#it's always been considered when it came to her

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik tries to be upfront. Price throws a curve ball.

cw: severe body dysphoria.

"John, I want to have sex with you."

Nik watched John choke on his slug of beer, an eyebrow raised. By the time John had finished coughing, his eyes were rimmed red and his face was flush. "Fockin' 'ell, Nik. Jus' like that, eh?"

A line appeared between Nik's eyebrows as he squinted suspiciously. He had always believed himself to be quite smooth, with a respectable number of notches to his belt, but while John seemed to reciprocate sometimes, it never came to anything. Just homoerotic banter. "I have been flirting, making passes, but none of it seems to be getting through. I thought I would try a different method."

John wiped the beer from his mouth with the back of his wrist and scrutinised the half empty bottle. His fingertips tapped the glass rhythmically, and for a foolhardy second, Nik thought he might be considering the offer seriously. "Naw, Nik, ya don't want that."

"I do," Nik replied. "I would like... more, too. A date."

John shook his head. "Ya don't understand, there ain't nothin' below the belt that'd interest ya." He shifted in his stool, his face collapsed in a scowl. "Truth is I weren't born right. Deformed."

Nik's mouth opened and closed like the guppy in John's kitchen fish tank at home. He had thought about how good it would be to fuck John on the counter next to it more times than he could count.

"Ya know, I take medication for it, but a gay fella like you needs it all there, right? A real man. So it's a non-starter."

"John, there are many ways we could..."

"Answer's final, Nik. S'not somethin' I'd put anyone through. Least'uv all a decent bloke."

Nik deflated against the bar. "Of course."

They sat in silence for a while, Nik staring at the tumbler between his hands while John watched the frothy bubbles pop on the inside of his bottle.

Nik bit the inside of his cheek and glanced up. "So, you have never..."

"Once. I was a teenager. Hated every minute."

"I am sorry to hear that."

John shrugged. "Maybe in another life 'll get t' see what all the fuss is about." He tapped his fingers against the bottle again, and then lifted it to knock the rest back. When he stood, he didn't meet Nik's eye. "Listen, got reports to finish. Morning briefing's at 0700."

Nik wanted to call him back. Apologise properly. But John was already leaving the bar, his shoulders slouched forward, hands deep in his pockets. It was so out of character that it bothered Nik enough to ring up Laswell half an hour later.

"Nik, it's late..."

"Sorry, I... It is about John."

"Is he okay?"

"I am not sure."

Kate closed whatever she had been working on in the background and gave Nik her full attention. "Shoot."

"I... propositioned him. And he turned me down."

"I'm sorry, Nik. He might need some time to think about it. You know what he's like with this type of thing. And he's always been a bit... shy." It sounded strange to hear Laswell use the word 'shy' for John Price, expert in the field, thrice decorated for valour.

"I am not sure he will. He said he was... born wrong."

Laswell's face hardened. "Mhm."

"He used the word deformed. I tried to assure him that I didn't mind, but I think I... I think he was upset."

"He used the word deformed?"

"Da."

"Said nothing else?"

"No. Just that he was on medication for it but a gay man needs a real man, and--"

"That fucking asshole."

Nik blinked at the screen. This wasn't going like he thought it would either. "Shto?"

"Leave it with me. Give me until the end of the week, I know he's got a lot on. You deserve a proper--" she rotated her hand in front of the screen, searching for the right words, "--you deserve the full story. But it needs to come from him. He... He likes you a lot, Nik. He just hates himself more. Which is a truly breath-taking amount."

Nik frowned. John was hard on himself, of course; he had high standards. But he was pragmatic and self-loathing served no operational or personal purpose. "I feel like I have missed something important..."

"Not missed. You haven't been shown. But... yeah, ok, give me time. I'll... talk to him."

"Will he be okay?"

Laswell smiled gently. "Of course, Nik. He's just a grumpy, stubborn git."

Nik returned her grin fondly. "But our grumpy, stubborn git, no?"

"Yeah," she tapped at the keys, "get some rest. Let me play the wingman for once."

Nik nodded and the screen went black. Part of him wanted to go snooping; ask the lieutenant, perhaps Gaz. But he knew that John would almost certainly find out and that would risk any possibility of getting him on a date. Nik closed the laptop lid and sighed. Well, John was worth the wait.

[sturnioz]

‘SURPRISE’ — CHRIS STURNIOLO

pairing. fratboy!chris x shy!reader. genre. smut, frat au.

word count. 2.6k

❝i... i've been practicing something for you.❞

content warning. explicit content, porn with plot, slight mentions of insecurities and anxiety, awkward sex, unprotected sex, riding, creampies.

authors note. i dont usually do small fics like this for my aus, but i thought this would be fun for a small bday special. this is for my fratboy!chris and shy!reader au which, if you're new, you may need to read other prompts just to understand their dynamic.

You’ve always been the type of person who always goes way overboard for someone's birthday, wanting to find the perfect gift(s) to show your love, appreciation and gratitude toward the person who is celebrating their special day.

In the past, you've splurged on expensive gifts that left your bank account in shambles. You've made personal gifts from scratch, leaving your hands and fingers littered in paper cuts that are way too small to have that much of a painful effect. You've wandered through countless stores, pacing aisles from sunrise to sunset to find the perfect gift.

But this specific gift? the one you’re planning for Chris?

Yeah… this one is different. maybe extreme, even. the kind of gift that has your face burning up just thinking about it.

It started as a passing thought. Then, you overthink it, repeating his words in your head over and over again from the last time he brought this specific thing up to you. and that's when you started doing research—way too much of it, by the way.

Video after video, article after article, you were consuming so much information that you even had to pause what you were watching just to collect yourself and have a breather, reaching for a glass of water with trembling hands as anxiety swam through your veins.

And when you brought it up to Bee and Kitty?

Big mistake.

... Okay, maybe not that much of a mistake considering they were supportive and giving you suggestions like you asking for guidance on how to ride Chris wasn't a big deal. You must've spent half of the conversation hiding your face behind your palms, too embarrassed to even look at them.

Nonetheless, you took it all in, drilled their words into your brain, and you arrived back home to practice on your pillow. Your thighs burned from strain, your hips ached and you embarrassingly came once—maybe twice—while doing so, and it made you rethink the entire birthday surprise while sitting in the bath with a deep frown on your lips.

But you can't back out now. You can't be a quitter on this—not when you've already come this far.

So, you're going through with it the best you can... hopefully.

On the big day, you take your time getting ready, needing every second to hype yourself up. you slip into your prettiest dress to help make you feel just a little more confident, even though your heart is rattling in your chest like crazy.

You drive to the rented house early with Kitty, Bee and Nate, your fingers wrapping tightly around the steering wheel to calm the shakiness from your nerves. and when you get there, you realise most of the frat brothers have arrived already.

They're tossing balloons across the floor, stringing up strobe lights, and setting up the speakers for the music while shouting over each other.

The coolers are already halfway full with ice and fresh drinks too, so you busy yourself by helping hang up banners instead, trying your best not to check the door every five seconds... you fail, by the way. you spot Matt's car rolling up the driveway just before he turns in.

You don't even get the chance to greet the trio when they walk into the house, the people immediately swarming them, popping confetti cannons and shoving shots into their hands while screaming 'happy birthday!' at the top of their lungs.

Nick beams happily. Matt pushes through everyone to get to Kitty, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her like he hasn't seen her in the last twenty-four hours. and Chris? Chris is scowling, swatting Nate's hands away and threatening him as the latter tries to shove the goofy party hat on top of his head.

You wait for a moment for the chaos to settle, and you take your time in giving matt and nick their little gift bags you made before you even dare to step in Chris' direction. and when you do, you swallow thickly when you see him already—and not surprisingly—surrounded by his regulars.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way over, giving yourself an internal pep talk with each step. Once you're close enough, you reach out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt before tugging lightly at his arm to get his attention.

"Chris?" you say his name, voice barely above a whisper. "can... can i talk to you for a second?"

He furrows his brows, looking at you. "What? Right now?" he gestures toward the group with a flick of his head. "M'busy here, kid."

"Just for a minute?" you press, hoping that he'll give in so you don't look like a fool. "Please? I um... I left your gift upstairs.."

"Upstairs?" he stares at you, clearly not believing a word that has just slipped past your lips. "The fuck kinda gift you've got hidin' upstairs?"

"It's... private."

Chris stares at you again, unmoving, his gaze flat and sceptical. you shift under the weight of it, your fingers nervously curling and uncurling at your sides. Finally, Chris lets out a sharp and exasperated huff, nodding his head as he agrees to follow you.

You quickly turn around and start walking ahead of him, weaving through the crowd, doing everything you can to stay calm even as your stomach churns with each ascend up the staircase. You don't look back, but you can feel him close behind you, following your steps.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause at the hallway, the lump heavy in your throat as you take a quick glance at him over your shoulder, pointing at one of the many guest rooms available.

"It's in here..."

Chris raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he just exhales sharply and pushes past you to open the door to the guest room. You follow close behind, shutting the door quietly, the click of the latch feeling loud in the silence that settles between you both.

He stands in the middle of the room, arms folded and unimpressed. "Well? Where's it at, kid?"

You hesitate, your pulse racing and hands fidgeting at your sides. Then, you take a few steps toward him, your hands pressing against his firm chest, grabbing the fabric of his shirt to hold it. Chris doesn't move, he doesn't pull away either, but he watches you with his eyes narrowed.

You give a soft, uncertain push at that, urging him toward the bed until the backs of his legs bump the mattress. He drops down, legs spread, leaning back on his palms as he tilts his head up to look at you.

"Y'serious?" he asks. "Dragged me away from m’business to hookup?"

You open your mouth, then close it again, face heating up with embarrassment. You're ready to bolt straight out of this room.

Chris runs his tongue across his inner cheek, his voice dipping low. "If you wanted to fuck me, bun. jus' lead with that next time."

"It's not just that, I—" you choke on your words, swallow thickly again, hands trembling as you move them down to reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. "I... I've been practicing something for you."

"Practicin'?" he repeats, barely lifting his arms to help you take off his shirt, and you toss it to the side gently. "Practicing what? undressin' me or somethin'?"

"No," you pout a little at his mocking tone, your hands moving lower to his belt. you fumble with the buckle once—twice, fuck—and Chris sighs sharply, annoyed but still letting you try.

"Then what?" he pressed, tilting his head to the side and watching you. You finally manage to undo the belt, pulling the denim down his hips and he lifts them lazily to help, letting his jeans fall in a heap around his ankles.

Your voice is barely audible as you speak, the usual shyness seeping back into your tone. "To... ride you."

Chris blinks at you, silent—almost stunned—for a brief moment. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smirk, letting out a soft, disbelieving scoff as he drags his hand through his hair with a slow shake of his head.

You sort of knew he'd react like that, especially because he's made comments before: how awkward and clumsy you are moving above him, how you always get cramps and aches, how it's better if he does the work because watching you try to ride him like 'watching a baby deer try to walk on ice.'

The words still sting, even now.

But still... you want to try. to prove him wrong and show him that you can do it... and maybe even impress him a little.

Chris leans back some more on his palms, his eyes dark and unreadable. And then, finally, he gives a small shrug, tipping his chin up. "A'ight. Show me what you've been practicin', bun."

You take a deep breath as you prepare yourself, reaching for his boxers, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his abdomen as you tug the fabric down, gazing at his cock that's already half-hard and leaking with precum.

You're surprised to see him like this already, but that still doesn't calm the butterflies in your tummy as you pull your panties down your legs, stepping out of them and neatly placing the fabric to the side before you move forward, carefully perching yourself on top of his lap.

You feel the heat of his body beneath yours, your heart pounding against your ribs as his cock brushes against your folds, twitching and hardening to full mass. You don't dare to look at him, not when he's staring right into your soul as you take him in your hand, stroking him softly like you've seen in the countless video tutorials you had consumed as you line him up with your entrance.

You sink down bit by bit, trying to stifle a whimper as you adjust to his size that stretches you out, hearing him inhale sharply, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. It’s a lot to take in already—which is the norm—but you refuse to give in to discomfort this quickly as you begin to roll your hips, experimenting with different motions as you try to find a rhythm that works for you. 

The sensation of Chris’ cock searing you open is intense, bordering on painful at times with awkward angles, but there’s an underlying feeling that makes you want to keep going. Your still inexperienced attempts cause you to wobble slightly as you try to bounce, your breasts moving beneath your dress which catches Chris’ attention, gaze dipping down to follow their movements. 

You struggle to maintain a steady pace, often making minor mistakes which you hope Chris isn’t noticing, beads of sweat glistening across your forehead as your arms hesitantly wrap around his shoulders for balance.

Yet, once holding him, you’re able to find a rhythm. 

Your hips begin to move with slight confidence, rolling and grinding against Chris in a way that seems to secretly please him based on the low growls that vibrate in his chest, his lips parting as his breathing grows subtly heavier. His hands lift from the bed to slide around your hips, moving south to grip your ass, squeezing the plump flesh as he wets his bottom lip.

“Am I… am I doing okay?” you ask quietly, your voice breathy from exertion. You search Chris’ expression for any hint of approval or enjoyment, desperate for anything from him, wanting to know if you’re meeting his expectations as your inner walls flutter around his cock, gliding up and down steadily. 

Chris doesn’t answer right away, he just stares, unreadable as always. Then, he hums—a low sound followed by the subtlest nod. It’s barely even there, but it’s something. You feel really happy, good, encouraged, and you lean back slightly to change the angle again, gasping softly at the new wave of pleasure that trickles down your spine as his cock grazes the sensitive spot inside of you. 

You add twists of your hips and shallow rolls to mix things up, and the changes now seem to affect Chris outwardly as his grip tightens on you, quiet moans escaping his lips. You can feel your own arousal building, a tingling pressure coiling low in your tummy as you begin to hump him erratically, ignoring the burning sensation in your thighs as you mewl and whimper uncontrollably.

Now, Chris seems stuck frozen in bliss—mouth ajar with harsh pants and dazed eyes as he watches your greedy pussy ride him, slick glistening around your puffy folds, dripping onto his balls. 

His mind reels from the sudden sensations overwhelming him, every nerve ending in his body is on fire with each glide of your pussy that slides up and down on his throbbing cock, his eyebrows pulled together like he’s confused at the feeling.

“F-fuck…” he rasps, his voice hoarse and strained. “Shiiit—what the fuck…”

Whether he means to or not, his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open wider to suck in deep breaths, and feeling his body tense beneath yours, you immediately realise he’s close too. 

You wish you could feel a sense of pride right now, having worked so hard to get to this point, but you’re too cock drunk to even take time in basking in your success, slumping weakly against his chest despite your hips still moving, clinging to him embarrassingly tight as you cry out in his ears. 

Chris lets out a loud, guttural moan, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside your pussy with thick ropes of cum, his cock twitching and pulsing with each spurt as he empties himself inside of you. Your pussy clamps down on him, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his skin as you wail, cumming around him in an instant. 

It takes you longer than necessary to regain yourself, and you make the first move by slowly sliding off him, wincing as your muscles protest the movement and pussy ache as he slips out. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you collapse onto your side, the room spinning slightly as you try to catch your breath, forcing yourself to glance at Chris.

Chris just sits there, chest rising and falling steadily, cock laying limp against his thigh. His brows remained furrowed—surprisingly, not in annoyance. More like confusion or contemplation. 

But you don’t like how quiet it is, though. It’s almost too quiet.

You open your mouth to speak, to apologise for god knows what, but Chris cuts in. “Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t…?”

Chris turns his head just enough to look at you. Is… does he look impressed? “Wasn’t bad.”

You’re stunned into silence as you wait for the follow up—some sarcastic dig to make you feel all embarrassed—but it never comes. You can’t help the quiet flutter in your chest as a tired smile threatens to spill across your lips, finally proud of yourself. You actually did it... you really did it.

Chris stretches out, exhaling through his nose as he reaches for the ground to grab his discarded boxers, “Guess all that practice wasn’t of waste of time, kid… good job.”

Your stomach flips with something closed to exhilaration at the praise. You can’t remember the last time he said anything even close to ‘good job’ to you—you truly don’t think he ever has. 

“You can do that shit more often f’me now.”

The flutter in your stomach crashes hard, deflating all at once as your shoulders slump in defeat. Well that’s… not an exhilarated feeling.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

©STURNIOZ est 2025 𐔌 . all rights reserved.

[girlgenius1111]

not yourself

barcelona x teen reader your first international break does not go how you want it to. you're not yourself when you return, and your teammates make it their business to figure out what happened, and why you're so quiet and withdrawn.

—

You’d never been very good at making friends. You were quiet, and people often took that to mean you were aloof. The only reason you’d made friends at Barça was because you’d been so young when you started there. Young enough that almost everyone made an effort to try to get to know you. And while it took time, they must have decided you were worth knowing. 

Your club teammates would tell anyone who asked that you were the team’s baby. Sweet and kind. Even loud and outgoing around people you were comfortable with. Incredible on the pitch. Your teammates loved you like a younger sister, and had gained your trust. You absolutely couldn’t be described as shy around them anymore. 

So, your club teammates knew you well enough to know that if you were being quiet, it wasn’t because you thought you were better than everyone around you or because you weren’t interested in being social. You just had such anxiety when it came to social situations, especially new ones. 

No situation terrified you more than your first international call up. The weeks leading up to it, everyone kept telling you it would be okay. Whenever you fell quiet and looked like you were thinking too hard, there was always someone there to rest a hand on your shoulder or pull you into a hug and promise that everything would be okay. 

You just had to be yourself, Alexia said, and everyone would like you. 

Kika promised you had nothing to worry about, Cata said she was just a phone call away if she had to fight someone for you. None of them seemed very worried, somehow assured and convinced that you’d have no trouble making friends. 

