d stood on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, only to cringe a moment later—having just slathered him with sunscreen, you tasted that bitter aftertaste in your mouth. A smile flashed across his face at that, and he adjusted his arm around you, smoothing your heat-fluffed hair behind your ear. So many perfect angles for a picture you could have stared at for hours, but that stranger had only snapped one. You both looked like an engaged couple who had never spoken to each other before, and to make matters worse, it looked like the family expected six kids from you both.

Your face had been cut out of it.

You slammed the album shut and tossed it into the drawer. A gust of wind blew the money meant for Erika onto the floor, but you didn’t care. What did you care about? There was nothing in your mind. A temporary, filling emptiness, growing with every beat of your heart.

Your body moved toward the window on its own, discreetly peering behind the curtain. A black car pulled away from the driveway, followed by a red one, and then a gray one. Could it be…?

No, you hadn’t looked at that album for several days. At least not to review the pictures. They might have been damaged before, and you only noticed it now. You didn’t know which version of events scared you more.

The voice of the news anchor played in your head like a true-crime podcast, describing a recently discovered body with far more gruesome details than in reality. The return of The Waterside Butcher, the one you helped catch. A break-in at your apartment (you hadn’t done it yourself, had you, in your sleep?) almost at the same time?

A twist of fate? A stupid coincidence?

For a moment, you paced around the apartment, thinking. Robert Miller was a serial killer of women, whose capture had been made possible by a woman who broke into his home. If—purely hypothetically—he escaped prison, wouldn’t he be driven by a certain kind of hatred directed specifically at her? A desire to destroy her, more important than anything else?

But that was absurd. You hadn’t cut ties with the case, but surely someone would have informed you if he had escaped. Though…Spencer had been your source of information, and you hadn’t spoken to him since your breakup, over a year ago. You hadn’t been in touch at all since then. So maybe…?

You realized you were standing in something wet. The floor was still flooded from a tap that had been left running.

For the second time this week.

The self-turning sink, this tension, this dream, the cut-out faces, the next murder.

Another brutally killed woman left on the riverbank.

The thought was improbable, yet it refused to leave you alone. It was far more likely that you were dealing with some deranged copycat—after all, it wasn’t uncommon for serial killers to have their admirers. However, that prospect didn’t fill you with nearly as much dread as the idea of being in the crosshairs of this particular man.

You had to find out if there was even the slightest chance that he was out there, free.

“Hands up and turn around, slowly.”

Quick disclaimer—you and Spencer Reid didn’t break up on the most peaceful terms.

Aiming at your head was a bit much, though.

Without a hint of fear, you calmly closed the cabinet in his kitchen, from which you had just taken out a package of brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tarts. You immediately shoved one into your mouth, chewing the sweet bite while staring into the eyes of your ex, who was pointing a gun at you from about four steps away. His hair was longer than you remembered, and there was a trace of stubble around his mouth that caught you off guard. Or rather, how good he looked with it.

“I preferred your old place,” you declared, leaning back against one of the kitchen cabinets. Another bite of Pop Tarts, and a crumb fell onto your clothes. Oops. “Do you even have a microwave here? I could warm this up.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked, clearly irritated.

He still hadn’t lowered the gun, and you were starting to suspect he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.

“It’s always how did you get in here?” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Never what’s up? how are you? your hair looks amazing, did you know that? and that outfit?”

"You wouldn’t be yourself without all that pretentious talk, huh?" he scoffed, finally easing up a bit. His stiff posture, caused by holding the gun, relaxed, and after a beat, he lowered it and tucked it into his waistband. He accidentally pulled back part of his black blazer, revealing a dark purple shirt underneath.

You shoved the rest of the snack into your mouth, wiped your hands off, and swallowed.

"I’d be boring without it. And you wouldn’t be yourself without this overdramatization, right? Aiming at my head like I’m some criminal..."

"You broke into my apartment," he interrupted, folding his arms. It was evening, and if you hadn’t turned on the light before coming in, the place would have been drowning in cold darkness. A little of it slipped through the window that wasn’t fully covered. "I think that’s a pretty good reason to point a gun at someone. So what are you doing here?"

"You were right," you said softly, helplessly spreading your arms. "The path of crime doesn't lead to anything good. I should have listened to you, thrown it all away, and become a model citizen."

Spencer gently nodded, listening to your words. Then, he let out a laugh.

"And seriously?"

"Was I not convincing enough?"

"Did you get yourself into something again and need someone to cover your back? Because there's no better alibi than the words of an FBI agent?"

"Stop acting like I ever forced you into it. You did it on your own."

"Because I didn't want my girlfriend ending up in prison."

A tired sigh escaped you, not expecting it to take just three minutes from the start of your reunion to begin bringing up things from your relationship. Well, the fact that you even got together two years ago still seemed incredibly absurd and enigmatic, especially to outsiders. Let's be honest. An FBI agent and a criminal caught during a break-in for theft. Then, still a criminal, though with good intentions.

You couldn’t help that you didn’t see an end to that career, and you were pretty sure Spencer secretly hoped you'd give it up. During the less than six months of your relationship, you felt as though you were constantly on the police radar, even though he’d never turn you in. What’s more, once or twice, he vouched that you were somewhere else when you weren’t. To put it simply, he gave you a fake alibi.

That was roughly when everything started falling apart, as it slowly dawned on him that he couldn’t change you. Things got even stormier, and one day, after one of the many unpleasant exchanges of words at that stage, you just walked out, slamming the door behind you, and you hadn’t seen each other until now.

End of the story.

"Listen," Spencer began after a moment of silence. "You broke in here for a reason, and I highly doubt it’s to reminisce. I should just tell you to leave, but out of some remnants of respect for you, I’ll let you say what this is really about."

"Oh, look at you, how gracious," you scoffed bitterly. Remnants of respect. He was right, though. You hadn't come there to reminisce; you were only interested in getting an answer to one specific question. You cleared your throat. "I’m assuming you’ve heard about the discovery on the shore of Neabsco Creek?"

Spencer took a step forward, furrowing his brows slightly. He still kept more than a necessary distance, as if you were the one pointing a gun at him.

"Your assumption is correct," he replied slowly, cautiously. "I just don’t understand the purpose. Do you have any information related to the case?"

Although it didn’t quite fit the topic, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"Are you hoping I’ll help you catch another serial killer?" you asked, immediately shaking your head. "No, I don’t know anything that could be useful to you. But I do have some bad feelings about it."

You saw him gently press his lips together in thought. Almost immediately, he understood where you were going with this and gave a slight nod. His eyes were still analyzing you carefully and distrustfully. You also noticed how carefully he chose his words, as he always did in the presence of someone who could mean trouble.

"Spencer," you said his name for the first time during this conversation, pausing for a moment to think about how it felt on your tongue. You’d almost forgotten. "Is Robert Miller still in prison?"

"He murdered thirteen women, of course he’s still in prison," he replied with conviction. "And he’ll stay there forever. The body we found... the modus operandi is the same, but only because we’re probably dealing with a copycat."

"Copycat," you repeated. "And not an accomplice?"

"He didn’t have an accomplice. We figured that out during the investigation."

"Are you sure?"

"What exactly are you getting at?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine confusion, his brow furrowed deeply.

You set the Pop Tarts box down on the counter. You’d thought about it a lot. Few knew about your involvement in the investigation, it hadn’t been made public, just like the exact circumstances surrounding the capture of the suspect. He, however, knew. He’d seen your face in court, heard your name. The entire previous day you had been obsessed with the fact that he probably had the right to correspondence in prison. He might have found a way to inform his potential accomplice about your identity, convincing him to take revenge on his behalf.

"Someone's stalking me," you said casually, as if you were telling him about what you had for lunch that day. "It started right when that murder happened. Just before the body was found on the shore. Someone...cut my face out of photos in my album."

Spencer stood still for a long moment. A look of concern briefly flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by something else—skepticism.

"No offense," he began, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "but are you sure it’s not just someone from your circles?"

"Even if it is, so what? I'm still being stalked."

"Then, that’s not my problem”

Okay, that was cold.

“If someone from my circles wanted to kill me, they’d just do it. They wouldn’t be sneaking into my apartment, cutting my face out of photos, and turning the water on in my sink. The Waterside Butcher, as the media's calling him,” you tried to sound calm and logical, but your heart began to race as the memory from the dream you’d had two days ago—and the one that came to you last night—hit you. This time, however, you hadn’t found Rebekah in the basement of the house, but yourself. “Something’s not right. I can feel it. You guys should look into this. I mean, BAU. But not as a copycat. As someone connected to Miller."

You could see Spencer mulling over your words. His jaw tightened slightly as he processed what you said.

“Are you getting any real threats?” he asked. “Or is it just a busted sink and…”

“It’s not busted! Someone’s turning it on!” you cut him off, irritation creeping into your voice. “And not just someone—a serial killer I put in prison.”

“And who’s still there.”

You could feel yourself losing track of your own thoughts. Well, you’d barely slept the night before, and your brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

“Or his accomplice,” you corrected yourself.

“Or?” Spencer picked up on it, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, frustrated by his calmness.

"Well, sometimes you catch the wrong person," you said uncertainly.

Spencer exhaled deeply, briefly staring at the ceiling. You didn’t see the seriousness, the readiness to act, that you’d expected when you showed up at his apartment. There was no declaration that they would take another look at the case, maybe reach out to Miller again and try to get more information from him. The thought crossed your mind—if something like this had happened two years ago, would he have reacted with more urgency?

“I interrogated him two years ago,” he began. “Personally, for many hours, even days. He confessed to everything, nothing in his behavior suggested he was trying to manipulate us. He had a motive—he selected his victims based on their resemblance to his mother, whom he also murdered by pushing her off a boat during a family trip. At the time, it was considered an accident.”

As he spoke, memories of the courtroom and the police station resurfaced, when everything was just starting to come to light. And as he slowly moved closer to you, probably unknowingly, you also recalled the first time you really interacted, when he drove you home. You weren’t innocent, but that day, you had heard some truly horrifying details of the crime, and you felt a distinct unease. For the first time, you talked about something other than the investigation. I’m like Robin, but not like Hood. I rob the rich, but I don’t give to the poor you said, making him laugh.

"Our profile didn't include a partner. Trust me, we've handled plenty of cases where there were two or more perpetrators, but this isn't one of them. One person is responsible for this," he continued, trying to catch your eye, making his words more direct, wanting to make sure they reached you. "If someone's stalking you, it's probably not even connected to this case. And normally, I'd recommend you report it to the police... but I get the feeling that's not really an option."

You scoffed, because he was right.

"Highly unlikely they'd do anything about it. You know, the faucet could always be broken, and the photos...that can be explained away," you said, sitting up suddenly.

"Are you calling me paranoid?" you asked sharply.

"You always have to label things so harshly," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, I’m not saying that. I’m just suggesting that the previous murder and the media panic could have influenced how you're perceiving things, making you more susceptible to suggestion. Your mind has connected it with past traumatic events and added..."

"So, you're saying I'm paranoid. Just in scientific terms," you shot back.

Spencer sighed in frustration.

"Call it whatever you want."

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence, a rush of angry words pushing at the back of your throat, but you realized they didn’t make any sense. Why had you even assumed from the start that he would believe you? Leaving aside the fact that your argument was admittedly a bit stretched, the truth was, you weren’t the person he chose to trust anymore.