For the first time in your career, you left when they did for the international break. You were your usual self, bubbly and smiley and excited enough that you could barely sit still. Or maybe that was just the nerves. 

You were yourself when you left, and none of them stopped to consider that you might not be when you got back.

—

Loneliness. It wasn’t a brand new feeling, but it wasn’t one you’d felt in a long time. 

Not since you were a kid, and watched the other kids play together at recess. Easily talking and laughing and having fun. Not since you were a kid and watched your parents joke and laugh with your much older siblings, only pausing to remind you to finish your homework. You’d been the outsider, then. At school and at home. 

The weird girl that tried to play football with the boys at recess, and was promptly shunned by everyone. The baby of the family that no one seemed to have any time for. Your parents had you, and soon after decided they were tired of being real parents. They were tired of spending their time with kids, only they’d realized that too late. You’d spent years eating dinner alone at the kitchen table, wondering if your parents would remember to come check on you when they got home from whatever event they’d gone to. 

So, loneliness was familiar. Perhaps you’d just forgotten how much it ached. 

Yet you were reminded, that first international break. Where once again you were the outsider, the odd one out. You weren’t very sure why. It started with the girl you were assigned to room with acting like you were the strangest, most unpleasant person she’d ever spoken to. Soon, it was everyone else doing the same. 

It was cruel little laughs when you messed up in training, and rolled eyes when you went down with an ankle injury during the match. It was assuredly not whispered overheard conversations. 

“She’s so arrogant, I don’t know how anyone puts up with her.” 

“They probably have to be nice to her at Barça, but it’s all pity, really. No one would actually want to spend time with her.” 

“I wonder if it’s in her contract, that everyone has to pretend to like her.” 

It was trying to keep your sobs silent at night as you buried your face in your pillow. It was ignoring every text you got from your club teammates asking how it was going because you were terrified that they didn’t really like you. It didn’t take much for you to be convinced you were some annoying burden on your teammates. The foundation had been laid throughout your life, and it took just a few perfectly worded comments from some of the meanest girls you’d ever encountered to shatter what little self confidence you’d managed to develop. 

It was the worst two weeks of your life. And now, somehow, you were supposed to go back to Barcelona and act normal, like you didn’t have a million doubts in your head, much more amplified than they ever had been before. 

Now, it wasn’t a small worry in the back of your mind that you were bothering Jana when you asked her to braid your hair before a match, or when Alexia drove you home from training that one evening. It had grown to a shout, drowning out any logical, reasonable competition. 

You were sure. Convinced. You were nothing but a burden. An annoying, arrogant, horrible person who no one actually wanted to be around, let alone your club teammates who had the world at their feet. 

Your lack of response to your teammates' texts was the first of many red flags. Many of them had texted you. First, your closest friends. Vicky, Sydney, Jana, Salma. But when word inevitably got around the Spain camp that you weren’t replying to your friends, more texts arrived. From Irene and Alexia, Patri, Cata, and Claudia. Almost everyone asked you some variation of how is it going, or alternatively, are you doing okay? 

Yet you were too in your head to believe they really wanted to know. This was only reinforced when the texts stopped. Though you didn’t know it, Alexia and Irene had decided you needed space for whatever reason, and told everyone to leave you alone. They didn’t want to suffocate you trying to figure out what was going on, though it was clearly something. 

So, the texts stopped, and any remaining shred of hope you carried that your national teammates were wrong, that your club teammates did care about you, disappeared too. 

—

You were pretty sure you’d never been more anxious than you were the morning you were supposed to return to Barça’s training. Every negative comment, every condescending look, every second you'd spent feeling alone and awful, had built up inside your head.

Every single thing you did prompted a flood of self deprecating thoughts. It didn't feel like you could do anything right. All you wanted was to shrink yourself down, become as small and unnoticeable as possible. If you could get through the day without anyone really looking at you, maybe you could do this.

Of course, your teammates, already worried about you after your unexplained silence, weren't going to let you be invisible.

It started with an arm slung around your shoulders the second you stepped into the locker room. Ona, a bright smile on her face.

"La pequeña is back!" She sang, pinching your cheek.

Her words didn't make you feel loved and cared for. Instead, you heart clenched, thinking she was being patronizing.

You had officially fallen off the deep end, and if you'd been in any less of a state of anxiety and self consciousness, you would have realized how wrong and unfair you were being.

You knew Ona. Ona was a good person. Ona would never hurt a fly, let alone be cruel to one of her teammates. These were all facts. Somehow, though, your sense of self had been so warped, so twisted, that you believed Ona could be a good person who wouldn't hurt a fly, yet she could also still be teasing you.

There was something to be said about how two weeks with a bunch of mean girls had completely destroyed your self confidence. Perhaps it hadn't been very strong to begin with, perhaps this deep hatred you felt towards yourself had always been inside you, just buried deep. Now, though, it had free reign. Logic could no longer control it, and it was left to run rampant through your body and mind.

You were bad. Arrogant, awful, impossible to like or care for. These feelings were the foundation of every thought you had. You were a burdensome disaster, and your teammates didn't need to be bothered with you. It wasn't worth it; you weren't worth their time.

You didn't think you were worth much at all, really.

So, you shrugged out from under Ona's arm, fixing your eyes on your cubby and hurrying over to it. No eye contact, no conversation with anyone else.

Ona was left behind you, confused. Brow furrowed, she looked at you, and then looked around the locker room. It seemed she hadn't been the only one to notice your odd behavior. Jana made eye contact with her, nodding her head slightly.

You were hyper aware of everyone around you, able to see Jana leaning closer from her spot in the cubby next to you out of the corner of your eye.

"Hey." She said quietly.

You managed some mumbled greeting in response, hands trembling where you tried to unfold your training top.

"Are you okay?" Jana inquired.

Immediately, you nodded your head. And immediately, Jana regretted her question. Of course you were going to say yes, even if it was obvious you weren't okay. She should have asked what was wrong, instead.

Someone cleared their throat behind Jana, and you let out a sigh of relief when she stepped away from you.

More concern being shown to you, yet you perceived it so differently. Jana was taking pity on you, probably. You needed to pull it together, take some deep breaths and put on a show, because you had no choice but to be fine today. No choice.

As you composed yourself, Jana and Irene exchanged quiet words.

"Something isn't right." Jana whispered, glancing back at you. Now, you were methodically trying your shoes, even a mere hint of emotion wiped from your face.

Irene was watching you, too, more concerned than she wanted to admit. Your silence while you'd been away had been odd; your behavior now, though, was downright worrying.

Yet taking one look at you told Irene that you were completely shut down. An impenetrable wall had put up, and Irene knew better than to force her way through. This wasn't the time or the place to get you to talk.

"Just leave her be for today. Whatever it is, she'll come to us when she's ready."

And maybe you would have, if it had been anything else. But when you were convinced you were a burden, the last thing you wanted to do was ask the people you felt like you were inconveniencing to reassure you that you weren't an inconvenience.

Those of your teammates that had an understanding of when to push and when not to push seemed to leave you alone. There were little things, pats on the shoulder and water bottles handed to you first before anyone else, that were supposed to send you the message that you were cared for. Yet all you could think was that your teammates saw you as an obligation.

However, some of your other teammates greatly lacked the ability to read the situation. When they saw someone being quiet and acting strangely, it wasn't in their nature to let it go. They pushed.

Teasing comments about being quiet or being too cool for the team followed you around all day. The weren't intentionally cruel, yet you couldn't seem to separate friendly teasing from what you'd endured with your national team.

Everything came to a head in the locker room after training. It was loud, everyone chattering excitedly about their breaks and getting to see their families. So loud that no one really noticed Cata and Vicky appearing on either side of you, pestering you to tell them why you were suddenly way too cool to talk to them.

“Out with it, chica!” Cata said teasingly. Maybe she was trying to lighten the mood, but you felt like she was laughing at you. “You’ve been acting like an alien all day.” 

“Were you abducted? Are you really an alien shape shifter?” Vicky laughed. 

The teasing felt cruel, though you should have known it wasn’t. The echoes of the girls from your national team still rattled around in your head, until you couldn’t tell the difference between their bullying and your teammates’ teasing. 

You shut your locker tightly, blinking hard for a second before turning around. 

“Please just leave me alone.” You said softly, voice cracking in the middle. 

Cata and Vicky froze, surprise flashing across their faces. 

“Chica, we were just–”

“I know, I know, I’ve been weird. Just make your jokes when I’m gone next time.” 

It was the closest you’d probably ever get to standing up for yourself, so maybe you were a bit proud as you headed out of the locker room. Mostly, though, you just felt pathetic. For ever thinking your teammates had cared about you when they had no reason to. For ever thinking you were fun to be around or fun to talk to. 

You’d been trying to be quiet and fade into the background. Not draw attention to yourself. It only confirmed in your head that your teammates saw you as a pitiful charity project they didn’t actually want to be around when they seemed to zero in on this change in your behavior. 

You couldn’t picture it coming from a place of worry or care. The girls your age hated you, and there was no reason why much more successful women wouldn’t feel the same way. 

Hastily, you made your way out of the locker room, ignoring every sideways glance from your teammates. You even ignored Alexia calling your name, not thinking yourself capable of holding it together for much longer. You needed to get home, where you could be pathetic by yourself and not bother anyone with it.

Yet behind you, every single one of your teammates, every single one of your friends, were left bewildered. Something wasn't right. And they were not the type of people to let something like this go.

—

It was Sydney that got to you. She’d clearly had a bad training session, a bad day. It surprised you when your phone lit up with a text from her, asking if she could come over. You said yes immediately, willing to help even while you were convinced you were the perpetual butt of some joke. 

Sydney been near tears when she knocked on your front door, and you didn't hesitate to pull her over to your sofa, wrap a soft cream blanket around her shoulders, and move the box of tissues on the coffee table ever so slightly closer to her.

"What's going on?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even and calm.

Sydney sniffled, burying her face in her hands.

"Everything," she said, voice muffled. "I just… I don't think I'm good enough to be here. Everyday at training, all I can do is doubt myself and rethink my decisions and then I play horribly. It's unbearable. I want to go home, I miss my parents and my sister and cold weather and—"

"Woah, slow down." You urged. "Take a breathe, you're spiraling."

Sydney inhaled shakily, and you reached out, resting a supportive hand on her forearm.

"It's just… really hard, being so far away from home and playing for the best team in the world. I should feel happy and lucky, and I do, but I'm so scared all the time that I'm not good enough."

You knew exactly how she was feeling. It was probably a rough time that every young player at Barcelona felt, a point everyone reached. You weren't even sure that you didn't still feel that way.

In that moment, you were glad you'd felt this way before, if for no other reason than being able to help Sydney more.

"Syd, you wouldn't be here if you weren't good enough. Having a crisis of confidence like this just shows you care, and you have the passion you need to play for this team."

Sydney looked up at you and sniffled, cautiously hopeful. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. What you're feeling is so normal, Syd, I promise. It's an adjustment and you just have to be patient with yourself. It's going to get better, I promise."

This time, Sydney nodded, wiping at her eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right."

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap, wracking your brain for what else to say, what would have made you feel better when you'd felt like this. Sydney looked comforted, sure, but you knew that your advice was probably not very good, and she deserved more than you were able to give her.

“Do you want me to call one of the older girls, Syd? They can probably help better than me.” You suggested, biting down on your lower lip in worry. 

Sydney shook her head. “No, you’re helping. You always give good advice, and you always know what to say to calm me down. That’s why I’m here. I think I just needed to cry.” 

Her words shocked you, and it was obvious that she could tell.

"I actually didn't just come over here to cry on your couch." Sydney said, no longer looking quite as sad, concern flooding her features. "I wanted to check on you. Something seemed really off today."

You shifted uncomfortably, whole body suddenly tense. "No, I'm—"

"Do not tell me that you are fine. You seem… you seem really not okay. Everyone's noticed, and Irene has insisted we give you space, that you'll talk to someone about whatever is wrong when you're ready, but that doesn't feel right to me. You shouldn't let someone who is clearly hurting isolate themselves."

Sydney spoke with the wisdom of a much older woman. Her hazel eyes, too, seemed to study you in a way that pierced your soul. So much so that you suddenly didn't know how you were going to push this away, how you were going to convince her you were okay.

There was something else, too. The thing about Irene and space and you reaching out when you were ready. It tugged at your chest, maybe some very tiny remaining part of you that remembered how much you trusted your teammates.

Two weeks that felt like an eternity were enough to do a lot of damage on your psyche, that much was obvious. Those weeks, paired with your long standing tendency to fall into a pit of self hatred, were enough to have you questioning everything, your friendships most of all. You'd shrunk yourself down, trying to take up as little space as possible, as you always had when you were younger. When it was clear you were annoying your parents or your siblings, you shut down.

You were shutting down now, but there was some part of you, maybe some healed part of you, that couldn't stop thinking of tight hugs and reassuring words and movie nights and homemade dinners and rides home from training. None of that matched up with the way you were feeling, until all you were sure of in that moment, was that you were confused.

You were so confused. Sydney reaching out and checking on you didn't make sense. Irene telling everyone to give you space, and that you'd talk to someone when you were ready didn't make sense. Sydney saying you were clearly hurting didn't make sense; you weren't hurting, not really. You were just being realistic. Weren't you?

Sydney seemed genuine, though. And that was the thing that really tripped you up. She would have had to go very much out of her way to come over here and check on you, even if she apparently came also because she trusted you to make her feel better about her own terrible day.

Nothing made sense anymore. It hadn't since you'd left for the break two weeks ago, and realized you were existing in a bubble where everyone tolerated your presence because they had to.

"Did something happen over the break?" She probed, carefully watching the shift of your facial expression. Immediately, she knew she'd gotten it right. Your face had fallen for just a moment, before the wall was drawn back up. But she'd seen the devastation in your eyes at the reminder. "Okay, so yes. Tell me what happened."

Sydney could come off as a very quiet, soft spoken person. but when it came to the people she cared about, which you could no longer deny included you, she was a force to be reckoned with, and you found yourself opening your mouth to answer without even trying to fight it very hard.

"It's fine. Some of the girls were… they didn't like me. But it's okay, really. I'm okay."

Sydney raised one eyebrow, like she didn't believe you for a second. "Didn't like you? Why not?"

Her face was so genuinely confused, her tone baffled. She didn't seem to understand the idea of someone not liking you. And, you suppose, that's what made you break. Tears welled in your eyes even as you shook your head, trying to ward the emotions off.

"Because I'm annoying and arrogant and aloof and untalented and undeserving of my spot here." The words tumbled out of you, like you'd been bursting at the seams trying not to let them go until that moment.

"Is that what they said?" Sydney asked, eyes wide and angry.

You nodded, jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

"Is that what you believe?"

This time, you shrugged. Yet, somehow, it was obvious what that shrug meant.

"That's absurd. Obviously they're just jealous of you because you're so much more successful than them."

The issue with that explanation was that you couldn't hear it without picturing a mother telling her spoiled teenage daughter with an awful personality the exact same thing. She didn't have friends because people were jealous of her, not because she was terrible. You couldn't envision yourself as anything other than the terrible one in the situation.

You shrugged again, trying to act like you didn't care, like none of it even mattered anyway. "Yeah, whatever. It's not a big deal."

Sydney looked at you for a long moment, considering. Her eyes were warm, her aura exuding gentleness. Still, you braced yourself for something hurtful.

"It seems like a big deal. It would feel like a big deal for me."

You bit your lip for a moment before shaking your head. "It's not."

It was a lie, and you both knew it. There was no part of you that was willing to let this conversation go any further, though. You couldn't talk about this, or you'd break, and that wouldn't be fair to put on Sydney. So, you changed the subject.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. Do you want to watch a movie? To get your mind off things?" You asked, trying to appear relaxed as you leaned back into the sofa and uncrossed your arms.

Sydney knew she had two options; she could push, insist you talk to her, or she could let you shut the conversation down and watch a movie with you. She was fairly certain that the first option would end with you shutting down even further, and her leaving your apartment. And the second… well, you'd still be shut down, but at least you wouldn't be alone. So, for now, Sydney let you table the conversation, well aware that she had a few people to call on her way home.

"A movie sounds good." She agreed.

Yet even after you'd both agreed on a film, even as the room feel silent as the opening chords of the score flooded out of the speakers, you could feel the concern radiating off Sydney in waves. And you worried she wouldn't let this go.

—

The thing about having no self confidence was that sometimes, you could be really fucking delusional. Over the course of the evening and night, and into the following day, you'd somehow managed to convince yourself that nothing else would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the night before. Because, really, why would anyone care to follow up? It was one thing to be nice to you at training, but your personal issues were no one's responsibility but your own.

Maybe it was your brain trying to take the safe option. Maybe it was some part of you reaching out for help in a very backwards way, knowing that if you convinced yourself there would be no conversation the next day, no worried glances from your teammates, you'd be much more likely to be taken off guard, and much more likely to talk. Whatever it was, you walked into the locker room the next morning, 75% sure that nothing would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the day before.

And right back out the locker room you walked, head down, eyes fixed on the floor, following Alexia and Patri. Briefly, you wondered how Patri was chosen for this conversation. Likely, it had been her that Sydney had gone to talk to, finding the youngest captain to be the easiest to approach. If you knew Irene and Marta, though, you knew they'd be itching to talk to you, too.

You followed Alexia and Patri to the room the team used for watching match footage, slumping into a chair as they both pulled ones over to sit in front of you. It felt oddly like some kind of job interview, both of their gazes fixed intently on you. They looked upset, almost, and you honestly weren't sure how this conversation would go.

Maybe it wasn't about the break and what had happened. Maybe you'd actually done something wrong, and gotten yourself into trouble.

Before you could spiral any further, Patri cleared her throat and spoke.

"You haven't been yourself." She said simply, eyes trained on your face, ready to catch even a flicker in your expression.

You opened your mouth, though you weren't quite sure what you were about to say. Alexia spoke before you could, though, shaking her head insistently as if you'd spoken.

"No. Do not deny it. You left for the break normal, smiley and laughing and happy. And you came back sad and quiet and shy. You haven't been this quiet and this withdrawn since you first came here, so something clearly happened while you were gone. And I want to know what happened."

Alexia could come on rather strong when it came to the well being of the people she cared about. This was something Patri knew very well, having been on the receiving end of it enough times. Yet she didn't want Alexia to seem too harsh, and make you think that you were in trouble when they were really just worried about you.

"Why do you want to know? It's not your responsibility, I was away with my national team, it has nothing to do with Barcelona."

Alexia and Patri exchanged a glance, confusion written across both their faces.

"What? It's not about responsibility, chica, it's about you. We want to know because we care about you."

Shockingly, as you'd approached this conversation with such hostility, your lip began to tremble. You bit down on it, hard, looking anywhere but at your captains.

"You do?"

Alexia and Patri were both stunned into silence for a moment. They didn't understand what they could have possibly done to make you doubt that they cared about you. The entire team had spent a long time earning your trust, and now it seemed like that trust had evaporated.

You'd been so young when you arrived at Barcelona, you still were so young. And neither Patri nor Alexia could see anything other than a young girl who needed love and support when they looked at you.

Alexia reached out, putting one hand on your shoulder. She waited until you lifted your gaze to meet hers, eyes filled with tears. She hadn't seen you look this small and this vulnerable in a very long time.

"Of course we do. Of course. We want to know what happened because we want to help."

At this, you shook your head, wiping your tears with the hem of your training top.

"No, this isn't your problem, it's mine. You don't have to fix it for me."

"Well, maybe we want to." Patri said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Just tell us, chica. Please." Alexia asked, her tone of the verge of begging. They were both looking at you so intently, so pleadingly and so caringly, that you weren't really sure what else to do. Your options seemed like… telling them what happened, or running from the room and never looking back.

"It was just… some of the girls at camp. They didn't like me. They said some stuff I guess I let get in my head."

It was the vaguest, barest bones summary you could have come up with, and you could tell both the older women wanted to ask for more details, insist on names and exactly what was said so they could make it right.

But there you sat in front of them, arms crossed tightly over your chest, looking like you were physically trying to hold yourself together. And they knew they shouldn't push you.

Of course, you were worried that if you told them exactly what was said, they'd agree, however unlikely that was. But more than that, the things that had been said to you and about you weren't things you ever really wanted to repeat again. Even listing them off to Sydney the night before had been painful, like you were hearing them all over again.

"Niña, you understand why the girls were mean, yes?" Patri asked gently.

You shrugged, because you didn't, not really. All you could think was that you deserved it.

"Because you are 17 years old and playing for this team. You are so talented, and so promising, and so humble about it, too. Those girls have no idea how to handle that jealousy without being cruel, without trying to put you down to make themselves feel taller."

You had to admit, when Patri explained it, it made sense. Hearing those words from her took some of the weight off your shoulders, even if it was only a little bit for now.

Alexia hummed her agreement to what Patri said, nudging your foot with hers before she spoke. "We can't fix what happened while you were gone, nena. But we can tell you that you are not alone, and nothing that was said to you was true. You are good and kind and you deserve to be here. Okay?"

Again, all you could do was shrug. But Alexia could see the tears silently sliding down your face, and she knew that what she'd said had mattered, had been what you needed to hear.

"Ven," Alexia said, standing and opening her arms for you. You buried yourself into the hug, letting the warmth from Alexia calm you.

It wasn't magically better. You didn't suddenly, miraculously feel better about yourself and who you were as a person. It just didn't feel as heavy, in that moment.

Your captains had gone out of their way to check on you, to insist you talk to them, just like Sydney had. There was no obligation for them to fulfill, they'd done it because they wanted to. Because they cared about you. And whether or not you thought that care was valid or deserved, it didn't matter. It was there either way.

Patri hugged you, too, after Alexia finally let go, murmuring something about finding those girls and teaching them a lesson, and you laughed. The both smiled at your smile like they'd won a prize, Patri slinging an arm across your shoulders as she walked you out of the film room and back to the locker room.

It was just as loud as ever in there, music blasting from the speaker. Pina had commandeered Patri's phone in her absence, and was playing something that Vicky was calling an abomination. Jana grabbed your wrist as soon as you stepped foot through the door, pulling you over to the bench in front of your cubby and practically shoving you down onto it. She started braiding your hair without you even asking, and you knew then that everyone had noticed something up with you, not just Sydney, and not just your captains.

The volume of the locker room didn't feel like a party happening around you that you weren't invited to, anymore. It felt comfortable, the way it always had before.

You didn't realize you were sitting there, smiling, until Sydney caught your eye from across the room. She looked anxious, and you realized she probably expected you to be angry with her for going to Alexia and Patri about you.

Somehow, though, you weren't upset. You weren't really anything but relieved that your entire team didn't hate you. You smiled wider at Sydney, nodding your head once. Relief flooded her face, turning into amusement as Jana lightly slapped the top of your head, telling you not to move or you'd mess her up.

It really surprised you how much better you felt. How much a few people just caring and reaching out had done. You didn't really feel like questioning it, though. You didn't feel like ruminating in the thoughts and rethinking your every action.

You just felt like being there with your team, without overthinking anything. And that was a massive step in and of itself.

—

i know i throw this around a lot but i truly hate this. could not physically spend any more time on it thought without losing my mind, so i hope it's not too bad. don't tell me if it is thx <3

[yuurei20]

Twst Radio Summary

Today's Twst Radio is Ruggie's VA (🍩) interviewing Twst music composer Ozawa Takumi about the creation of the dorm songs and Aozora Ichika, who wrote the lyrics for 11 of the 14 songs (including OB songs).

Usually try to keep these summaries shorter but there was so much interesting information shared! ♪

Summary Below:

※Disclaimer: these are not literal translations, just summaries of the conversations.

Ozawa: I had never considered that there would one day be Twst character songs. 

🍩：Same for me. I didn’t think we were ever going to sing.

Ozawa: There were voiced songs for events, but nothing like character songs. So when the request came I was surprised. There was the request for the seven dorm songs and a note of “and an additional 7 songs.” I was like, “FOURTEEN SONGS!?” I couldn’t believe it.

Aozora: At first there wasn’t any talk about me crafting the lyrics. Ozawa-san was going to do them all, but fourteen…her schedule—

Ozawa: It was impossible to do alone.

🍩: So Aozora-san did all the lyrics?

Ozawa: Not all of them. There were a couple where we felt it would be better if I wrote them. There were two songs where I wanted to add the lyrics to the rhythm as I was making them.*

*note: Ozawa also wrote the lyrics to Idia's OB song ggwp. Source ->

Aozora: You do it that way and you can change the melody, too.

Ozawa: Right, I wanted to be able to change the music as I went. Doing that with two people would make things difficult, so I wrote the Ignihyde and Scarabia dorm songs. We decided that from the start. And I asked her to do the rest.

About Heartslabyul Song

Ozawa: That was the third dorm song that I made. Compared to the rest, I really hit a wall with that one. I started making it in Spring of 2024. I went in kind of a cute direction with it, and Toboso-sensei told me, “No, it’s not like that. I want you to put more playing-card soldier feeling into it, to make it cooler.” So I changed it to adapt to those instructions, turning it into the “Obedience” that it became. Close to the image that Heartslabyul had at the beginning of the story.

Aozora: The lyrics for “Obedience” were the easiest for putting across the feelings of the dorm’s students.

About Savanaclaw Song

Ozawa: The Savanaclaw dorm song was the one I made first. It was the easiest to imagine. A simple rock song. I made it with Leona’s oveblot song in mind. I have been told it sounds invigorating. I hadn’t had that in mind at the time. The housewarden is not main in this song. Heartslabyul was the same. Savanaclaw’s focuses on the dorm students with the housewarden in the back.

🍩: It was like Leona was telling Ruggie and Jack to go on ahead, from behind them.

Ozawa/Aozora: Exactly.

Aozora: I imagined the scene in the Lion King of Scar motivating the hyaenas and chose words based on that, matching to the music.

Ozawa: There was a happening with 🍩 during recording. When we record there is a vocal booth and a direction booth. 🍩 announced that he didn’t want anyone to see him singing and closed the curtain to the vocal booth. He is the only one who did that.

🍩: Does everyone else leave it open because they want people to watch them?

Aozora: I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s for communication?

Ozawa: Right. We can see how things are going when it’s open. When you close it we get nervous. But it was cute of you. We assumed you were nervous.

🍩: I was so nervous.

About Octavinelle Song

Ozawa: I came up with this music while in the bath. It came to me all at once. But I forget things really quickly. I always take my phone with me in the bath in order to record, so I recorded there immediately and I was singing to myself as I got out so as not to forget.

Aozora: I conferred with Toboso-sensei a lot about the lyrics for this song, about how to put across what is intimidating about Octavinelle in words. 

Ozawa: She said, “Unsettling.”

Aozora: “As unsettling as possible,” she said. It starts out with “we want to help you” and then at the end it flips it. “There is no escape.”

🍩: At the end of Floyd’s part there was originally laughter.

Ozawa: Yes. After the “Shall I squeeze you” line there was “uwahahaha—!” laughter. It was great in of that it was scary, but when compared to the songs of the other dorms it became too much like a character song. The other dorms don’t have anything like that in them, so I took it out.

About Scarabia Song

Ozawa: I did both the music and lyrics for this one. Jamil and Kalim are both talented singers and dancers, so I had that in mind when I made it. It went in the direction of dance music, the kind of music that makes people want to move—that’s the rhythm I put in. But it is not only a festival atmosphere. Rather than being wild/unrestrained, it is bewitching. “Come this way, why don’t we have a little fun.” Before you realize it, you’ve been controlled. 

🍩: Was there anything different about having to prepare a song with only two singers?

Ozawa: It was half and half, while picking words for the lyrics that suit each character. Toboso-sensei went over the lyrics, too. 

Aozora: We consulted with her.

Ozawa: Rather than a message or deep meaning Far Out is more about the rhythm and wordplay. Putting across a suspicious atmosphere. Enjoying the “La-i Ya-i Laia-i-ya ♪.”

🍩: Does that mean anything in particular within the lyrics?

Ozawa: No, it means nothing.

About Pomefiore Song

Aozora: It’s called “will” but it isn’t about Vil-sama’s will. It is about each individual student knowing where they should be heading. That is Pomefiore, to me. This song had the clearest narrative. As I wrote the lyrics I had both the original film that inspired the dorm and Book 5 open the whole time, checking between them over and over again. I wrote scenes from Snow White as directly as I could into the lyrics. I wrote detailed character notes for the voice actors to help guide their performance during recording for the more abstract parts. Each character got their own unique direction. 🏹 sang with completely different emotions from 👑. There's a part they sing together and I gave them completely different instructions. When they came together with such different emotions, the depth and contrast was amazing. Vil is singing with his own thoughts and motivations and Rook with his own and they are going in different directions, but their voices are overlapping. That was really moving for me. 🍎 gave us an amazing take for the line “滴る甘い毒真紅に彩れ♪”. We were struggling a bit with how to express Epel’s character, but then 🍎 said, “Can I try singing it as I like?” And it was perfect take.

About Ignihyde Song

Ozawa: I imagined the electric style of Ignihyde’s BGM when I made it. I wrote the lyrics as well. I thought they should be down and dark, but I was told to make them upbeat. 

🍩: It sounds like Idia having a really good time.

Ozawa: There is a feeling of “Are there three singers?” We had 🤖 sing in a variety of different ways. It was amazing. And I was really impressed by 💀 as well. It is not easy to sing like that, but he understood perfectly. There is a lot of wordplay in the lyrics. We received so many ideas from Toboso-sensei. I wouldn't have been able to make this song without her. The lyrics were cooler when I started out. She asked me to go in a cheesier direction. 

About Diasomnia Song

Ozawa: I went with symphonic rock for this one. I like gothic metal, and I didn’t hold back. I recorded 12 vocal tracks for the mixed chorus, and then had all the voice actors record two takes each, for a total of 8 tracks. I sang for it, too. I sang three parts and layered about six takes. In total the chorus is made up of the equivalent of 26 individual vocal parts layered together. The first time I saw the lyrics I thought, “Uh—what? What is that?”

Aozora: I was asked to write lyrics where you can’t tell what is being said. From the very start, that was the request. I put in as many words that people don’t use anymore as I could. I could tell it was going to be difficult for the voice actors. I wrote down how to pronounce the words and explanations for them. 🐉 ’s part comes in and he just completely blows you away.

Ozawa: It’s like a dragon’s wings unfurling before your eyes.

Aozora: It was perfectly Malleus on the first take.

Ozawa Takumi and Aozora Ichika have been collaborating together for over 20 years. More information here.

Ozawa Takumi Interview (2020):

Ozawa Takumi Interview (2024):

[leopardvee]

sunday in park with toji

pairing: toji fushiguro x female reader, mentions of megumi and tsumiki

fluff, little bit of dirty talk from toji but it’s cute, short and not proofread

since tsumiki could walk, you and toji spent every Sunday in the park watching her play and make friends with the other children.

you and toji considered it your “date night” since it’s been a while since you guys were able to go out with one another.

watching her in the sandbox playing with a boy with bright pink hair made your features crinkle with a small smile. toji drapes a heavy arm over your shoulder, whispering in your ear, “she looks just like you. makes me wanna put another one in you.” you swatted toji’s arm as he kissed the shell of your ear. “shut up. there’s children around” you scolded him. “whadda y’say we add one more?”.

you ignored his comment and giggled a little bit. he faked surprise and he clutched his chest, pretending to keel over. you rolled your eyes and moved to kiss his cheek. “wow princess, ‘m all better now.” he wrapped his arm around you again squeezing you against him kissing all over your face.

tsumiki came running up to your two, the boy with pink hair in tow. “mom! dad! i made a new friend!” she said excitedly. you took her into your arms and kissed her cheek while toji extended his hand to the small boy. “‘m her daddy. you better take good care of her over there” toji warned. “or i know a few moves to getcha” he cracked his knuckles.

the little boy furrowed his eyebrows like he was challenging toji to a duel. you couldn’t help but giggle which made tsumiki laugh. “dad you’re not really scary…”. she looked at at the little boy and he giggled jn toji’s face.

when they’d run off, toji’s mouth fell open. he couldn’t believe that little shit laughed in his face. you rubbed his back while coaxing him to lean back in the park bench, laughing. “i think he could take you” you laughed.

“not right now doll. planning his death”.

the both of you watched the kids play on the swings, up to the slides, and down to the mulch on the playground. “y’know what’s funny?”, you hmmed and squinted at him, the sun in your face. he quickly cupped his hands around your eyebrows to block the light and started.

“when megumi was little, he used to never back down from me. i’d challenge him to an arm wrestle and he would just twist up his face and put his arm out.”

toji never really talked about megumi. not because he didn’t love him, just because it was a bit of a sore spot.

you shifted your body towards him, forcing one leg under you and the other over his legs. he set a hand on your leg and you put your hand over his, rubbing his hand with your thumb.

“he was a tough kid. always talked back to me, never to his mom though. he definitely knew better.” a small smile creeped across his lips, his scar stretching along his face.

you hmmed happily at his story. “what’d you like to do with him?” toji rubbed his jaw, deep in thought. he thought for a minute.

“we played with his dogs a lot. he loves his dogs, always smiling and laughing loud when they’d mess with him.” he laughed lightly.

“that’s nice jiji.” you paused for a second. “thanks for telling me. i know you don’t talk about him a lot.” you squeezed his hand and smiled.

“i think he’d really like you.” he said sincerely. he looked you right in the eyes, making you a bit nervous. he leaned down to kiss you before resting his back against the bench again. he watched tsumiki and the boy happily.

“he had a friend who looked just like that kid too. weird.”

you put your feet back on the ground, your back on the bench and you rested your head against his shoulder and let the sun shine in your face again. you closed your eyes contently and he squeezed your thigh before patting it a few times.

“i’ll get better at telling you things. you just let me take my time, yeah?”

you nodded against his shoulder and wrapped both arms around his bicep. tsumiki waved at the two of you as the little pink haired boy who scowled at toji.

lmk what you think!! i feel like this could turn into a series like reader and megumi meeting, i never said reader and toji were married… i feel like this could go places

borders not mine ~ @saradika-graphics

[saintescuderia]

pancakes (pt. 8)

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :)

the pancakes recipe here :)

A/N: hello! apologies for such a hiatus. here we go, finally kicking things into gear! enjoy (it's 6.7k lol) (also i rewrote some of the earlier chapters so check them out!)

P8 - active rest

“Look for quiet moments, times where you can be still and present.”

That was the advice of one Louise, the infamous therapist who had helped you survive the tumult of the past few years. Considering everything, you could at least take the silver lining of all the shitty years bringing you to therapy helping you learn how to make the most of a Grand Prix weekend.

Because man they are busy.

Even when you weren't working in Hospitality, it was hard to be present. To be still. Everything was always in flux, a chaotic busy schedule of this and that and rushing to and fro and doing this and sorting this out and it seemed to never end.

When you tried to explain that to Louise, the endless media, fans, noise, debriefs, trainings, updates - the Formula 1 bit of it all, she merely shrugged and seemed unfazed.

"Force it. Find time to be quiet and still. Make it happen." You remember the smirk that came onto her face with her next words. "Engineer it."

And so you would engineer it.

This weekend, you were sitting on the rooftop of some ridiculously expensive Hospitality suite. Your feet were dangling over the edge, black and white Cortez for the day. You had chosen them as a way to make yourself feel slightly better at being shifted from Haas to Ferrari.