You briefly lowered your gaze, letting out a sigh, then lifted it back up as you got closer. Spencer tensed, almost moved to pull away, but quickly realized you weren’t threatening him. You simply reached for his purple shirt, slipping something into the tiny pocket on his chest.

"My current phone number," you explained, tapping that spot on his chest. "In case you find out anything. Oh, and one last thing. Do you remember what shape my birthmark is?"

He tilted his head, surprised by the question, the sudden shift in topic. Without waiting for an answer, you pulled at your shirt slightly, exposing a patch of skin just below your collarbone.

"It’s in the shape of pi, like you once pointed out." It hadn't reminded you of that at all before, just a vague shape, but ever since he'd mentioned it, you'd seen it only that way. And from then on, every time he kissed you, he'd always lingered at that spot for a moment longer—it was his personal, favorite point. You let go of your shirt, and Spencer immediately locked eyes with you.

"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," you added, before turning to leave. "In case I end up dismembered on some shoreline and they need to identify my body."

Spencer’s mouth fell open, unable to say a word.

"You knew it very well," you added casually as you made your way out.

You didn’t need him to escort you. You had gotten there on your own, too.

Three days later, when poor Erika was flooded once again, you decided to take action. You contacted the right people to have the locks in your apartment changed and to secure the place in a way that would make breaking in nearly impossible—at least for an average burglar. You knew, however, that someone with the right skills, like you, could still get in. With difficulty, but it was possible.

You also made sure to refresh your knowledge of handling a gun.

And you called Rebekah.

You didn’t like scaring her, but you preferred her to stay vigilant. If someone was targeting you, they might just as well try to go after her too. The problem was, she wasn’t answering your calls, despite you trying every hour throughout the day. Shortly after being freed from the murderer’s grasp, she hadn’t taken up any work, and since you were doing relatively well, you had been supporting her financially. Recently, however, she had managed to find a steady job, and that could explain why she wasn’t responding.

Spencer was right about one thing—you were slowly becoming paranoid. That’s exactly why, later that evening, you decided to head over to her address to make sure everything was okay. It wasn’t just about outside threats anymore. It was simply that… Two years was a long time, but not when it came to rebuilding a life after being abducted by a serial killer. Those years had been especially hard for her—there was the added struggle of addiction—and you just wanted the reassurance that she hadn’t done anything to herself. At least then, you’d be able to sleep more soundly—as much as the circumstances would allow.

Her apartment was located in a truly awful neighborhood, on the second floor of a stairwell covered in graffiti. You knocked on the door several times, pausing between knocks, trying not to panic or come across as aggressive—you didn’t want to scare her.

"Rebekah, are you there?" you called out when no one answered.

You spent a moment leaning against a spray-painted cock on the wall, letting out a sigh as you reached into the pocket of your jacket. The lock on her door was a simple one, requiring only the most basic tools—tools you carried out of habit. You made a mental note to send someone over to replace it.

Even if she wasn’t home, you wanted to take a look around and gauge how she was doing based on the state of the apartment. It wasn’t exactly ethical, but sometimes our surroundings say more about us than words ever could. Besides, there was a good chance she’d never even know you were there.

You stepped inside, calling her name again. The light was already on. Her jacket was hanging on the coat rack, suggesting she was home—but it was also possible she’d just worn a different one. You slipped a wad of cash into the pocket of her jacket. She’d find it later and probably think she’d just forgotten it was there.

The interior had dark green walls, and the apartment consisted of three rooms: a modest living room, a tiny bedroom with just a bed and wardrobe, and a bathroom you’d never been inside before. When you glanced into it, your face reflected in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. You looked really sleep-deprived.

Finally, you headed to the bedroom, clinging to the faint hope of finding her asleep in bed. The fact that all the lights were on worried you—if she’d gone to work, she would have turned them off. Anyone mindful of their wallet would’ve turned them off!

The bedroom door creaked softly as it closed behind you, leaving just a narrow gap that provided a sliver of a view into the living room, specifically the apartment entrance. That was when you saw it swing wide open.

At first, you wanted to leave the bedroom, assuming it was Rebekah and that you could greet her. But it wasn’t the petite, feminine figure of your short friend—it was a tall man, or so you guessed from his stature, despite the hood obscuring his face. Instinctively, you leapt back from the partially open door, making sure you were out of sight.

Heavy footsteps cut across the apartment, heading, by the sound of it, toward the kitchen area. There, they paused for a moment.

You didn’t even try to convince yourself it was some friend of hers dropping by for a visit. Deep down, you already knew—instinctively felt—who it was. And that thought paralyzed you so completely that, despite the gun tucked under your jacket, you quietly slid open the wardrobe door and squeezed yourself inside.

The door creaked as it moved, and you cursed silently.

Whoever it was, you hoped they were too focused on whatever they were searching for to have heard it.

You listened closely to the footsteps in the room next door, your mind spinning with one relentless question: Where was Rebekah in all this? Was she at work, completely unaware that someone was in her apartment during her absence? You tried to recall the last time the two of you had spoken. Certainly not in the past few days—perhaps not even in the past week.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breathing to quiet, to steady.

Theoretically, her apartment could’ve been empty for days now.

But who was this man?

The footsteps suddenly grew louder. The bedroom door creaked open. You drew in a sharp breath and froze, halting your breathing altogether. You had no idea how much the tight, dark confines of the wardrobe muffled sound.

The footsteps stopped.

You could only imagine the figure standing in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, taking in every detail. Did he sense someone else might be here? He couldn’t know for certain. But it was possible—likely even—that he subconsciously felt another presence, much like you did in your own home every single day.

Fragments of the nightmare that had haunted you over the past few days came rushing back. It felt as if you were descending those stairs into the basement again.

And then a smell wafted through the air—faint but distinct.

It was the same scent you’d inhaled back then.

Two years had passed, but you still remembered that mixture of dust, decay, and sweat.

Were you really smelling it now? Or was it just a cruel projection of your terrified mind?

The footsteps began to retreat.

You listened with your eyes closed, straining every nerve to track the sound. Your legs felt weak, and it took everything in you not to slide down the back wall of the wardrobe.

The sound of the apartment door slamming shut echoed through the silence. Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

And then your phone rang.

The sudden, sharp sound shattered the fragile quiet, making you choke on a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your fingers acted on their own, quickly answering just to silence the noise.

“Hello?” someone said hesitantly, your name hanging in the air like a question. “...It’s Spencer. I’m calling because... something’s happened. And you need to know.”

No.

You tilted your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as if that could block out the reality creeping in.

The silence on your end must have encouraged him to keep talking. You heard the faint sound of him swallowing, the nervous gesture twisting your stomach into knots.

“Robert Miller escaped from prison”

You pressed the phone to your face, even though it was already on speaker. Words tangled in your mind, refusing to form. Spencer said your name twice more, his voice edged with concern, before you finally forced yourself to speak.

“You need to come here,” you croaked, your voice barely recognizable. “Please.”

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

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northopalshore · 4 months ago

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♱ Mars in the ♱

Union persona chart

Mars in the Union (1585) persona chart tells you how you will pursue your significant other when you first meet. Even if one party shows more effort into the initial courting, it's still important to note that both need to show their interests and effort into forming a relationship as well (or it wouldn't be a relationship!) That is what we'll be looking at in this post. Please check your UPC Mars sign, house & degree.

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Masterlist | Union persona chart Masterlist

Foreign spouse indicators | Union predictions | Attractive Spouse Indicators

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Here are a few things to note before we get into it;

The 0° degree bares no significant meaning on its own but it does enhances (draws more attention to) whatever sign it's in or aspects that it makes.

Retrograde in this scenario can make one more reluctant to make a move, or you may second guess your efforts often, in some cases it may seem like you are avoidant at first or many things are distracting you from pursuing them

Conjuncting Sun you will do a lot to showcase your personality & best traits to them (trying to impress them with how cool you are ). Persistence is also a common theme with you.

Conjuncting Mercury a lot of your efforts may be shown online i.e texting, face time

Conjuncting Moon there may be a lot of emotional back & forth on your end, like emotional crash outs at times or overwhelming feelings, feeling divided

Square Union asteroid meeting up with them may be difficult & may require special (more) effort on your part.

It's not how your spouse will pursue you, but how you will pursue your spouse.

♱ Aries (°1,°13,°25) & The 1st House

With this placement, you are most likely the more active pursuer in this relationship. Being the one to actually go by "Don't chase, attack" (lmaoo). You can crave their attention, and always have a way to intercept yourself into their lives or plans. Tagging along to trips or something. Your whole body will show that you are interested. Trouble comes from personal problems, time management, acting without consent or planning (doing what you want instead of what your partner may want), rivalry, short temper, assuming things according to your desires, lack of patience, selfishness and ignorance.

♱ Taurus (°2,°14,°26) & The 2nd House

Okay, money is definitely something you will be using to get closer to them. You could spend money on them or to get to them (especially if they live away from you), you'll be spending money on your own expenses just to be closer to them for example. Frequenting a place they work (as a customer). Buying them gifts, making sure you look good and attractive when you're going to see them; you want your makeup or outfit to look perfect every time. Looking like a catch to get them to want you more (lol). Arguments or hardships on your end come from money (or a lack of money), stubbornness, selfishness & a sense of responsibility.

note: similar effect if aspecting venus

♱ Gemini (°3,°15,°27) & The 3rd House

Sharing your thoughts, starting conversations, non-stop talking, exploring new topics and asking what they think about it, sharing jokes & memes, asking for their opinion it's like every time you think of something randomly in the day, you'll talk about it with your partner later. This placement makes you especially curious about them; like you want to know what they're made of. You may ask them a lot of questions too or tell them a lot of things they might not know about to make you seem smart lol. Fights or frustrations stem from miscommunication, gossip, language barriers and mistrust or suspicion.

note: similar effect if aspecting mercury

♱ Cancer (°4,°16,°28) & The 4th House

Being more.. submissive in a way? Here, you will be showing them how vulnerable and flawed i.e human you are. You may allow them have some sort of personal view into your life and let them help you or guide you (letting down your walls for them). Showing them a more relaxed and needy part of yourself. You may start to have disagreements or arguments when your emotions go haywire or when you (both) let your personal feelings get the best of you i.e pettiness, emotional attachments, clinginess.

note: similar effect if aspecting moon

♱ Leo (°5,°17,°29) & The 5th House

You could rely on a lot mutual attraction and wild fun when pursuing your partner romantically. A love for the arts and physical thrills; you'll want you partner to associate you with a good time. Seggs. There could be a lot of sex aha, Ya Nasty. (Though it's not completely limited to that sort of fun, there is a natural inclination to be drawn into physical pleasure for the sake of it). If you do argue, it's likely about the things you find enjoyable, children & inflated egos.

note: similar effect if aspecting jupiter

♱ Virgo (°6,°18) & The 6th House

You guessed it. They'll be part of your routine. You may try to find ways to have them in your daily schedule, and really make an effort to get closer to them; keeping promises to meet, making plans. However, with Virgo I find that you are more cautious when pursuing your partner. You will overthink, and be more observant. You might stalk their socials as well lol. Only because you are serious about pursuing something with them. You'll show a lot of effort, and if they show it first you will make sure that it's reciprocated. You reassure your partner, and that's usually what they notice most about you when "pursuing" them! If arguments occur, they will usually be centered around your work i.e having no time to be with them, conflicting schedules.