Guenther had just sworn in exasperation and then said this was probably Fred's doing to get on the mini pizzas. You wondered if --

No. You stopped the train of thought. You were here to be still.

You spooned up another serving of your overnight oats into your mouth. You had made it with chia and this new type of protein powder. You grimaced at the taste - it evidently was not good. It tasted like... well, like protein powder. You were unsure if the added 15g of protein was really worth the taste.

It was the very reason that you were having breakfast that you could sit on the rooftop ledge of a Formula 1 Hospitality suite, sneakers dangling over the edge. You watched the slow trickle in of mechanics from various teams. You also spotted a few F3 and F2 drivers coming in with their trainers. You smiled down at the next generation of drivers. They were so young.

The sun was just rising over the lake, just behind the city scape of Melbourne's CBD skyline. You smiled at the colour of the clouds and how they were mirrored on the still water. You took a deep breath - and then ate some more of the protein mess.

By the time you were done, some Ferrari workers had arrived. You closed the glass tupperware container - there was about a quarter left of but you had eaten all the berries and without the fruit to sweeten it, you couldn't do it - and made moves to the motorhome.

Last night had bought home pistachio ice-cream and it had given you the idea to make cannoli as a nice Race Day treat. It also meant you would be busy making the shells and the filling would be self-serve. As in, you could hide in the kitchen while everyone served themselves.

It wasn't like you hadn't worked in Ferrari in the past five years. However, it was the first time you'd been here since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture. And since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture, Daniel had drunkenly screamed at you, the Team Principals had all met to discuss your contract and Charles had looked at you. Somehow, the latter was the most daunting.

Either way, you weren't taking chances.

You greeted some Ferrari staff and took some coffee orders. While the machine turned on, you tied a bandana around your head and apron around your waist.

Then you got to work.

"Y/N can you make the coffees for the debrief?"

"Yeah sure no worries." You had just done the finishing touches for the dough and were just sitting on the table, scrolling through your phone killing time anyway. You walked over to the machine and turned on the grinder?

"Grazie! Oh, and can you then take them to the meeting room?"

The intern delivering the news immediately dipped after that, unaware of the bomb they'd just dropped in your lap. You blinked after them and wanted to call out but they were already gone in the business of the Race Day craziness. Your eyes were bulging in shock - since when were you walking into important meetings such as race debriefs? If it weren't for the fact that you recognised this intern from last year - and to be related to Fred - and you would've thought it a careless instruction that would have them immediately fired and banned for life.

You went about making all the respective coffees. You prepped Carlos' piccolo, a strong latte for Charles, the engineers coffees. And a double espresso for Fred. Just in case.

Even though he was nothing like Mattia, you had PTSD from TPs in red. You liked Fred but the whole environment still had you on edge.

You set the coffees on a tray and looked around in case you could pass them to someone else to deliver, maybe a lowly intern or an engineer about to walk in?

None.

You sighed and gave yourself a moment. You dusted your hands on your apron - and then promptly took it off once you realised the massive egg/flour mishap stain at the front. But then you looked down at your legs bare in a pair of Adidas shorts and wondered if the apron covering was better.

You took a steading breath, feeling the nerves rise up. Suddenly you felt the sensation of the bandana wrapped around your head too tight and took that off. When you felt slightly, even if incrementally, slightly better, you grabbed the tray and made way to the third door beside the two Ferrari driver rooms.

You knocked twice and entered when you heard the call. You walked in and saw the small group of people, mainly comprised of Charles and Carlos, their respective engineers of Xavi and Adami. You also vaguely noticed Morena, the PR manager and were mildly confused at that oddity.

"Oh, let me get that for you!" The closest person to you stood up to help you. It was Carlos and you thanked him. You ducked your head and were immediately half way out the door when Morena was already calling out.

"Perfect timing! I need a woman's opinion on this!"

"Uh - what?"

"A woman's opinion!" Morena repeated but clarified nothing. "We have some model options coming in today to pair up with our boys and they seem to not care much for this."

You stared at her. You blinked twice. It took you a few seconds to understand what she was saying. Suddenly pictures, looking like head shots, were slid across the table.

You stared down at the incredibly gorgeous girls and the reality of the situation you were in. Suddenly, taking off the apron seemed like a good call.

They were each more beautiful than the other. Faces perfectly symmetrical, hair styled by the gods and a waist that no type of cut would ever get you.

"Is this really appropriate?" Charles voice drew you back from the models photos. You didn't look at him but at Morena who was frowning at him.

"Considering they will be here in an hour and no one has given me an answer, then yes. Y/N is known for her discretion, no?" Morena looked at Fred who looked like he would literally be anywhere else but here.

"Bah, if it means we can get a decision sooner." Fred shrugged. "I'd like to get to racing."

"And I won't choose for you!" Morena asked. "And Xavi has not helped."

"Xavi is my race engineer. Not my match-maker." Charles said, tensely. "And neither is some hospitality worker."

Oh.

Oh no.

You felt your ears go warm. You felt the need to swallow whatever was bubbling up in your throat. Your eyes were on some random models face but she was nothing but parts of a face to you. Charles had just referred to you as 'some hospitality worker' and you wanted to die.

How - how did you guys get to this? Never in a million years would you have imagined that the first time you would be both be in a race day debrief for Ferrari would it go like this.

Still, you would steel yourself. You would not be shaken like this.

"Charles is right." You said, hating how hoarse your voice sounded. You cleared it and then spoke again. "Even if it's for PR, more thought that this should go into it. As much as modelling agencies are discreet, this particular one has had controversy selling secrets when some footballers consulted them." You thought of Jude's ex-girlfriend's manager from this agency and how they'd sold 'secrets' about him for some extra quick cash. "I would suggest finding… more local participants to make life easier and for the genuine aspect of it.” You winced at how that sounded. But it was true. “I would also suggest doing this after the race as both F2 and F3 have finished their feature races reporting increased tyre degradation from yesterday."

"How do you know?" Adami asked, frowning at you.

"About the modelling agency or the tyre degradation?" You shrugged and grabbed the tray. "Who knows? I am just a hospitality worker."

You gave Charles a look. His eyes were down, looking at his lap. You know he was clenching his fists.

You went back to the kitchen but you were too hyped up. You found yourself pacing back and forth, unable to process it. He called you a what? Charles. Charles Leclerc. The same boy you shared a crib with had referred to you as just some fucking hospitality worker?!

It wasn't like you were ashamed of the type of work you did. You know that, considering the elitism of F1, there was definitely a lack of being in touch with the reality of people who work the 'menial work' and wait on and serve those with the million dollar watches and matching boat. You had first-hand experience of going to having the lanyard to serving the people with the lanyard.

But you hadn’t expected Charles to be like that. You had expected him to be better than that.

Suffice to say, you had lost respect for Charles Leclerc. The fact that it came from him made the anger, hurt and shame all the more inflamed and you knew there was no way you could pretend to give a shit about cannoli anymore.

You stalked out the Ferrari motorhome, unable to think straight but needing to just get out.

However, it just so happened that the universe really wanted to screw you over because as luck would have it - you just had to bump into a familiar face in Red Bull gear.

The car was good. Really good. He came out on top in all three Free Practice sessions. Max Verstappen had pole position and he was beyond confident he would convert that into a win today.

And yet, he felt like he might actually throw up.

Staring down at his phone, Max let the Instagram reel keep replaying automatically as he watched you and that fucking McLaren rookie in your old Supra.

Initially, it hadn't come up on his feed. Max saw no need to follow any of the other teams and he had zero desire to befriend the new kid. Sure, Oscar Piastri’s resume was already quite impressive but Max was already wary of him since he was the reason Daniel, one of his best friends, had been forced out of F1.

And now it seemed like Piastri felt like he could take more than Daniel’s seat.

"Yo, Maxie!" Max looked up to where the man in question was walking out. Daniel had just finished doing some PR bullshit Horner had him doing as the third driver. Whilst Max could appreciate it being nice to have Daniel again around in Red Bull - and elevate some of the PR demands - Max didn’t appreciate all the rumours and unnecessary drama brought up between Daniel and Checo.

Because Max would win either way. Whoever was in the other seat didn’t phase him all that much. It couldn’t.

"Hi Daniel." Max said, looking back down at his phone once more and then pocketing it.

"What you watching?" Daniel asked casually.

"Oh nothing." Max dismissed. "Something Kelly sent me." Technically, that was true. Kelly had been the one to message him the reel.

"Ah, the missus. How is she?"

"Good, good." Max nodded, looking down for a moment. Then he looked back at his friend. "What happened between you and Y/N?"

"What?" Daniel blinked, his smile faltering at the question. "Er - where is this coming from?"

"No where. Kelly asked me and I realised I never knew the full story. She - she was gone before I could ask her." Max said, referring to your evident distance from him due to what had happened with Jos.

It was something Max had always felt conflicted about. Could he be happy that you had defended him even though it meant someone close to him got hurt? It was his father so why did it feel wrong to stand by Jos? Was it because it meant it was against you?

Either way, none of that really mattered right now. All that Max knew was that Daniel didn't break up with you because of what happened with Jos.

So what? Max knew things weren't always rosy with you and Daniel but he'd just assumed it was F1 pressures or the usual woes of relationships. Then you both broke up and knew that there was something else.

"We just, uh, I don't know. Didn't work. Fit." Daniel shrugged and looked away. It was the same line he'd always used. Max was about to give it up when Daniel finally added something new to the story. "Fucking Charles always got in the way."

Max considered this and thought about Charles and you for a moment.

He remembered always seeing you at the circuits growing up, fussing over Leclerc. He'd met you the same time he'd met Charles for the very fact that Where ever Charles was, you wouldn't be too far off. Initially, Max was confused about your relationship. You were too young to be dating but had vastly different features to be related. However, over time, he'd just come to accept that you and Charles were, well, you and Charles.

Admittedly starting in Formula 1 before Charles meant Max had been nervous when they were finally racing against each other and where your loyalties would lie. However, for the short period where that was the case (before everything crumbled, that is) it seemed to, oddly enough, actually work.

Max looked at his friend who had lost his easygoing smile. "I never felt that with her." He said, running through his memories of their time at Toro Rosso. "We thought it would cause problems with her being my trainer. But it never was."

"Yeah, well, you weren't dating her." Daniel said with a shake of her head. There was a finality to his tone that, frankly, Max didn't give a shit about. This was the most amount he'd ever gotten out of Daniel about what happened between the two of you.

For a second, Max wondered if Daniel was over this breakup as much as he said he was. "...Do you think Charles was in love with her?"

Daniel threw his head back in a laugh. Not his usual one. No, this was more sarcastic, sardonic even. "Oh, definitely. Always throwing it in my face." Now it was Daniel's time to be inquisitive. "Do you know what happened between them? Like I heard all the rumours - "

"No. I don't." Max reached across to pull a can of Red Bull to him and crack it open. Daniel didn't say anything even though they both knew that was a lie.

Because Max did know. It was why Max and Charles stopped speaking. It was why they came to blows that one night in Imola.

Daniel knew Max was lying about what happened with Charles. Just like Max knew Daniel was lying about what happened with you.

"Anyway Maxie, I have to -- oof!"

Both men turned around to see the very girl in question fall back. You were clearly running from the Ferrari motorhome - it was right next door - and judging by your face, you were very much not okay.

"Woah, you okay?" Daniel reaches his hands out to steady you and Max notes the way you immediately recoil from his touch. Your eyes darted quickly to meet his and Max felt himself want to reach out also and make sure you were okay. Daniel's observation was correct: you very clearly weren't okay.

"Yeah, excuse me." You made a move to step around but Daniel immediately ran his mouth.

"You don't look good, Tez." He looked behind you at the red building. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm honestly not in the mood for your shit."

"What shit? I'm just pointing out the facts." Daniel said. Max glared at his friend. Daniel could be a dick when he wanted to be. "Just be careful. McLaren's next door and it could look like you're violating your contract."

"Daniel." Max couldn't help but warn his friend. It was clear you were not okay and this was not the time.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" You spat back. "Have you been waiting outside the Ferrari motorhome to make these digs? What? Liking some fucking tweets wasn't enough for you?"

"Y/N." Max now warned you.

"Max, with all due respect, I'm this close to losing it. And you have lost the right to care about me."

"Yeah, don't want to add another Verstappen to your list."

That was too far, even for Max. He stepped in front of you before you could react and gave Daniel a very clear shove. "Don't you fucking dare." It was at this point the Australian realised he had probably gone too far. He shoved Max's hand off and turned around with a "yeah whatever" before stalking off.

Max turned around and saw something he'd only witnessed once before in the ten years or so that he'd known you.

You, on the verge of tears.

"Fuck, Tez." Max immediately wrapped a hand around your shoulder and guided you to the shared loading zone space of the Red Bull and Ferrari motorhomes. "Are you okay? He lowered down to meet your eyes. You were staring at nothing behind him, guiding your attention there as your tears pooled and fell down your face.

"Do - do you want a hug?" He asked, feeling awkward since it wasn't exactly like he was your closest friend right now and had the right to offer you any comfort. Max also had never seen you like this.

Vulnerable. You were always the rock in a time of chaos. You had always kept him level-headed and reminded him to curb his anger and how to properly channel it. You were the calm in any storm. You were always stronger that way. Nothing ever seemed to get you down.

So to see you like this... it was almost like seeing a parent cry. You had always been the one to comfort him. Never the other way around.

He was about to put his arms around you when that seemed to awaken something in you.

"Get the fuck off me." You immediately shoved him back.

"Woah, I'm just trying to help you."

"And why would I need your help? Especially since you never offered it when I really fucking needed it."

Max faltered. You had a point. He should've said something when you defended him - when you protected him. Not throw you under the bus and lie because his dad told him to do so. Because everyone knew you were protecting Max from his abusive father but the official records were that you attacked Jos since Max's testimony went that way. His mother had cried, Jos had given him the silent treatment and even Helmut told him to think of his career.

So Max gave the final line needed that would see you always see you a premeditated court agreed amount of space away from his family. And him by extension.

It wasn't lost on him that the last time Max had been this close to you had been when you were mopping up vomit in Abu Dhabi 2021.

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"A few too fucking years late, Max." You wiped at your tears. You never liked to be seen as weak. He liked to think he got that from you.

"Then let me just help you out this one time." He wasn't sure why he started this - maybe it was the guilt of not doing something in the past and wanting to rectify it, but he added. "Horner's onto you. He's got lawyers on your case."

You stopped crying for a moment, thrown at this. "What?"

"That Piastri kid. I know you're close to him." Max couldn't help the annoying feeling when he said that aloud, "But Horner is worried since he has a good record with F3 and F2 but McLaren have a shit car so I'm not too worried but - "

"Oh my God." You breathed and turned around, looking at the wall. "Oh my God." You repeated.

"What?"

"Oh my God I'm actually going to move to Madrid and start with football because I am so fucking done with you drivers."

Max stared, unsure what was going on with you right now. What had he said? Why were you so angry?

"Is that seriously what you're worried about right now?"

Max blanked. How had he gone from trying to help you out by letting you know what Horner was doing to somehow pissing you off even more. "No, I - I'm just saying that I don't care if you're training Piastri but the point is that Horner - "

"And say, Max, why should it matter if you care or not?" You snapped at him, all the tears suddenly gone. You were fuming. "What? I need your permission as my old driver to train someone new?"

"No, it doesn't matter because I'm better than him."

"Yeah but I haven't trained him yet."

"Well go ahead and train him then! We'll see who wins with your rookie in that McLaren tractor."

"You know what, Max? Bet. By the end of this year, both you and Horner will regret fucking me over for Jos."

"Good luck doing that when you're also making him coffee."

At that exact moment, the sound of a door flinging open broke the tension and out came a man dressed in red. Neither you or Max were sure where Carlos Sainz had come from but there he was. He bounded down the steps and came between you and Max before you had anytime to say or do anything.

Max, immediately filled with regret, started apologising. "I didn't mean that - "

"Shut the fuck up Verstappen." Carlos' harsh curse cut out of nowhere. He didn't look at the driver once and Max watched as you let Carlos tug you back and up the steps back into the rear exit of the Ferrari motorhome.

Max turned to the side of the building and, despite knowing he has a race in a few hours, threw his fist right into it.

Usually on your rest days, you opted for active rest. Walks. Yoga - or just stretching in general. Swimming if possible was also a go.

Today was a rest day. You had planned to go for a walk around Albert Park when the track closed up for the day. That had been the plan. Make it through the day, enjoy the race, go for a walk and then start making plans for Azerbaijan. You had discussed getting there early to have a few days to settle and get into a routine with working out and training.

That had been the plan. And if life had gone according to your plan, you would currently be smiling at the sun that was setting over the skyline reflected on the lake and think to yourself about how much you loved Formula 1.

However, right now you were in bed, no form of exercise attempted as you watched the Liverpool game. The race had finished a few hours ago and you had watched Max win on Dia's old TV. It just added fresh salt to the wound and he lifted the trophy and celebrated as if you were nothing in building him to be the driver who was standing on that podium.

As such, you were under two blankets and hadn't left the space on the living room couch since you'd arrived earlier today. You had also apparently given up on your cut as you accepted Dia's Nutella sandwiches and glasses of red wine.

When she asked what had happened you just said, "2018 hit me in the face again."

She didn't say anything more about that. She said a gentle, "I'm here if you want." But then just sat by you on the couch and knitted. She commented on Oscar's driving style. She also kept making jokes about Stroll. That lifted your mood slightly.

The race, admittedly, had been an interesting one. Dia didn't say anything when Charles went off but her loud snort made you smile. Him getting beached the first lap felt karmic to you and for the first time ever, you would allow yourself to feel vindication seeing Charles go out of a race.