note: similar effect if aspecting saturn

♱ Libra (°7,°19) & The 7th House

You will charm your partner with your down to earth, high morality, well mannerisms, fairness and poised argumentative qualities. You will always make sure you look good around them, and may keep a certain look (*cough Flyn Rider-esque) that you are sure will knock them straight outta the park. You may also prefer to take them out on traditionally aesthetic but also thought provoking dates often ; movies, museum & galleries. The key for you is debating. What you may argue (or what causes tension) comes from the topic of your debates itself, work or professionalism or marriage & commitment (the idea of it).

note: similar effect if aspecting Venus

♱ Scorpio (°8,°20) & The 8th House

You might be taking a lot of risks for them, or doing something you aren't supposed to just to get closer to your (FS/this ) partner. Illicit affairs, secret rendezvous, disobedience ( going against someone's wishes to be with them) or even meeting up somewhere without telling anyone often. Something about it is quite scandalous. If fights occur, it will be related to jealousy, exes, trauma & petty rivalry (either between the both of you or with someone else).

note: similar effect if aspecting pluto

♱ Sagittarius (°9,°21) & The 9th House

In order to woo your partner, you will likely be taking them out to interesting places that are fun, spontaneous and are able to showcase your intelligence, optimism and reliability. You'll likely be doing a lot to impress them with your broad mindset and talents. You'll want to show your partner that you are both a do-er & a thinker. Perhaps you have many capable qualities that you wish to share with them to make 'em like you more. In terms of arguments that you may face or obstacles it's likely going to be related to your studies, language, passport, citizenship or some sort of seniority (one being older or of a higher status than the other).

note: similar effect if aspecting mercury

♱ Capricorn (°10,°22) & The 10th House

As a means to keep your partners attention on you, you may show them how reliable, stable and useful you are. You could show them a lot of (new) things or take the lead / control when you get together; being the person they can rely on. You could do things for them, purchase things for them or be the one to help them make decisions . Your career, father, control issues or public image may cause friction in your relationship and you may argue or feel reluctant due to it.

note: similar effect if aspecting saturn

♱ Aquarius (°11,°23) & The 11th House

You'll be letting them into your social circle, getting to know their friends and also hanging out with them. Showing them something new. You believe the way to their heart is to know them as a person. You'll enjoy a lot of interesting conversations, calling them, texting them and just hanging out. You'll show them how different you are compared to the people they've dated before for example. Showing them how smart, quirky, fun & genuine you can be. Arguments stem from selfishness, freedom, time spent with friends, erratic feelings, comparison, lack of compassion & disingenuousness.

note: similar effect if aspecting uranus

♱ Pisces (°12,°24) & The 12th House

You might travel to your partner a lot, being the one to come to them or invite them over to you. I find that with this placement, you will do a lot just to be able to be around them or closer to them; sacrificing anything that needs to be sacrificed i.e money, time, energy (usually energy). You'll try your best with this placement. In a way, you want to appear "cool" to them, but on a slower pace compared to Leo. Arguments, frustrations come from misunderstandings, illusions, fears, something being hidden from you, long distance, being ignored or left on read.

note: similar effect if aspecting neptune

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scwheeler · 2 years ago

Text

— how to get a girl’s attention

luke castellan x fem!daughter of demeter!reader

warnings: near-drowning experience…

summary: as the daughter of demeter, you’re the first person that everyone turns to when injuries need to be tended too, questions need to be asked, and any type of advice is required, however what’s going to happen when you’re the one in need?

a/n: this one’s quite lengthy guys! i really just got derailed like ten times and love adding details and the ending is kind of basic but whatever; don’t mind me making up random camper names btw lol 👼👼

waking up to the sound of constant bickering was just a normal tuesday morning as your younger half-siblings were already at each other’s throats about some stupid thing. yesterday it was borrowing boots and the day before it was who had to take the trash out.

you groaned, wishing that you could still sleep in peace and quiet but your cabin clearly suggested otherwise. so you gradually got up and put on your little slippers, approaching the main fighters who continued to argue with each other.

“hey hey hey, what’s going on now.” you had to physically get between the two children, separating them with your arms.

“he slipped paint all over my skirt and now it’s ruined!” the young girl cried, holding up her stained skirt to prove it. you took the clothing in your hands and knelt down to face her.

“why don’t i go to the river later today and try to get the stain out myself. it seems washable to me, what do you think?”

with a slight frown, she nodded her head to comply. you were relieved to say the least before turning to the boy, “how about you apologize and come with me to the river after breakfast?”

the boy stayed silent with his arms crossed, trying to avoid your insisting stare. but intimidated enough, he looked to the floor and whispered a small “fine, i’m sorry” with a glare.

you smiled as the situation was deescalated and told the rest of the kids surrounding the pair to hurry and make their beds in order to head to breakfast.

holding hands with the now puffy-faced girl, you tried to tell her about all the fun activities she could do today to forget about the unfortunate morning incident.

before reaching mess hall, the child already had a a bright smile just thinking about the bracelet making and embroidery you promised for the later evening. pleased with your peace-making skills, you sat with the rest of your campers and half-siblings that you were in charge of.

as the eldest sibling and one of the camp counselors, you took on the responsibility of looking after the young ones and caring for almost everyone at camp.

thus, when most of the camp half-blood children had troubles or dilemmas of any sort, they would disregard their own counselors and go straight to you. your kindhearted, yet sociable personality rooted from your mother: demeter.

you were often found laying around in the fruit fields or by the river listening to the water flow through the ground and hit the rocks. like your mother, nature was where you felt at peace, especially with the lack of quiet in your own cabin.

but you still loved your fellow campers and half-siblings, except for one boy who would not leave you alone.

luke castellan.

he liked to push your buttons and see how far he could take you until you’d explode. of course, you always kept your calm until either you just left the conversation or it would be interrupted by a camper in need who was like a knight in shining armor.

it wasn’t that you didn’t like the guy. you liked everyone at camp, including mr. d for gods sake! but something about luke was different. you occasionally saw him with his campers or his friends, he would joke around but never act like he does with you.

when you least expect it, he sneaks up behind you and gets close enough to whisper something in your ear. it could be just a random comment or sentence started but in an alluring voice as if you were friends or even more.

he knows what he’s doing. the moment he finishes, you flinch and get flustered, cheeks heating up and instantly standing up to avoid making eye contact. as you walk away, luke only watches and smiles to himself.

he knows how much power he holds over you, as with just a few words he can make you nervous.

“okay so once everyone’s done, we’ll first go to the archery range and you’ll stay there with counselor clarisse while damien and i go to the river to get that nasty stain out.” you explained and first looked at the boy who begrudgingly agreed to helping you earlier and then winked at the little girl you promised to help.

“counselor clarisse…!” one of the boys exclaimed.

“oh no she’s the mean one!” “yeah, she’s a bully!” your campers all started to agree and mutter remarks about their fear in staying with clarisse.

you couldn’t help but chuckle at their scared little faces, “clarisse? oh gods no! clarisse is not scary, she loves you guys and she’ll take good care of you.”

the children stared at you in disbelief while chowing down their eggs and bacon. “why can’t we just come with you to the river?!” one of the girls begged and began to pout alongside the other ten kids beside her.

you sighed and pursed your lips into a thin line, trying to come up with a compromise but you couldn’t.

“please it’s only for a couple of hours and then i’ll be back for the rock wall and some capture the flag!” you persuaded, trying to lighten up the mood.

but the kids still looked dissatisfied, now poking their breakfast around with their utensils in objection.

“well—” before you could plead another case why clarisse is a perfectly reasonable and responsible counselor and guardian, you were cut off by the one and only.

“aw don’t worry guys, you should listen to your counselor. plus i’ll be there too so if counselor clarisse gets even just a little too scary, you can come and hang with awesome counselor luke!” a voice announced from behind you.

you nearly choked on your food, startled in the surprise voice cutting you off. but the campers were overjoyed to see their second favorite counselor appear. there were an overwhelming amount of comments from the once so silent children, mostly regarding “luke!” and “yay!”

you whipped your head around to face the boy, standing right behind you with nothing but a smug grin on his face. then he leaned in just as he always does and whispered a quick, “you’re welcome” and turned to leave just as fast as he came.

“can we please hang out with counselor luke instead of clarisse?!” all the campers plead with their hands put together and lower lip puckered. left with no other choice by that damn castellan again, you inhaled deeply and slightly nodded which was shortly followed by an array of cheers and excitement.

after dropping off all of the campers in the hands of luke, you put a hand on damien’s back and led him to the river. but before leaving, you had to make sure luke would actually clock in as a responsible counselor.

“so i can count on you to keep them safe for the next couple of hours?”

“wow you sound like you doubt me!” luke said and took a step back with his hands up in fake surrender.

“enough with the games, castellan. are you going to make sure they don’t kill each other and stay unharmed until i return?” you asked again, ignoring his previous comment.

luke tried to hold back his smile after you called him by his last name. most of the time, his sparring partners or other counselors would use his last name rather his first. however, when the way you let the ‘n’ slightly my drag after saying it sent chills throughout his entire body.

to hide his delight, he lightly scoffed and crossed his arms at your hesitation. “i assure you that i will protect them with my life. i mean i am the best swordsman at camp,” he added as the corners of his lips just couldn’t help themselves to lift a little.

you rolled your eyes at his self-confidence and how he kept complimenting himself. luke only did it to impress you though, something that hasn’t been very successful.

“okay well alissa has a nut allergy, georgie has a bee allergy, and please keep thomas and will away from the poison ivy. i do not want to spend another summer knee deep in tomato juice.”

luke could only watch and admire as you kept expressing your deep concern for all the kids. he loved how much you cared. but a few more seconds and you would be driving yourself crazy over all the possibilities of something going wrong.

that’s when luke stepped in and softly grabbed your right arm.

“hey, it’s fine. go do whatever you have to do and i’ll come running down to the river if anything goes wrong but i doubt it, i’m pretty responsible y’know.” he reassured and stared straight into your eyes, indicating his sincerity. his smile wasn’t conceited or to drive his ego but rather held a tender emotion.

you looked up into his hazel eyes and suddenly the worries stopped and your nerves were calmed, other than the ones beginning to stir in your stomach. but this was far from the regard about the kids.

this feeling was something else. something new.

“are we going to go already?” the young boy you almost forgot about, whined and rugged on your orange camp t-shirt.

snapping out of your trance and back to reality you answered, “o-oh yeah, i think counselor luke’s got it from here.”

with that you turned away from luke and immediately headed for the river alongside damien but the paint-stained skirt was farthest from your mind now. you tried to shake the new feelings and thoughts out of your body and replace them with your past ones of the kids.

until, “is that guy your boyfriend?”

you quickly looked down to the boy asking the question, with such seriousness in his eyes.

“counselor luke? gods no! i wouldn’t even call him a friend!” you answered swiftly, picking up your pace and hurrying damien in front of you.

“geez…i was just asking!”

as soon as you two got to the river, settling on a few rocks by the edge, you started rubbing the blue-stained skirt with the clear water. damien sat next to you, fiddling his thumbs and staring at the water’s constant movement.