However, it wasn't the Ferrari with the black T cam that had your attention this race. Carlos was starting 5th and anytime he was on screen, you found your attention drawn to his car. Especially since the first half of the lap he was fighting with Pierre and when he finally overtook him on lap 25, you found yourself wanting to cheer for him.

Oscar drove pretty well and finished 8th. It wasn't too bad but with the amount of cars that went out, it was a lucky result. Especially since most of the time, both the McLarens were fighting with Haas.

Especially after the second red flag and he got into 3rd place after he was forced into Alonso who spun out. Unfortunately he didn't keep it and finished 12th. It was evidently not a good result and you almost wished you could reach out to him.

In another life.

You were done with drivers and Formula 1 for the day - for the week. You hadn't been serious before with Max but now, in the space or your living room watching the Liverpool game Carlos had spoken about before, you couldn't help but think that football would be better than F1.

The doorbell rang and you looked at your aunt.

"Did you order Uber Eats?"

"In my house? Don't insult me." Dia tutted and lifted your feet off her lap to get up and answer it. You kept watching the game and watched as Mo Salah went in for the assist but missed. Your thoughts continued to mull over it as the offhanded angry comment became more and more concrete as the night wore on.

For one, taking your uncle's offer meant you'd get to train athletes again. You wouldn't get to travel as much, sure, but that also meant you'd get more consistency and having a routine wouldn't be so much of a headache with all the jet-lag. You were friends with most of the boys on the squad and they all usually came from diverse backgrounds - meaning less of the elitist snobbery of the rich upper class that ruled F1.

And since Christian Horner was apparently calling his lawyers - his very, very good lawyers - it would probably be for the best. Maybe she could coach Oscar online or something. He'd understand. He was a good kid and she'd miss him, sure but was it really worth it if --

"Oh dearest, sweet niece of mine! You have a guest!" Dia's voice rang from the hallway and you frowned, sitting up. You weren't sure who might come to visit you. The only feasible option was Oscar and so you stood up, not caring about your dishevelled, ratty pyjamas. Maybe it was a good time to tell him he was going to Madrid.

"Hey bro, sorry for not messaging you. Shit hit the fan and I think I'm gonna move to Madrid - "

"My hometown? That's nice. I can show you around."

Oscar Piastri was not standing in your door frame.

It was Carlos Sainz.

"Carlos? What - what are you doing here?" You pulled at the large jumper you wore above the Spider-Man boxer briefs that completed your nightwear look.

Unfortunately this just made him look down at said boxer briefs. Carlos' lips twitched but he said nothing and just smiled warmly at you. "You weren't at the circuit." Was all he said, as if that explained anything. Then he held up a brown paper bag. "I brought you ice-cream."

Not sure what to do, you just welcomed him in. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Come in." You noticed Dia quickly dip down the hallway to give you space. Not before she made a show of wiggling her eyebrows at you. You gave her an unimpressed look and waved at her.

And so you sat at Dia's cluttered kitchen table with Carlos Sainz who brought you ice-cream from a gelato shop near the hotel he was staying at.

"I wasn't sure what flavour you liked so I got a few." He opened the styrofoam tub and you saw three different colours. "Pistachio, hazelnut and tiramisu. It was their weekly flavour."

"All sounds good." You brought some spoons and cups to the table. Carlos brought a cup to him and began serving himself. You went to the other cup but Carlos tutted your hand away. He then finished scooping some of each flavour before passing the cup to you.

It was a small gesture but after the day you had, it meant a lot. You smiled and muttered a quiet thank you. You waited until he had served himself before you tried the pistachio.

"Hmm, that's good." You commented. Pistachio was one of your favourite flavours and this was pretty good.

"I agree." Carlos nodded. "Do you have a favourite flavour?"

"Usually go for pistachio."

"Ah, good for me!" Carlos smiled and held out his spoon with pistachio ice-cream. It took you a second but you clinked your spoon against his. "Cheers! You know, if you move to Madrid I can show you all the good ice-cream shops."

"Thank you. It's not confirmed, just a thought I'm having on a bad day." It was then that you realised that you probably weren't the only one who might be having a bad day.

Technically, with eight cars out, Carlos' 12th place meant he had finished last today.

And had been told he needed to get into a PR relationship.

"I'm sorry." You said. He looked at you, spoon in mouth and frowned. "I - uh, about today. The race."

His face became a bit more solemn and he sighed. "Thank you. It wasn't exactly my best result but I know Charles - " He stopped and you thought it was because he named your former best friend. But then he shrugged and scoped some more ice-cream into his mouth. "I bet Charles so I'm fine."

Your mouth fell open.

"You're not a reporter, I don't need to lie." Carlos elaborated and it took you a second to process the honesty.

"I... yeah. Fair enough."

"Oscar did well."

"Not well enough."

"I heard what you said to Max."

You bristled at his comment. Admittedly you hadn't had a lot of interaction with Carlos but you were unused to him calling things so straightforward. So, you deflected. "Was this after you were let out of choosing a PR relationship?"

"Yes. And thanks for that by the way. By bringing up the locals bit, Morena decided we can pick our own girls." He rolled his eyes. Then he looked at you and grinned. "Let me know if you decide to move to Madrid."

"Ha. Funny." You then decided to use his same tactic. "Carlos, I'm sorry I'm gonna be blunt."

"That's fine. I prefer that."

"I noticed." You said. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Do you want to go to the Real Madrid game next week?"

What? "What?"

"The game?" Carlos repeated, seeming very indifferent to the immediate change in conversation that was throwing you for a loop. He had brought you ice-cream and come to your personal home to ask you about a football game? "I can get us private flight tickets to Bernabéu. My dad has a box."

You stared at him. He continued to eat ice-cream. Innocently.

"Again, Carlos, I'm gonna ask... what?"

He put down the ice-cream and turned to you fully. It made you sit up a little and he stared at you. "I'm stuck at Ferrari. I thought it would be the next step up but I feel more stuck there than when I was with McLaren. My first season I went without a win and I knew Charles was going to be their priority but I didn't realise how bad it was going to be. I'm not going to stand out to them unless I really work for it."

"Okay." You said, trying to understand where he was going with this.

"And I don't want to be stuck in some PR relationship with someone I have nothing in common with. I heard you with Max. You want to get back at Red Bull and it looks like he's going to be the one to beat this year."

You were starting to see an angle here... but it was an angle that seemed far too ludicrous to accept.

"Carlos..." You were hesitant to ask, "what exactly are you saying?"

"Let me date you. Be my chosen PR girl. Come with me to Madrid and watch the game."

"And train you?" You added. "That's kind of what we're getting at here."

"Yes." He nodded. "And train me to beat Red Bull."

"And prove to Ferrari you're better than Charles." You reminded him. "It sounds like you get all the benefits. I mean, I'm training you and helping you out of a PR relationship."

"Yes but you forget Lando is my best friend. He can help us get you to still work alongside Oscar."

"Max told me Horner's got lawyers on my case."

"Yes but doesn't it say family? Romantic grounds? You'll be my girlfriend. And Horner can't say anything if my friend and his teammate happen to use the gym the same time as I'm there with my girlfriend."

You had to stand up. You couldn't sit there and think about this. You ran a hand through your hair as you thought over what Carlos was asking you, what he was offering.

Seeing you consider this, Carlos continued to speak, to sweeten the pot. "You can finally work in F1 without making the coffee."

Considering the day, this pissed you off. You stopped your pacing and glare at him. "I enjoy making coffee."

"I know you do." Carlos didn't skip a beat, "but you'll finally be able to do what you're really passionate about and prove everyone wrong."

"By making you win." You reminded him of that key part.

"Exactly." He grinned. "It's a win-win. If Oscar is going to break Charles' rule, then I might also." Carlos said it with a shrug but that caught you more than anything.

"What rule?" Carlos looked at you for and grimaced. "Out with it Sainz."

"Leclerc kind of put out a general ban on you. No one's really allowed to come near you."

For the second time tonight, you were floored. Except this time, you had to sit down. You put your head in your hands, elbows on the table as you processed this. This.

Charles had banned other drivers from engaging with you. That's why Alex stopped cracking jokes with you, it's why George stopped giving you the updates about Carmen, why Lando stopped saying hello and why Pierre all but pretended you didn't exist. Logan Sargeant had gone from always chatting with you in F2 to avoiding you like the plague when he arrived in F1. You found it off he refused your Congratulations! cake you'd sent to Williams.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself rooting for Charles to lose.

Because you had decided that you would do anything to make the man beside you win.

"We're versing Sevilla." You spoke.

Carlos' smile grew. He understood what you meant. "I know."

"You'll organise the tickets."

"Of course." He licked his spoon clear. Your ice-cream had since melted at all the revelations of the night. "I'll send someone to pick you up for the flight."

"My uncle will want to meet you." You added, thinking now about the reality of all the logistics.

"My dad also." Carlos added. "He might be there."

"That's fine." You had met Carlos Sainz Sr before when you worked in Torro Rosso. "Just please don't tell my uncle I have a Liverpool jersey."

"As my girlfriend, I do think we're going to have to do something about that. I may take the Don's side on that one."

Girlfriend. That was a word you hadn't had in a while. How long had it been since you were someone's girlfriend?

To think you had woken up thinking about the shitty protein powder in your breakfast to now going to sleep as Carlos Sainz' girlfriend.

"You look like your head is spinning." Said driver commented.

"That's because it is." You said. Needing something to do, you picked up the ice-cream contained and went to put the lid back on and put in the freezer. Carlos had brought the cups and spoons to the sink and you immediately reached for them.

"I can get that."

He tutted at you again and turned on the tap. "This is how a man treats his woman." You had to snort at the line.

"What corny romance novel did you get that from?"

"My father, actually." He said which made you tilt your head. You knew Carlos Sainz' dad played a big role in his career, a former rally driver himself, but you were starting to understand the level he played in Carlos' life.

By the door as he was putting his shoes on, you asked him. "Are you going to tell your dad, by the way, that you and I are PR." Suddenly, however, another thought arrived to you - one that took precedence above all. "Wait, if you and I are going to be in a relationship does this mean I have to attend all those Ferrari events are your WAG?"

"Yes, but fake boyfriend or not, I'm not going to allow today to happen to you."

"What?"

"Ricciardo, Verstappen, Leclerc." He listed. "No one will disrespect you like that again. I promise you. I won't let them."

You stared at him, stunned. "I... um. Thanks, Carlos."

He smiled at you. "Anytime, cariña." He reached up his hand and tucked a hair behind your ear. You blinked. Wasn't this the behaviour he was supposed to do when cameras were around. You said this and his smile grew. "Just getting my practice in. Sleep well."

You closed the door behind him and rested your head against it. Before you could process anything, you heard laughter behind you.

Dia stood there, an amused look on her face with her arms crossed. "Fake relationship with the hot Spanish driver? Yeah that doesn't sound a like a rom-com plot. I give it 6 months."

< prev ch [7] | next ch [9] >

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[thedarlingsdepartment]

Love You More

clark kent x reader

word count: around 1.3k

tw: disordered eating. insecurity. discussions of weight.

It started with the dress. A figure-hugging burgundy thing with ruffles along the hem and a plunging neckline. You had wore it on the first date, roughly six months ago. It was the dress you had steamed ever-so-diligently and paired with little golden heels. The one you slipped on, smoothing out the fabric and grinning at yourself in the mirror. The dress that Clark’s eyes couldn’t help but trail on for a beat too long before handing you a bouquet and a compliment of “You are so beautiful.” He went on to repeat those words about four hours later as he slowly unzipped that dress, murmuring them with a grin upon your lips.

However, that was six months ago, back when the air tasted like freedom, when the summer wind whistled in your hair, when the world had glimmered with possibilities. But now, it was February. A grayish layer of stubborn sleet had settled over Metropolis and was hell bent on staying. The rush of the holidays had dissipated. Wind nipped at your skin and no amount of bodega iced coffee seemed to make the overwhelming sense of boredom go away. Of course, it was impossible to complain about anything that much, considering the fact that you were going steady with literal Superman. The people’s princess, the symbol of hope. He kissed you softly and made you dinner and left notes on your mirror with “I love you” scrawled in blue ink. In fact, the only recently exciting thing for you was a few words Clark had said with over homemade pasta the previous night.

“So…” He lightly drummed his fingers across the table, “Valentine’s Day is coming up?”

And that moment had led you here. Tugging haplessly at the zipper of that same burgundy dress. It stubbornly refused to make its way past your mid-section. “Clark!” You called. He leaned on the doorway, grinning at the sight of you.

Those blue eyes danced over you, “God, I love that dress,” he mused.

You gave a roll of the eyes. “Great! Help me zip it up.” The dry retort jumped out, meaner than you’d expected. “Sorry, that was rude” You mumbled, glancing at the ground as Clark made his way over to you, arms encircling your waist from behind.

“It’s okay,” He chuckled, placing a light kiss on your bare shoulder before pulling at the zipper, “It’s stuck.”

“Pull harder.”

“Hun, it’s too small,” He said as his fingers tranced your waist softly. You immediately glanced up at him, “What?”

Clark laughed yet again, a sweet beautiful laugh. “It’s good,” He pressed another kiss to your jaw, “I was starting to think you didn’t like my food.”

It wasn’t until after he left your apartment that you dared to step onto the scale. 15 pounds. You had gained 15 pounds in six months. It really shouldn’t have been surprising. You had always prided yourself on your ability to maintain control. You skipped breakfast in exchange for a coffee. You knew how to take two bites of your own birthday cake before declaring it “delicious but so rich” and retreating to the fruit platter. You tasted everything, ate nothing, and quoted Liv Schmidt like the bible.

But then along came Clark. With his home cooked meals and his gentle smile as he nudged you to finish your plate. Clark, whose family had spent the holidays practically shoveling greasy midwest barbecue in her face. Clark, with heavy arms and a sweet voice that coaxed you out of your usual morning run more than once. Clark, who was to blame for your weight gain of fifteen-fucking-pounds.

Clark knew something was wrong. You had begun to refuse his food, siting a meal you hadn’t eaten. When he would rolled over to kiss you good morning, you had been long gone, leaving the bed cold. You murmured “Not tonight, baby” so often he didn’t bother to ask anymore. But it wasn’t the way you refused to let him feed you or care for you or touch you. It was your eyes, once so alive, now soulless.

One evening, (after he had to practically beg you to come over) he approached you as you lounged on his couch. Clark watched idly over your shoulder as you scrolled through some god awful pinterest board entitled ‘thinspo’ before placing a light kiss to your forehead, “C’mon, time for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” You replied quickly. A reflex. There it was. Three little words Clark had become far too accustomed to hearing. Spoken sharply, like a command.

He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to understand you, “Babe…”

“Hm?”

He spoke slowly, measuring his words. “Please don’t lie to me.”

For just a moment, you considered it. The breakdown. Sobbing into his arms until your tears ran dry. Letting the pain crash over you in waves. Knowing through the softness of his touch, it would be okay.

But you didn’t do that. Instead you let out a meek, “I’m not lying.”

Clark sighed, “You need to eat.”

Your voice rose, growing sharper. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

That was it. Clark was done with this. He was done with the lies and the deceit and the self induced torture. All of it. “You cannot keep starving yourself!” He snapped, standing over you.

You let out a dry chuckle, “Starving myself? Just because I don’t eat like fat ass I’m starving myself?” You made your way to the door before he grabbed you by your waist, shaking you, “What have you eaten today? Huh?”

Your breath stilled, tears welling, “You are such a Boy Scout.” You murmured before pulling yourself free of his grasp, slamming to the door behind you as you left. The sound resonated through the room, playing like a requiem to Clark.

It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock on your apartment door. “Fuck off!” You choked out the words between tears as you half-heartedly picked at your kitchen floor.

A rustle. The clinking of keys. A subtle click. The pitter patter of footsteps. And he was in your kitchen, towering over you like some kind of god. Clark peered at you. Runny mascara, hair askew, wearing an old t shirt of his that nearly swallowed you whole. “Oh, honey…” He mumbled, barely audible as he knelt beside you.

“Please go away Clark,” You replied, attempting to brush tears from your eyes. “I’m not who you want. I’m a messed up, mean, fat bitch and you’re…” Your voice teetered off, shoulders shaking. He paused, silently pulling you into his chest as he gently smoothed your hair.

He spoke slowly, deliberately. Like every word was a promise, “You are kind of messed up. You can be rude or mean, but only when you’re being about ten times meaner to yourself,” He took a breath, “…and I love you.” Clark stilled, searching your eyes desperately for some kind of response.

“I love you too,” You spoke, barely above a whisper. “I just think—“ You began before he cut you off, lightly pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You have gained weight. And you look—“

“Repulsive?” You suggested.

“—Great.” He finished, chuckling slightly. “Happier.”

Time slowed, if just for a moment. You searched his eyes for the insincerity, the lies, but only found truth. “I love you.” You repeated. This time, it was audible. Intentionally.

Clark brushed your tears away with the back of his hand gently, his touch reverent. “I love you more.”

The pair lingered there on the checker tile, taking in each other. Outside, the city was a restless mass of people. But for now, the only two that seemed to matter was them. And sure, there were plans to be made and conversations to be had in the morning. However, for just a minute, they were safe, finding home in one another.

author’s note: ts lowkey buns y’all i think im losing it anyway have a lovely day and remember you are worthy of love regardless of everything.