“so are you going to tell me why you did this or not?” you began, keeping your eyes on the skirt.

“i just wanted to.”

“damien.” you urged and this time, you stared directly at him with your eyebrows raised.

he sighed in defeat and gave up on lying to you.

“okay…well i just didn’t know how else to get clara’s attention,” the boy admitted and refused to look at you.

his response warned your heart and prompted your to smile to yourself.

“so you did this, just to get clara’s attention?”

you held up the now drenched skirt and demanded damien to look at you. for a moment, he did and nodded quickly before instantly going back to staring at the rock he was sitting on.

you stifled your laughter at how adorable the young boy you were with was being.

“damien…there are a lot of different and more efficient ways to get clara’s attention. may a suggest one that doesn’t destroy her belongings and ends up with her being angry?” you insisted and squeezed the excess water out of the skirt.

he looked up and nodded again but this time he continued.

“what should i do?”

“why don’t you make her a bracelet when we go back and sincerely apologize.” you suggested while laying out the wet skirt on the rock to dry.

he smiled at your suggestion as you went to sit closer by him. before speaking again, he pulled out a small daisy from his pant pocket and presented it to you.

your eyes focused on the blooming flower that lost a few of its petals due to being stuck in the boy’s pocket for a while now. but the remaining petals still standing were enough to maintain the flower’s beauty.

“when did you become such a gentlemen?” you nudged his shoulder and took the flower from his hands.

“oh, i’ve been giving him some lessons.”

alarmed, you turned to see the familiar face that had been surprising you all day.

“what are you doing here?! how about the kids—who’s watching them?!” you immediately stood up and marched towards the too calm figure standing amongst the trees. but he caught you with both arms, preventing you with ease.

“woah woah, take a breather, they’re with clarisse.” he said and stopped you before you ran back to the mess hall.

reading your expression, luke could tell you were not convinced nor pleased so he had to fix his answer.

“—and annabeth and chris.”

with that you stopped fighting against his grasp and stepped back, finally exhaling.

“you haven’t answered my first question.”

“oh! i just uh wanted to um come and tell you that they’re asking for damien back at camp. they were practically begging me to come over here and get him!”

you narrowed your eyes after he finished, easily indicating the lie.

“okay…you can go damien but remember what i said,” you smiled and patted his shoulder before sending him off back to camp.

the young boy ran off without a care and ready to make that bracelet with a formal apology. luke stood there, quite surprised that his lie that chris helped him think of in fact worked.

“soooo do you need help with whatever that is?” luke pointed at the skirt laid out on the rock.

“no.” you shortly responded and walked back to your rock but luke followed like a lost puppy.

“are you sure? i mean as head counselor for cabin 11, i can cook up a mean batch of laundry,” he insisted and trailed behind you.

unbeknownst to him, you rolled your eyes and cringed at his wording.

“your words don’t even make sense.”

caught in a lie, luke decided actions spoke louder than words and walked past you to the skirt. you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion as he picked it up and crouched down near the water before dunking it back into the water.

shocked and a little annoyed, you hurriedly ran to him.

“what the hell are you doing?! i just washed that! i’m waiting for it to dry dumbass!”

“oh she curses!” he exclaimed, finally getting a real response from you.

you reached for it until luke raised it a little higher, just out of your reach. using his height as an advantage, he held out the clothing as far as he could and to the river.

fed up and exhausted, you went on your tippy-toes and lunged for the skirt. swiftly, luke pulled it close to his body just as you reached leading you to accidentally lean too far.

with a splash, you fell straight into the freezing cold water, unknown to how deep the river was. luke’s eyes widened, he thought you falling in would be funny but once you hadn’t resurfaced within a few seconds he became worried.

without a second thought, he dropped the skirt, pulled off his camp shirt, and dove into the biting waves. as soon as he saw your bright orange t-shirt in contrast to the clear water, he put his arm around your waist and swim towards the surface.

pulling you out to the rocks and laying your body on the ground, he waited for you to gain consciousness. luckily, you started to gasp for air and spit out gulps of water as you sat up.

luke sighed in relief at once. you wiped your face of water and blinked repeatedly until your sight returned to normal. then your eyes were fixated on something else, rather someone. his bare chest stood directly in front of your face, it wasn’t like you were trying to stare!

“i’m sorry, y/n. I’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to do that and i’m really sorry.” luke recited.

“i-it’s okay.” you stuttered, the cold water chilling your body.

“here take off the wet one and take mine.”

luke grabbed his discarded camp shirt and handed it to you. if you weren’t on the verge of frostbite you would’ve refused, but without another word you agreed and luke turned to face the trees as you pulled the wet shirt over your head and put on luke’s.

“thanks. for saving me and the shirt.”

luke turned back to face you and smiled, “i mean i was the one to make you fall into the water in the first place, it’s the least i can do.”

“aren’t you cold?” you signaled to his bare chest.

“no, i’m okay don’t worry. but your jeans are still wet so let’s head back to camp.” he reassured and helped you get up.

you nodded and let him take the lead. with your wet shirt and skirt in one hand and the other grabbing onto luke’s arm, you two finally made it back to camp. before dropping you off at your cabin, you had to ask.

“why did you come to the river anyway?”

luke awkwardly put his hand on the back of his neck and looked away.

“oh. i just uh wanted to spend time with you.” he admitted, ultimately facing you.

you stopped attending to your dripping pants and looked up at him. he had a genuine smile, now with both hands shoved into his pockets.

how was it that you had never noticed the golden flecks in his deep brown eyes? or the way the orange hues of the sunset highlighted the amber shade his eyes would turn?

“y’know, there are a lot of other ways to get my attention in the first place, that doesn’t involve us falling into freezing cold water.”

luke laughed at your comment which eased the awkward air.

“i had this almost exact same conversation with a little boy of about seven years, and gave him some valuable advice.”

“what was the advice..?” he carefully asked.

“to make her a bracelet and apologize, one of…you’ve already done profusely.” you raised your eyebrow to imply his previous attempt in apologizing nonstop.

“ah, a bracelet you say, okay got it,” luke said and nodded his head.

with that, he bid you a good day and you asked to meet him later at the campfire to return his shirt.

“alright you two sit there, i don’t want to see anymore fighting over the dinosaurs, you can sit here with him, and you three over there—” guiding the campers for the campfire that was just about to begin, you made your way to an empty bench.

smiling to yourself, you watched as your campers finally calmed down and enjoyed the music, giving up on fighting and arguing with one another. someone jumped over the bench and leaned back to sit right next to you, and you had a feeling who it may be.

“luke?”

“yes ma’am.” he replied with a tilt towards you and two fingers from his head.

the campfire lit up his face and highlighted his sharp features that you had somehow missed until this moment. his charming smile urging his dimples alongside his dark curls freshly washed with a new scented shampoo was enough to make you realize you were hooked. damn.

“oh i have a little something for you, give me your arm and close your eyes,” he spoke up and put his hand in his pocket.

raised eyebrow, you reluctantly closed your eyes and gave him your right arm. suddenly in fear of some bug or scary animal on your hand, you slowly retracted it back to yourself until he gently got a hold of it.

he pulled your arm towards him slightly and slipped something on around your wrist. waiting for his approval, you sat questioning what the mystery item could be.

“okay, open.” luke did a little ‘ta-da’ motion once you flickered your eyes open, adjusting to the dark yet orangish lit surrounding.

you looked down at the intricate, handsome bracelet that appeared on your wrist. it was similar to the camp necklaces but the beads were translucent with flowers imbedded into them. except for one bead that was painted a heavenly green, your favorite color.

astonished and at a loss for words, you observed the bracelet, moving around the small beads on the string.

“i’m sorry.”

snapping out of your trance, you instantly stared up at luke after his words in confusion.

“what?”

“you said earlier, ‘there are a lot of other ways to spend time with you that don’t involve us falling into freezing cold water, for starters make a bracelet and apologize.’” he repeated your words from back by your cabin. he remembered.

“so you made me a bracelet and apologize just like i said?” double-checking, you glanced once at the bracelet and back to the dashing boy who looked as if he had stars in his eyes, waiting for your reaction.

“not only for you, i also helped damien make one for that girl he’s got a crush on,” he continued and looked over to the little boy doing the exact same hold-out-your-arm-and-close-your-eyes trick on the girl sobbing about her stained skirt earlier.

she opened her eyes to a freshly washed skirt and matching bracelet, along with a smiling boy who was apologizing and waiting for her reaction. she leapt into his arms with a bunch of ‘thank yous.’ the boy then briefly peered at luke who proceeded to wink and give an approving nod.

happily surprised, you sat gaping at the boy you thought was so infuriating just a couple of hours before. luke knew exactly what he was doing. he knew how much you cared for the campers and your half-siblings, how you would always chose their safety and happiness at the expense of your very own.

it was one of the traits he admired the most about you. even when in a bad mood or not feeling your best, you would put on a brave face and make sure to put their needs in front of you own.

he witnessed it first-hand last week when your campers wanted to go rock climbing but there were dozens of poison ivy already there. thus, to not disappoint the kids, you stayed up all night removing the dangerous plant and relocating them to another area deep in the forest for them to grow.

even with your plant manipulation abilities, with the large amount of the poisonous plant, it took you quite a while. afterwards, you went as far to replace them with lovely daisies you summoned from the gardens in front of your cabin.

during the move from the rock climbing course to the forest, luke had spotted you while some late-night sword practicing because he couldn’t sleep due to apollo cabin next door.

he debated approaching you and settled on only admiring you from afar after you almost finished anyway. he didn’t want to disturb you or aggravate you further than you already were. but leaving you here in the forest during midnight would be wrong.

what if a monster were to come? how were you to defend yourself if you were distracted! therefore, it was just common sense that luke had to keep watch, i mean he even had his sword with him after all.

but once the sun peeped from the tall mountains, he came to a realization that he had just sat and watched you for more than a couple hours. so in order to not get caught, he ran off back to his cabin before anyone would wake up.

only a little after luke headed to bed, morning arrived and you were the first one to break the happy news to your campers that today would be the day for rock climbing. greatly proud and feeling accomplished, you even invited other cabins to join and have a spin at it. including luke’s.

now he was the one to show you how much he cared for the campers as well, focusing on a feature you had great respects for. your shocked expression softened and now leapt into his arms.

“thank you, castellan. really.”

blood rushed to his cheeks and he tried to hide his excitement, but you felt his genuine smile on your shoulder. before pulling away, he stopped by your ear and whispered.

“do i have permission to kiss you, counselor?”

you could’ve giggled at his words and how close his lips were to your ear. without wasting another breath, you pulled his face closer to you and put your lips on his.

feeling the warmth of his breath, you could taste the sweet taste of strawberries he must’ve eaten earlier. only centimeters away, your bodies were attracted to each other almost pressing. the kiss wasn’t long but not short either, somewhat leaving a lasting impression on the other.

yet again you felt a small grin of his lips during the kiss, making you pull away for air. but your eyes were still glued to his, moments away from repeating the act but you both realized where you were and how irresponsible it would look as counselors. so instead he grabbed your hand, now giving you the absolute cutest puppy dog eyes before asking.

“do i have your attention now?”

#luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #pjo x reader #pjo tv show #pjo series #percy jackson #lc #castellan

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