[elliesbagpin]

and we'll be okay | spiderman au

synopsis: short fic inspired by the amazing spider man movie scene of gwen helping peter with his injuries in gwen’s room.

the story draws from that scene but it diverges and blends in elements from tlou2; the emotional weight of the loss of joel, ellie’s need to find meaning in her immunity, here, reimagined through her spiderman-like powers. also a story about heartbreak and the strong desire to do some good in the world

spiderman!ellie x female!gwen!reader

content warning: grief, heartbreak, mentions of violence and blood/injuries, hurt

word count: 2.7k

an: hi! this is my first fic on tumblr and the first fic ive written in ages. i hope this finds its way to ellie williams and spiderman lovers. feedback is very much appreciated :)

p.s. i recommend you play that spotify track linked up top while u read. i wrote my fic listening to it on repeat lol ("I'm Moving to England" by Hans Zimmer)

enjoy xx

////

It takes the sound of a third soft thud at your window for your focus to break.

Your fingers had been robotically pressing down onto the keys of your keyboard all evening now, though it was a state you welcomed with open arms. It was about time that some inspiration struck you. The only downside to entering flow state was that you never knew when to stop.

Time had passed like grains of salt slipping through your fingers, and when you glanced at the clock on your desk, it indicated 11:56PM—well past your 10PM intended bedtime. A light drizzle had started outside when you sat down to get to work, and now, it seemed the sky was crying all its tears. 

Just beyond the windowpane of your bedroom from which the knocking came, you recognized a familiar silhouette sitting right outside on the fire escape landing, body leaning against the glass. Ellie. 

She slid the window open, and it groaned on its grooves as it went up. Your dad had promised to grease it many times, but he always forgot—too busy flashing his red-and-blue car lights around town or buried in endless paperwork. 

You hoped the noise hadn't alerted him or your mother. Having either of them show up in your room with Ellie–let alone while she was wearing her suit—was the last thing you needed. You’d only learned a month ago that your girlfriend was, in fact, Spiderman, and even for you, it had been a tough pill to swallow. The mere thought of your dad finding out the truth about who you were seeing sent a chill down your spine, (especially considering the history of rivalry between the NYPD and the masked vigilante). 

Ellie perched on the window ledge for a few seconds, as if she needed a moment of respite. A moment to breathe. You heard a hoarse inhale and exhale escape from deep within her chest, before she pushed herself through the frame and slipped inside your room.

Unlike every other time, when every one of her movements was executed with grace, precision and flawless control over every inch of her limbs, she now seemed to struggle. Falling inward, she caught herself on your brown couch, and sat across it—legs draped over one armrest and her back leaning against the other. Her mask was off, and you could immediately tell from the violet bruise around her eye–amongst other injuries–that she’d gotten involved in something dangerous. 

“Oh, my god. Ellie,” you whispered, making your way towards her. 

“You should have seen the other guy,” she chuckled, miserably failing at hiding how much pain she truly was in. She winced when she readjusted herself on the couch. 

You sat on the edge of it next to her, close enough now to examine the battlefield the surface of her skin had turned into. Torn fabric and torn flesh formed trenches from which blood still oozed across her torso. Her ribs rose and fell in shallow breaths, but when you started to panic at the demoralizing sight in front of you, she was the one who reached for your hand and curled her fingers around yours. 

Despite the damage, some things remained, like the warmth of her touch, the fervour of life in her eyes, and her stubborn refusal to let anyone worry over her. 

There was also the unbroken line of her collarbone, the obstinate sharpness of her jaw, the firmness of her body, and that same infuriating, stupid grin on her pink lips. 

“Hey, I’ll be okay. Look,” she pointed at her chest with the tip of her chin,” it’s already started to heal.” 

“I know,” you managed to muster, already scanning your room for bandages and disinfectant you knew you kept somewhere near in case something like this happened. “I'm not worried about you surviving this. I'm worried about how many more times I’ll have to see you hurt.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” She dropped her head, staring at her lap—unable to bear the look of reproach you gave her. She knew you hated this. The apology was sincere. You knew she never meant to make you worry. You also knew she wouldn’t stop.

That was the price of being in love with someone who would always put the lives of others before her own, wasn’t it? 

You helped her move to your bed once you’d gathered what you needed to tend her wounds—rubbing alcohol, a clean cloth and bandages.

She’d slid the top half of her suit down, leaving her injuries exposed to you. She was right; they'd already begun healing. They would not have looked half this closed if she healed at a normal human rate, that’s for certain. Her skin glistened with sweat, as if a fine layer of spider silk stretched over its surface. Rust and dirt had settled around the cuts. It wasn’t pretty, but you’d seen worse. 

Being this close to Ellie, you caught her scent with every movement. Ellie smelled of rain and of wind. But also of risk and of danger–with maybe a tinge of city smoke, just enough to leave a bitter edge to her. It was as if her very being refused to soften the truth of itself: it wasn’t all sweetness, but something with a roughness to it. 

Beads of sweat raced down her temple. Your eyes followed one particular droplet as gravity dragged it downward, faster than the others—until it was interrupted. It caught on her eyelash like a helpless fly in a cobweb, suspended just above the pale green of her irises. “What beautiful eyes.” you thought. “If only they didn't always look so worn with exhaustion.” 

“You’re burning hot,” you murmured as you lightly grazed the skin around her wounds. 

“I know I am,” she smirked, prompting your inevitable eye roll. Even now, battered and bruised, Ellie couldn't resist deflecting with humour. It was as if her survival instinct compelled her to crack at least one joke in every dire situation, lest the seriousness of it suffocate her completely. It was her way of coping with the cruelty of the world, you knew that. But sometimes, you couldn’t bring yourself to share that same levity. And you wondered how she did it. Every time. 

Perhaps you’d have an easier time understanding her way of coping if you were the one living elbow-deep in crime scenes and in the ruin of death, night after night, day after day.

In that way, she wasn't so different from your father. 

You’d lived your entire life waiting on someone to come home, not knowing if they would make it back unscathed. Not knowing if they would make it back at all. It was a feeling no one could ever get used to, no matter how many years passed. But this dance was familiar to you, its steps worn into your bones, and maybe, in some sick and twisted way, a part deep within your soul was attracted to that particular flavour of dread. 

After tending to all the cuts that needed most attention—covering them with white bandages that quickly bloomed red—you wiped away the grime from her skin. The damp cloth glided across her neck, her collarbone, her torso and then her arms. It hesitated right before her left forearm. 

There, dark ink spiralled in intricate patterns: ferns unfurling along her inner and outside arm, their fronds giving way to a large moth that perched near the start of her forearm. The foliage tapered down into fine veins that crawled up near her wrist. 

You’d never asked her what it meant, and she never brought it up. You figured if it was something she wanted to share, she would. But, you had noticed, once, that the same moth was inlaid on the fretboard of her guitar—the one Joel gave her, only a few months before his passing. Somehow, you knew that that moth anchored her to him, in one way or another. A symbol of hope or regret, you weren’t too sure. 

“Hey,” Ellie said softly, pulling you out of your swirl of thoughts. Her hand reached for the side of your jaw and tilted your head so your eyes met.

“You get this soft crease right here when you’re anxious,” she murmured. Her thumb came brushing between your eyebrows with careful gentleness, as if she could smooth out the lines. But when she pulled her hand away, the worry was still etched in your face. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever not be anxious as long as I’ll be loving you.”

Ellie chuckled, but the sound came out as despondent. 

“What happened out there?” you asked. 

She shook her head in a way that said, “Never mind what happened out there. Let’s talk about something else”. But she still answered your question. (When didn’t she?)

“Just another group of thugs. They should be staying off the streets for a while.”

“Until the next ones show up.”

“Like always.” Her voice fell flat. 

“Why do you do this?” The question escaped your lips when you hadn't meant for it to be said out loud. Ellie stiffened, and for some reason, that made you press on. “You don’t owe anyone your time, your blood, your bruises. Why martyr yourself for strangers?”

“I don’t know.”

She wasn’t looking at you anymore—not really. Her eyes stayed level with yours, but her gaze tunnelled through you like you were glass. Somewhere behind them, an old memory flickered, and from the shift in her expression, you could guess it was a painful one. 

“Because I couldn't save him, maybe,” she continued, each word carefully measured. “But I can save others and be good for once. I can do something good.” Her tone had become cutting, but you knew her anger was only a veil for the sadness and hurt she was never brave enough to face. 

“That is not how goodness works, Ellie. You know that. You don’t need to earn it through sacrifice.” Your thumb brushed her cheekbone, catching some dampness there. “You were good long before you started bleeding for others. What happened to Joel was not your fault. Don't let guilt convince you you owe the world pieces of yourself.”

Ellie breathed in, and beneath your palm, you felt some tension leave her muscles. Her forehead dropped forward to meet yours, and for a moment, you almost believed your words were getting through to her. 

“Even if I had somehow made up for my failures,” she said, staring at her hands, at the impossible strength thrumming beneath her skin,” What else would I do? This power, this abnormality... it has to mean something.” 

“I know,” you cradled her fists. “But you are not defined by your power, Ellie. Believe me, you are so much more than that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back to look directly into your eyes this time. “It just doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice here. I can't stand by when the people are suffering, not when I have the power to help.” 

“That’s what the police are for! The medics, the doctors–not you!” The words tore free from your mouth like they had a mind of their own, a target not even you could prevent them from reaching. Even though you weren't asking her a direct question, you were begging her for a change. But that was something you were too selfish to admit, even to yourself.

“What about your father?” Ellie fired back. "I bet you still wish he'd lay down his badge and let the other officers handle the job instead of him. But he's made his own decisions in life. That's just how it is. I know you mean well, but this is the life I was given, and there is no version of it where I walk away from my responsibilities.” 

A stillness wrapped around the two of you; it crawled up the walls of your room, engulfed the floor. It barely left any more space for the rise and fall of your chest. And then, you said it. 

“Then I can’t keep waiting for the day you don’t come home to me.” 

Ellie’s breath caught. “What do you mean?” 

“I can’t keep being with you.” I don’t think my heart can survive it, is what you truly meant. I can't keep being with someone who risks being taken away from me at any moment, any day, for the rest of my life. Why allow this torment upon my soul. It is dreadful. It is achingly unbearable. 

The silence between you fractured with the sound of Ellie’s heart breaking–but she didn’t fight you, she didn’t protest. She understood the situation; she was no fool. Just like you, she had seen the end before it began. But she’d simply been human and chose to cling to the thin thread of hope that maybe, you could together prove the inevitable wrong. 

“I’m sorry, Ellie.” The whisper scraped your throat raw. 

“Don’t be.” Her fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a second too long. You could feel resignation in her touch, defeat. This fleeting contact condensed a lifetime of unsaid words, and you felt it all; all the apologies, the regrets, the I wish things were different. But all she voiced was “This isn’t your fault.” 

And you knew it wasn't. It wasn't anybody’s fault. 

Sometimes, the universe had a cruel way of bringing two people together just to let unfavourable circumstances tear them apart. This wasn’t your first time paying attention.

Then, Ellie was moving. Hauling herself off the bed, she tugged her mask over her face. You watched her as the familiar lines of her face, the wayward auburn strays of hair, and that fervent look in those green eyes which you committed to memory—disappeared behind fabric.

At the edge of the window, she paused just long enough to meet your gaze one last time. 

“Where are you going?” you couldn't help but ask, even though knowing where she was headed was no longer your right. 

“Say hi to your mom for me, will you?” is all Ellie said before taking a leap.

In another life, you would’ve been the one to leap.

You would’ve taken that leap of faith, just to be with her. 

One week later. 

The car horn’s aggressive blare testified to your mother’s dwindling patience behind the wheel.

Your dad, in the passenger seat, rested a hand on her shoulder, intending to calm her down. “Honey, there’s no use. We’ll be stuck in this traffic a while longer. I’m sure we’ll still make it to the airport on time.” 

Your dad was probably right; he usually was when it came to these sorts of things. 

You sighed. That was something you and your mother had in common; you both worried a lot. Sometimes, too much. 

The annual family trip abroad had been planned for months. You’d have packed light if it weren’t for all the books you brought with you. You’d also made sure not to forget your laptop, as you planned to take this time away from the city to keep writing your stories. You were intent on finally writing a prose composition that didn’t end in tragedy.

What weighed most in your bag was the camera Ellie had lent you a few weeks back, which she never asked to have returned. You thought you could use it to capture some nice shots on your trip, since the alternative was your shitty old phone with a cracked lens. 

New York’s symphony of honk and exhaust fumes pressed against your windows as you craned your neck to get a better look outside.

The Brooklyn Bridge baked golden in the sunlight of the afternoon, with its girders arching against the sky like the ribs of a giant. Between them, shafts of light speared through.

In awe of the vibrant mix of colours displayed in front of you, you thought the scenery was worth being captured. You pulled the camera from your bag and as you lifted it to your eye, a glint of silver caught your attention. 

There, woven through the bridge’s cables, a script made of web caught the light. The silk strands trembled faintly in the wind—still fresh, still clinging—as if she’d been here moments ago. 

The message was meant for you, and you only. 

It read ‘I will always love you’. 

[rosefantasy77]

can you do a beast Diaz x reader. They were hanging at beast’s house and they start making out and get caught by Jenna Ortega’s character

Caught By The Other

—Summary: Hartley catches Aubrey and Beast in a spicy make-out session

—Warnings: Fluff, heavy make-out session, characters are 13, getting caught, fluff, small dirty talk

—Song: Youngblood; 5 Seconds Of Summer

It was only suppose to be a study date. Aubrey and Beast had to study for a test. It wasn't that bad. It was only a English test. Only problem is that she is pretty good at English. Beast is not. That's why Aubrey volunteered to help him with it.

Beast decided that tonight would be the best night. Not only is it the night before the test, but because he knows none of his siblings are gonna be home.

Well, except his older brother, Ethan. Which, Ethan knows how much Beat likes her. And how much he is in love with Aubrey. Granted, the two of you are only 13. But Aubrey and Beast are in love. Young, but in love.

Back up story between the two love birds. Aubrey and Beast have known each other since they were 8 years old. Their parents have been closer than ever.

They practically live together. Which, Aubrey's parents have always adored the Diaz family. Diaz family is like Aubrey's second home.

Aubrey is described with brown hair. Red streaks in her hair. She isn't considered the "rock student" of the middle school. More like one of the "cool kids". Her and Beast both.

Aubrey has beautiful tan skin. Her occasional skin-care is to tan as much as she can. Not all the time.

Just to feel that sun in her face.

(One of Beast's favorites part is to see Aubrey tan). Or just in a swim suit if said so.

Beast and Aubrey have been best friends since they are 5 years old. They are like the duo you can never break. Soon of all, they knew what feelings were.

It was Aubrey who started feeling them. She couldn't describe it. Sure, she thought Beast was cute. She always has when she first met him. Her mother tells her that many boys can be cute.

Then Beast's feelings came along. Beast doesn't understand this. Has his 6 siblings felt this? Sure they have. He mostly lives with his sisters. He only has two brothers. Maybe one of them can tell him this feeling. Even his mother.

When Beast found out this feeling, he doesn't want it to go away. It never has. Ever since he was 8 years old.

It's that same feeling. He has always felt this way to Aubrey. It won't ever go away. He doesn't know why. But, he's not complaining.

Is he?

Beast was different. Aubrey didn't know how to feel about Beast. This was different. Aubrey went to her mom. She needed someone to tell her about this feeling. She didn't know what it was called.

When her mother told her, it all came to life. She had actual feelings for Beast. Just like he does. It's like a spark. A dream that is waiting to come true.

Soon of all, the two teenagers told each other how they feel. granted, this was when they were 15. Again! They are so young but in love.

Everyone thought Aubrey and Beast made the perfect couple. Yes, they are pre-teens. But, they make it work so well. Ever since then, the two of you had make it work.

Aubrey thought it was a crush. Soon of all, Beast would like some other girl. Leave her. Never become friends. Worst of all, never talk again.

Nope.

He has been on Aubrey's side since they were 11 years old. Two years later and they are better than ever. They may be 13 years old, but they make the cutest couple in the 7th grade.

Back to date night. Just a study date, right?

Right?

It started off simple. Aubrey is schedule to meet Beast at 8:00 o'clock. Which, (as always) she was on time. Aubrey was greeted by the Diaz parents. Sweet as always. The best thing that she could ask for.

Even Beast greeted Aubrey. With a soft kiss and a hug in return. The two of them grabbed a couple of snacks and sodas Then headed to Beast room to study.

About 45 minutes later, the couple were on a roll. In between that 45 minute studying, Tom and Suzy had to get groceries. Convenience how it's on this night. Aubrey weren't complaining. Neither was Beast, (most of all).

Beast thought his entire family was gone. What a perfect way to get this night even better. Just Aubrey and him. Aubrey didn't even see it coming. She was just acting normal as ever. She was more into studying with Beast then wanting to make-out with her young boyfriend.

"Review time!" Aubrey clapped her hands together. "Who is the antagonist in this book?"

Beast was just gonna ignore the question. He leaned in and kissed Aubrey's pink lips. Sure, she kissed back. She always does. She's head over heels for him. Ever since she was in the first grade.

This kiss wasn't like anything else. It wasn't the soft kiss. Even the sweet kiss before Beast and Aubrey go to different classes.

It was hot.

Passionate.

Most of all, a orange fire. It's like a hot flame.

Aubrey wanted to pull away. She did. She really did. But, the kiss felt too good. His hand on the back of her neck. For some 13 year-old, Beast knew what he was doing.

Aubrey soothed into kiss. Feeling his warm lips against hers. Taking a bold step, Beast brushed his tongue against her bottom lip. Aubrey didn't know what to do. She tried to keep it the way they were going.

Beast hands went to her breast from the back of her neck. His hand creeped under her sweater. Squeezing her breast from her bra.

Which caused her to gasp. Beast smirked through the kiss. His tongue dancing along with Aubrey's.

Aubrey soon started to get the feel. Damn, did it feel nice. The make-out session got heavier.

His lips traveled down to her neck. Feeling his lips brush against her neck. Her hands clenched his flannel. Small whimpers and moans came from her as he teased her neck and shoulder.

"Beast....." Her soft voice croaked out. "Your siblings are gonna hear us."

Another moan came from you. With Beast groaning as your legs were wrapped around his waist.

"They ain't here, babe. We're okay."

"You sure about that?"

Aubrey and beast immediately stopped their heavy session. Reveling beast's sister. Hartley.

"Hartley, what the heck are you doing home? I thought you were with Rachel or Georgie?'

"Ha, nice try, Beast. What are you and Aubrey doing?"

"Studying." The couple responded at the same time.

"Doesn't look like it. Your tongue was down her throat."

"Well, when you put it that way it sounds gross and weird." Aubrey snapped. Hartley rolled her eyes at her brother and his girlfriend.

"I'm telling Mok and Dad when they get home." Hartley warned.

Beast got up from his bed as fast as he could.

"Hartley, please don't. Theyw would kill me and never want Aubrey here again. I will do anything."

Hartley smirked at Beast offering. "Fine. You have to clean my room and do my chores for the next two weeks."

Beast looked at Aubrey. Aubrey looking at Beast for their consent. Aubrey nodded her head. Beast shook Hartley's hand.

"Deal."

[evesbookshop]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞

Neteyam x fem!navi!reader

‘Hello ma’am I am here to request I’m thinking neteyam and reader are like enemies they do not like each other okay but somewhere somehow they accidentally perform tsaheylu with each other and then they bang’

𝐈𝐦𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬- 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 , 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯 , 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲

𝐑𝐞-𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Hating Neteyam, had been easy. After all it was all you'd ever known when it came to the blue boy. You’d always seen him as so, so irritating.

He always thought he knew better, better than his siblings, better than the other kids in the village, and better than you. That being eldest son to the Olo’eyktan made him so much smarter than those his age and unfortunately it seemed that trait would follow him to his grave as even now, after being accepted into the clan as an adult,he held himself to be so all knowing.

“What are you doing out here?” the voice came from behind you, his voice. “This area of the forest is dangerous,you should have someone with you.”

“Why, because I am incapable of taking care of myself?” It's a loaded question,but you can't help the way he is so quick to get under your skin. Whipping around to meet his citron eyes, raising a brow when you hear him scoff to himself.

“Why must you make everything into conflict?”

“Why must you be an imu’ta who refuses to let me live in peace.” I bite back and the air between us grows tense, eyes boring into eachothers waiting for one of us to break.

“Damn it, you are so difficult for what? I am simply looking out for you, it is dangerous, we both know this.” he huffs angrily out his nose and his tail thumbs against the ground with his growing anger.

“Have you considered that perhaps I don’t need anyone looking out for me? Especially not you, now leave me be and let me hunt in peace.” You roll your eyes and without waiting for a response you start to walk. Slinging your bow over your shoulder as you search for a new, quiet place to hunt.

“How dare you turn your back to me!” You can hear his steps speeding up after you resulting in your pace speeding as well until he manages to catch you. His slender fingers wrapping around your wrist spinning you face him. “You dare disrespect future-”

“Future! You said it yourself!” You cut him off hissing the words at him angrily, “You hold no authority over me Neteyam so cease this useless display of power. Power that you do not have.” You spit. And maybe if you’d been less focused on the current shouting match you were having you would’ve noticed the small hand wrapping around your queue.

“Regardless of whatever you may think I am owed respect!” He snarls back and before you can you feel a sudden rush through your system, something so new yet familiar and immediately your eyes leave Neteyams face to focus on finding what's caused this surge of energy and what you can only describe as feeling. You find it immediately, honing in the little blue hand wrapped around your queue, your queue that was currently connected to, to…

“Tuktirey!” It's Neteyams voice that cuts through the silence though you can barely hear him,you can barely hear him with the wave of shock that flows through your body clogging your ears like water.

You can tell he's scolding her for a minute or two before she's shooed away, leaving you two alone still connected and you can feel it starting to ebb its way to the surface, the lust. Pupils blown wide as you find Neteyams eyes once more.

You can't find the words to ask why in the world Tuk would think that it’d be okay to connect her brother and yourself. All you can do is search his face and body for any sign he’s feeling what you are, and boy do you find it. Whether it be the rapid rise and fall of his chest or the tent in his tewng growing by the second.

Opening your mouth trying to find the words but you fail once more, or really you're cut off by the feeling of lips against yours as his hand finds its way to the base of your neck holding you close while the other pulls you in by the waist. And as his hips slot themselves so perfectly against yours you try to find some sliver of restraint, a tiny ounce of strength that will let you rip yourself away from him. You come up empty handed.

Hands finding their way to his hair pulling at the roots as you press him closer, pulling a heavenly groan from his lips.You find yourself pulling him back with you until your back meets tree, pulling back for a ragged breath.

“Holy mother.” You huff out in between breaths, Neteyam on the other hand has let his mouth wander from your jaw to neck, sucking dark purple marks onto the sensitive skin about your collar bone intermittently letting his fangs drag against the new purple markings, before coming back up. Neteyam kisses like he wants to consume you completely, it's a mess of teeth and spit as you both battle for dominance, it’s when he bites at your bottom lip that you give up on grasping at the reins letting him take complete control.

As your mouths clash Neteyam gets busy with his hands pulling the knot at the side of your loincloth before hoisting one of your legs up into his hip. Letting the arm that's not holding your leg slide between your bodies, finger sliding down your slick dampened lips, moving between tracing around your clit to moving downward to tease at your fluttering entrance. He does this a few times before you grow tired of his teasing. Pulling back to let your head rest on the bark of the tree.

“Quit it and do something, or are you just as incapable of pleasing a woman as you are at leaving me alo- ohh!” A surprised moan escapes your lips before you can finish the taunt.

“Wiya, you talk a lot.” The smug look that covers his face would have you rolling your eyes if you weren’t so focused on trying to keep them open enough to see anything at all. The annoying bastard had slipped in a finger while you were mouthing off, curling it to hit that spongy sweet spot within while letting his thumb rub lazy circles on your bud. “If I knew all it’d take to shut you up would be to stick a finger in you I woulda done it long ago.” He’s the one taunting now.

“Shut up you skxwang- hah- For you to think I would’ve ever let you touch me like this before. You clearly don’t know everything you claim.” You bite back best you can, and while you know your words hardly have any merit while you’re literally humping the palm of his land looking for more.

“Such a smart fucking mouth, lets see how that changes after I have you cumming around my fingers, hmm?” He leans close while growling out his retort, sliding in another finger as he speaks. And god, it should be criminal that it's him making you feel so incredibly good.

“Fuck Neteyam.” You whimper out and his fingers speed up their unrelenting attack, consistently hitting that sweet spot and thumb moving so quickly against that bundle of nerves it has your knees ready to buckle. “Shit, I-I need more.” You're whining against his neck now, head resting against his shoulder as he continues his assault and you can feel his chest rumble with the groan that leaves his lips.

“You want my cock baby? You want it real bad?” You can only imagine the pride on his face , but none of that matters right now, not when you really really do. So all you can do is nod as moans and groans slip from your lips at the thought.

“No, need to hear you say it. You had so much to say earlier ma , what happened?” It’s the smugness in his voice that leads you to fight against what he wants from you.

“Fuck you.” It’s practically a pant as you pull your head back from the crevice of his neck and rest it against the tree that has you sandwiched between Neteyam. Peering at him from your lidded eyes.

“Tsk tsk, not what I asked for.” He shakes his head and the small grin he wears is nothing but predatory. “You want to cum by my hands, you're gonna do what I say. " The pace he's picked up at the point is unforgiving, his fingers barely even thrust the tips simply rubbing against your most sensitive spot in a way that has you seeing stars and you can feel the coil in your stomach growing dangerously taut. But it's like he can see it on your face that you're growing close, and unfortunately he stands true to his words because as soon as you feel yourself about to teeter over the edge he stops. Leaving you withering against him.

“Nete-”

“Say it.” There's no room for negotiation in his tone, “Say it or you don’t get to cum and if you dont cum on my fingers first you sure as hell aren't getting my cock.”

Its almost pathetic how quick your resolve crumbles.

“I want you, please. Neteyam I want you please.”

“Say you need it.” Now he's just being mean cause he can.

“Fucking hell, need your cock so bad Neteyam, please.” Your breathing is ragged as you practically beg and he can hear the aggravation behind your voice.

“Not so hard is it, Tiyawn?” He quips as his fingers start to move again, thumb finding your clit as his index and middle continue the assault on the inside. And with you being so close prior it doesn’t take nearly anytime at all before your ether again, on the edge of complete euphoria just needing one last push. Push coming in the form of the third finger that ends up slamming into you, filling you up so completely and sending you crashing into waves of ecstasy. Hands finding his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks in the blade of it as you ride your orgasm. Neteyam helps you through it, paying attention to your complete reaction while his fingered pump inside of you.

Sliding out once he's sure you’ve enjoyed the best of it,dropping your hip to your side, giving you one more openmouthed kiss before spinning you around leaving you to brace yourself on the tree that was once digging into your back. His hand finds the small of your back pushing you to be bent, arching subconsciously, readying yourself for what's to come.

You look over your shoulder just in time to see him rip the string of his tewng in a rush to move it out the way, letting his length spring up and hit his stomach.

To say that Neteyam was well endowed would be an understatement, youd heard rumors before but holy mother they didn’t do him justice. He made eye contact with you as he grabbed himself by the base getting ready to line himself up with your core.

“Like what you see?” And of course he’s cocky about this too. Neteyam raises a playful eyebrow.

“Thought you'd be bigger.” It's a lie, but you can't let his ego go unchecked. Though it doesn't seem too much as he simply sucks his teeth in response, letting a toothy grin spread across his face.

“Mhm, that’s why I can see you clenching at the sight of it then?” He retorts, still smiling as he moves, letting his tip slide between your lips, catching at your entrance. A move that has both of you shuddering in anticipation.

“Neteyam!” you whine out tired of waiting, pushing your ass back with a wiggle in anticipation and to hopefully get him to act sooner.

“Fuck, yeah okay i'm coming.” You can hear him mutter behind you. Properly lining himself this time before pushing in slowly, the girth of his head alone has you gasping for air. He’s slow to work himself in, not wanting to let his desperation for release lead to you being hurt. Eventually however he does bottom out and once he does the both of you let out sighs of relief. He gives you a moment to adjust before beginning to move, pulling back to grind back into you.

Usually this soft caring pace would leave you purring, but this is Neteyam and the fact that he just spent his time finger fucking you so good you see stars just to treat you like glass has you grinding your teeth in want for more.

“More.” You demand throwing a lust filled glare over your shoulder.

“Uvang, you feel so tight around me.” You're not even sure Neteyam heard you, his brows are pulled together and eyes scrunched in pleasure.

“Knalu Neteyam, harder!” You snap, punctuating your sentence by pushing back onto his cock which seems to break his trance.

“Eywa, why can't you let me enjoy this in peace?” His nostrils flare and eyes snap open boring into your own. Leaning forward he braces holds you by your shoulders. Sliding out till only his head is left inside of you before slamming back into you with enough strength to bruise. Switching from his heart shatteringly slow movement to thrusts that could shake Pandora itself. Thrusts that leave you gasping for air that's being knocked out of your lungs with every slam of his hips into yours.

“Oh Eywa! Neteyam fuck, yes!” Your moans are practically prayers as they fill the air around you, Not that he's being any quieter than you are. Moaning and groaning as he leans down to press wet kisses to your spine.

“Shit you feel so good Ma, fucking hell. Its like you were made to be wrapped around my cock, my perfect fucking pussy for the taking ain’t that right. ‘M gonna ruin you baby, mold this cunt to my cock. No one else could make you feel this good right Ma, c'mon tell me i'm right.” It’s hard to make out most of his rambles as he ruts into you like something feral, but you manage nonetheless.

“Fuck, yes Neteyam no one’s as good as you. No one could make me feel- oh my- feel half as good as you, shit!” You say back telling him whatever he wants to hear, telling him the truth. And it has him speeding up at which point you thought was impossible as he continues to ramble on and on about how good you feel around him against the skin of your back. One of his hands manage to find their way around your waist and to your clit, rubbing tight circles while his noises grow more animalistic by the minute and it has you fluttering around him causing him to twitch within you. The both of your peaks growing increasingly closer.

“I'm gonna cum, Net fuck dont stop!” you warn him of your upcoming release and you can feel the way the knowledge fuels him, his grip on your shoulder tightening as he drills into you with fervor.

“Cum for me Tiwan, wanna feel you cum around me, cmon.” He urges you on and soon enough it comes. Surginging through you like electricity, punctuated by a high pitched whine as your legs tremble. Neteyam fucking you through it fighting to hold off his own upcoming orgasm in lew of making sure you can enjoy yours to the fullest and soon enough you start to come down, the way you clench becoming softer and more spaced out as you begin to take deep breaths in order to ground yourself.

It only takes a few more pumps before the euphoria is hitting him like a splash of cold water and he’s quick to pull out and spill his seed on the curve of your ass and back, groaning your name slowly as he works his way through it.

Eventually you both restore enough air in your lungs to disconnect yourselves and get cleaned up. Finding a small and unoccupied pond to wash his essence of yourself along with the sweat you'd worked up along the way before slipping your clothes back on and helping him repair the string of his loincloth well enough that it would not fall off on his trek through the village.

Still once you're both clothed you both take a few moments to be together and fully grasp the fact of what this connection means for the both of you. It's then that you finally find the words you’d lost earlier.

“Why did tuk do it? Why did she contact us?” You ask, your eyes finding his in confusion.

“Our parents.” He starts, “ Sometimes they fight and sometimes when they do they perform tsaheylu. In order to better understand what the other is feeling. She thought it would help us ‘get along’” he finishes explaining and you can't help but laugh at the childlike innocence of it all.

“How sweet in theory I suppose.” You smile up at him stifling a few laughs.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “ Remind me to thank her when we get back.” At that you roll your eyes and smack him in the shoulder. “Hey!”

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director’s Obsession - Phase 13

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Words Count : 5,126

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , Phase 11 , Phase 12 , Phase 13 , -

50 Headcanons of Director Orson Krennic

A/N: Don’t make our Director Krennic angry, or you’ll face the consequences.

The morning light cut through the tall windows of the estate, washing the room in a pale gold.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the front clasp of your uniform with difficulty. Seven months along, and everything from your balance to your breath felt borrowed. Still, you managed to clip the belt just right, even if the jacket didn’t fall as smoothly anymore.

Behind you, Krennic walked in from the bedroom, already halfway into his uniform. He was still adjusting the collar as he glanced at you.

“That’s crooked,” he said dryly.

You sighed. “That’s called maternity.”

He approached, fixing the clasp for you without another word. His touch lingered on your stomach afterward. Firm, steady, like he needed to remind himself you were still there. Still safe.

"What's your schedule today?" you asked as he stepped back and grabbed his cape.

“Convince Palpatine and his walking corpses that the Empire hasn’t cracked in half,” he muttered, clearly unamused. “Same as yesterday. Same as next week.”

You turned toward him as he attached his rank plate. “You’d rather be elbows-deep in reactor schematics.”

“I’d rather be left alone with the TIE Defender's targeting systems,” he said, smoothing his gloves. “Or improving the Chimaera’s weapons array. Thrawn keeps pestering me with polite requests and thinly veiled compliments.” He paused. “Vader’s destroyer is next on my list, but I’m not in the mood to get strangled today.”

That pulled a laugh out of you. Small but genuine.

“I’m always nervous when you go into that chamber,” you admitted.

“Me too,” he said quietly. Then his voice dropped lower as he came to your side again. “But we have to stick to the plan.”

His hand found your belly again, more gently this time. “He won’t grow up under Palpatine,” Krennic said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You shifted slightly, resting your hand over his. “Let’s make sure we survive first.”

He didn’t argue.

After a moment, he tilted his head, studying you. “What about you? Are they still trembling when you enter ISB headquarters?”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of them just glare.”

“Because of me,” he said flatly. “And the Death Star. Because they think I turned you into a monster.”

You gave him a sharp look. “You think I needed help?”

That made him smirk. But it faded just as quickly. His gaze moved back down to your stomach.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You need more protection. I could assign four more Death Troopers. A full guard rotation.”

“One is enough.”

“Two.”

“Orson.”

He exhaled. “Fine. One. But if anyone so much as breathes in your direction the wrong way—”

“You’ll what?” you teased. “Send stormtroopers to their doorstep?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

You laughed. It echoed in the quiet space, breaking the tension in the room like glass. That sound was enough. For a moment, it settled something inside him.

Krennic straightened the last piece of his uniform and looked toward the door. “Let’s go rattle the foundations of the Empire.”

You reached for your datapad, arching a brow. “Only if we’re back before dinner.”

He allowed himself a small grin. “Always.”

********

The throne room pulsed with the same quiet menace it always held. Shadows curled between columns like predators at rest, and the Emperor sat above them all, throne raised, face half-cloaked beneath his hood. Below him, the Imperial Ruling Council had gathered, robed in their crimson, steel, and bone-white finery. Mas Amedda stood nearest the throne, his staff gripped like a scepter of judgment.

Krennic stood several steps below the dais, posture composed, gloved hands behind his back. His cape barely stirred as he lifted his chin.

“The weapons division has completed structural reinforcements on all primary Star Destroyers,” he said, voice smooth, clear, unshaken by the air of judgment hanging heavy in the chamber. “Tie Defender retrofits have increased field efficiency by 32 percent. The Chimera’s hull plating has been reinforced with prototype alloy, by request of Grand Admiral Thrawn. And hyperspace interdiction fields are undergoing early-stage acceleration testing.”

There was a silence. Then the Emperor’s voice—low, weathered, dry as parchment—broke through the air.

“Satisfactory.”

It was not praise. But it was enough. Krennic dipped his head slightly, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Let the others interpret it as they would.

“The second Death Star,” the Emperor rasped, “must proceed.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Krennic answered with a low voice. 

“Yet we remain... exposed,” Mas Amedda said, stepping forward, his voice carrying that permanent air of disdain. “The rebels remain active. Audacious. Unruly.”

“There is still the matter of the second Death Star,” came another voice—Councilor Narl Lott, voice nasal, fingers entwined like a nervous rodent. “If we are to secure the Outer Rim, its presence will silence dissent—”

“Darth Vader has taken personal interest in two rebel agents,” another councilor interrupted, tone reverent as he angled his words toward the throne. “Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. And a boy from the Outer Rim. Luke Skywalker. There are… rumors.”

The Emperor’s chin lifted slightly. Not a full acknowledgment—merely a breath of consideration.

“The people have begun petitioning for a memorial,” said Councilor Brix. “To honor those lost aboard the Death Star. A civilian movement, but gaining momentum. They want to build a monument.”

“No,” the Emperor said, voice flat with finality. “Grief is weakness. Mourning invites questions. We do not decorate failure.”

The chamber stilled.

Then the Emperor’s gaze fell on Krennic again, the yellow of his eyes almost glowing in the low light.

“Your thoughts, Director.”

“A monument,” Krennic said calmly, “would not be a concession. It would be a signal. That even in our strength, we remember. Loyalty deepens when sacrifice is acknowledged. And morale—true morale—is built on shared belief, not just fear.”

The words hung in the air like a blade, suspended. Palpatine said nothing, but his gaze stayed fixed on Krennic—an appraisal, not a dismissal.

Across the chamber, Mas Amedda let out a theatrical breath and shook his head. He leaned forward, his voice curling with disdain.

“Spoken like a man campaigning for sympathy,” Amedda said. “Or perhaps promotion. Monuments? You’re not a philosopher, Director. You’re a middle manager with a flair for theatrics. The moment we let weapons designers start dictating Imperial values, we may as well put artists in charge of war.”

A few members of the Council exchanged subtle looks. One coughed into his sleeve. Another smirked behind a raised hand.

Krennic didn’t move.

He didn’t let his jaw twitch, didn’t glance at Palpatine, didn’t acknowledge the burn crawling just beneath his collar.

He simply turned toward Amedda, slow and deliberate, as if studying something beneath glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was velvet-smooth—controlled, but dipped in something colder than rage.

“Forgive me, Grand Vizier. I wasn’t aware your contributions to military doctrine were so vast and underappreciated. I must have missed the footnotes in our supply chain audits labeled ‘sarcasm and slander.’ Perhaps next time, I’ll consult your office for tactical insight. Assuming it’s not already booked with ceremonial duties.”

A flicker of amusement danced in Palpatine’s expression, so fleeting it could be imagined.

Amedda’s expression darkened. His throat worked to swallow a retort, but Krennic had already turned his gaze back to the center.

He took one careful step forward.

“My loyalty remains with the Empire,” Krennic said evenly, eyes forward. “But if the people begin to forget what they’ve lost, they will forget why they follow. The second Death Star is a monument to fear. A true monument. One of remembrance. Would serve as its counterbalance. And if we ignore that... we lose something we won’t get back.”

The silence returned, but it carried weight now.

Palpatine’s fingers slowly tapped the edge of his throne. Then stopped. He gave a single nod.

Approval.

Minimal. But visible.

Krennic felt it, and so did the Council.

Amedda's shoulders stiffened, the corner of his mouth curled—not with triumph, but with quiet fury. He didn’t speak again. Not for the rest of the session.

Because Krennic had said what needed saying.

And worse for Amedda—he had been right.

The power in the room had tilted. Not loudly. Not obviously. But it tilted all the same. And Krennic, with practiced elegance, had stayed standing.

*********

The ISB briefing hall was unusually subdued that afternoon. The usual cadence of boots, clipped orders, and holopanel chatter had dulled to a sluggish murmur. You stepped in quietly, the sound of your own footsteps sharper than expected on the durasteel floor.

It wasn’t just fatigue. It was something else. Resentment. You could feel it prickling in the air like static—buried behind stiff uniforms and protocol masks.

A few agents glanced at you, then away just as quickly.

Heert stood by the comm table, datapad in hand, shoulders drawn tighter than usual.

You approached. “Why so quiet?”

He didn’t look up at first. When he did, there was something wary behind his eyes.

“We just received official word,” he said. “The Emperor won’t authorize the memorial for the Death Star casualties. Not even a wall. No names. Nothing.”

The words settled like dust. You didn’t speak. You let the silence stretch just long enough to hear the ache underneath it.

“They weren’t just numbers,” Heert added. “Some of us... lost family. Friends. Entire units.”

A murmur flickered across the room. One of the analysts near the corner desk muttered something under her breath. Something you didn’t catch, but the tone was bitter.

You scanned the room. Some of these officers had served under Tarkin. Others had trained with those who died. A few had come from Alderaan itself—Imperial loyalists once proud to serve, now silently gutted.

And some of them, you realized, were looking at you like it was your fault. Because you were close to Krennic. Because the Death Star bore his fingerprints, no matter how distant.

You straightened your coat. Spoke carefully.

“Do you know why Alderaan was destroyed?”

One of the agents across the room—Kyr, Alderaanian-born—folded his arms. “Because your Director built a planet-killer. And your Emperor let it off the leash.”

You didn’t flinch. “Director Krennic was removed from the project before it was ever fired. It was Tarkin’s command. And Alderaan was his idea of a political statement.”

Kyr's mouth tensed. “And Jedha? Cinderis?”

“Jedha was a rebel hotspot,” you said evenly. “Director Krennic didn’t flatten the city out of spite. Intelligence marked it as a weapons funnel for the Alliance. His strike neutralized the threat in one move. Was it surgical? No. But it ended a war that was bleeding our men dry.”

“And Cinderis?” someone else pressed, voice edged with skepticism.

You turned slightly toward them. “How many of you even knew that planet existed before the rumors? Cinderis was a black site. An unauthorized weapons lab funneling data to anti-Imperial cells. Intelligence missed it. Director Krennic didn’t. He struck before it could escalate. Quietly. No headlines.”

The room quieted. They hadn’t expected you to answer directly. You watched their reactions shift. They weren’t convinced. Not all of them. But they were listening.

You stepped forward.

“Let me ask you something,” you said. “Did you know the Emperor offered Director Krennic full authority over the second Death Star project?”

There were murmurs now. Real ones. Heads turned.

“He declined,” you said. “Told Emperor Palpatine himself the project was a mistake. That a second station wouldn’t inspire loyalty. It would deepen fear. Divide us further. He walked away from the most powerful position in the military—because he saw what it did to Aldeeran.”

Kyr hesitated. “You’re saying he defied the Emperor?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “that Director Krennic knows what happens when we forget the cost of power. And that some of us still remember the ones we lost.”

There was a pause. Then the quietest ripple of agreement—barely a sound, just a shift in posture. A nod. A glance. Heert stood straighter. A junior officer muttered under his breath, “Maybe he should’ve stayed in charge.”

It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.

The room didn’t erupt. No thunderous declaration. Just a change in the current, sharp and irreversible. Like the beginning of a storm.

By the time you turned to leave, the whispers had already started traveling from one corner of the facility to another.

*************

The house was quiet when you stepped out of the steam-filled refresher, towel-wrapped and still brushing drops from your neck. The lights in the hall flickered once—then the front door hissed open.

You paused.

Krennic entered with his usual slow stride, white cloak trailing slightly heavier than usual, like the day had clung to him longer than necessary. His face, always arranged with precision, wore exhaustion in careful lines. But the moment he saw you, still damp from your shower, a different kind of tension passed through him. He crossed the space, cupped your cheek, and pressed a firm kiss to your mouth.

“I didn’t expect you back so early,” he murmured against your lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You smirked. “Could say the same.”

“I need ten minutes. That council chamber reeked of desperation.”

He peeled off his gloves, brushing them across your shoulder before disappearing toward the bedroom. You didn’t wait, already making your way to the dining room, knowing his routine by heart. Wine uncorked, plates set. The quiet, reliable rhythm you both had built between the chaos.

By the time he returned. Fresh, shirt crisp, hair damp and slicked back. You were already seated, sipping water from your glass.

Dinner passed in conversation about reports, muted political tensions, and the tightening screws around the Emperor. But it wasn’t until he leaned back in his chair, wine swirling in his glass, that his eyes cut sideways to you with a wry smile.

“I heard you defended me again at the ISB.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Partagaz?”

Krennic gave a slow nod. “He never brings me up unless something notable happens. And apparently, you turned murmurs into myth.”

You shrugged. “They were mourning. You know how raw they’ve been. The Emperor’s refusal to memorialize the Death Star losses hit them harder than you think. They needed someone to believe in.”

“And you gave them me?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“I gave them someone who doesn’t want another Death Star. That’s not the same.”

He laughed, soft and dangerous. “It’s close enough.”

You lowered your fork, fingertips brushing your stomach unconsciously. A beat later, you felt it—faint, like bubbles shifting under skin. Your breath hitched.

Krennic noticed. His smile faded, replaced with something quieter.

He stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside your chair. His palm pressed against your belly, fingers spread as if trying to feel the pulse of something just beneath. You both waited.

There it was. A kick—sharper this time.

“He’s listening,” Krennic murmured, voice almost reverent. “Already reacting to politics. That’s my son.”

You gave him a look. “Or he’s trying to get away from it.”

He chuckled, then grew thoughtful.

“We just need someone to blame,” he said after a pause.

You set your glass down slowly. “You saved something in mind?”

He only smirked, slow and precise. A quiet glint in his eye. The kind of expression you’d learned meant he already had someone in his sights—someone important.

***********

Nobody ever expected this storm to come.

The stillness of Coruscant’s upper levels cracked like glass under the pressure of a truth too long buried.

At first, it was a whisper—a single holoboard flashing red where Imperial recruitment posters used to hang. Then five more followed, across speeder routes and transit stations, flickering with the same headline in stark, unflinching Aurebesh:

"One Trillion Credits. One Death Star. Zero Answers."

An open letter followed, anonymously distributed and impossible to trace. It spread faster than Imperial censors could blink. Across terminals in military outposts, civilian news kiosks, private comms, and encrypted networks, the same message roared:

“The Empire spent more credits on a single weapon of destruction than on healthcare, education, and infrastructure combined across twelve sectors. Where did it go? Who approved it? And who paid the price?”

Below that, real figures. Line by line. Manufacturing budgets. Construction manifests. Cargo logs from Scarif. Secret transport orders. None of it forged. None of it denied.

The leak was surgical—too perfect to be a rebel attack. This wasn’t chaos. It was calculated exposure.

Within hours, entire divisions of stormtroopers refused additional training drills, mumbling under their breath about being “expendable.” Navy captains submitted encrypted inquiries. Civilians rioted outside regional headquarters. On more than one outpost, Imperial banners were pulled down and burned.

No broadcast could calm them. No apology was issued.

By nightfall, the headlines had changed:

“Who built the Death Star?”

“Why did Alderaan die?”

“What else are they hiding?”

In the upper levels of the Citadel Tower, silence reigned within the Emperor’s private audience chamber—until his voice, low and venomous, slithered into the dark like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“So… it begins.”

You stood before him, flanked by Director Partagaz on your right. Neither of you dared interrupt. The red-robed guards didn’t move. Not even the flicker of a glance.

Palpatine leaned forward in his throne, his face shadowed beneath the folds of his hood, but his eyes burned. “They smell blood. The masses. The officers. Even… the Ruling Council.” His voice curled with contempt.

“They are frightened,” Partagaz said evenly. “It will pass.”

Palpatine hissed, “Frightened men become dangerous. They must be reminded who holds power.”

You stepped forward, just enough for the guards to take notice. “Then give them someone to blame.”

There was silence. Then Partagaz glanced at you sidelong. You could feel the weight of his approval, veiled though it was.

Palpatine’s gaze didn’t waver. “You suggest one of my own Council?”

“Either the Council, or the Vizier,” you said. “Both were responsible for approving Death Star budget extensions. Both signed off on the contingency funds. Let the ISB investigate. Give the people a name that is not yours.”

His gaze narrowed, calculating. The silence stretched until the hum of the chamber grew loud in your ears.

He finally said, “Choose one.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Grand Vizier Mas Amedda.”

Partagaz exhaled like a man confirming something he already knew.

He gave the faintest nod. “Then make it so.”

He turned his head, slowly, toward Partagaz. “Conduct the audit. Unleash the hounds. And make sure... the trail leads exactly where we want it.”

You inclined your head and turned to leave, Partagaz beside you.

As the doors hissed shut behind you, he said nothing at first. Then, once far enough from the throne room, he spoke under his breath.

“Cold.”

“Effective,” you replied.

Neither of you smiled.

And beneath your calm surface, you were already calculating your next move. Mas Amedda was a snake—but snakes bled too. You just needed to cut deep enough.

Behind you, the Empire churned. The anger of the masses no longer a whisper, but a tide. And now it had a target.

The middle manager may have been forgotten.

But the Grand Vizier was about to become the Empire’s perfect scapegoat.

***********

The hangar was soaked in cold sheets of rain, the sky above roaring with thunder that didn’t quite drown out the sharp click of stormtrooper boots against durasteel. The docking bay was nearly empty. Save for the massive diplomatic cruiser waiting for launch, its ramp still lowered.

Mas Amedda sprinted through the downpour, his heavy robes plastered to his hulking frame, the sigils of the Grand Vizier clinging to him like dead weight. He wasn't used to running. He wasn't used to fear.

This isn’t how it works, he thought wildly. I give the orders. I survive. They fall, not me.

For decades, he'd orchestrated silence, buried dissent, and pulled strings beneath Palpatine’s shadow. He was the architect of containment. The gatekeeper. The predator.

Not the prey.

The cruiser loomed, salvation within reach. Then—movement.

Blasters cocked in unison. A beam of light cut through the rain, revealing the black armor of death troopers forming a line across the ramp. One stepped aside.

“Leaving so soon, Grand Vizier?”

Director Orson Krennic stood beneath the storm in his pristine white uniform, untouched by the rain thanks to a black cloak now fluttering at his shoulders. The storm backlit him like a phantom.

Mas Amedda stopped dead in his tracks.

“You,” he gasped. “It was you.”

Krennic smiled, slowly, the corners of his mouth curling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped forward, boots splashing in shallow puddles as the thunder rolled again overhead.

“This middle manager,” Krennic said, his voice velvet and venom, “got you cornered.”

Amedda’s breathing grew erratic. “This... this is because of the Council. Because I mocked you, isn’t it?”

Krennic gave a short, amused laugh. “Oh, Mas. If I assassinated every man who mocked me, the Senate wouldn’t have lasted a week.”

He took another step closer, eyes gleaming. “But I’ll admit... that one was a personal favorite. You should’ve written it down. Made it your epitaph: Killed by the middle manager.”

Amedda’s jaw clenched, his montrals trembling from rage or panic—it was hard to tell. “You won because of that strategist you keep in your bed,” he spat. “That woman—she’s the mind behind this.”

Krennic didn’t flinch. In fact, his eyes softened slightly. Almost fond.

“I did win because of her,” he said, calm as stone. “And because of our son. That’s why I won’t let men like you govern his future. You're a relic. A whisper of a dying era clinging to old powers, blind to the tide.”

“You think Palpatine will protect you?” Amedda barked, trying to rally authority, fear giving way to fury. “He’ll burn you next.”

Krennic tilted his head, amused. “Maybe. But not tonight.” He stepped closer, his voice soft but laced with steel. “I’ve destroyed two planets. Getting you? That was easy.”

Mas Amedda had always looked down on him. A glorified project manager, he’d called him. A man with blueprints instead of vision. But the Vizier had never understood power—not real power. Not the kind built with ambition, blood, and precision.

He still remembered the sting of it, Mas Amedda lowering his rank the moment Galen Erso disappeared.

He stepped back.

“Grand Vizier Mas Amedda,” he said with crisp finality, “you were given a chance to cooperate. You refused. That, by Imperial order, is treason.”

“You can’t—”

“Aim.”

The death troopers raised their weapons in perfect sync, targeting the center of Amedda’s chest.

“No. Wait!”

Krennic’s voice did not rise. It did not crack. It sliced.

“Fire.”

Blaster fire rang out, flashing crimson through the downpour. Mas Amedda staggered as the first bolt struck, then another. He fell to his knees, then collapsed entirely, limbs twitching before going still.

The rain didn’t stop. It soaked into the robes of a dead man whose name had once brought dread in palace halls.

Krennic stood there, unmoving, the smoke from the blaster fire curling in the wet air. His expression was unreadable. Not triumph. Not regret. Something colder.

Mas Amedda was wrong to think the Emperor protected Krennic. Because as Krennic stood over Amedda’s lifeless body, he whispered, eyes cold and steady—

"The Emperor is next."

***********

Flashback - Few days ago

The kind of silence that settles only after the last piece of restraint has been buried beneath something colder. The kind of silence where truth doesn't slip — it cuts.

Dinner had gone cold. Neither of you noticed.

You stared across the table, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “Did I hear it wrong?”

Krennic didn’t look up right away. He took his time with the wineglass in his hand, studying the swirl as if the answer might appear there.

“No,” he said. “Mas Amedda mocked me. In the Emperor’s presence.”

There was no heat in his voice. Just precision. Which was worse.

You leaned back, slow, trying not to clench your fists. “And Palpatine said nothing.”

The rage was crawling under your skin now. Mas Amedda had called him a middle manager. A middle manager. As if Krennic hadn’t designed the Empire’s deadliest weapon. As if he hadn’t rewritten the rules of war. He had reshaped the galaxy while Mas Amedda sat in council chambers, collecting titles and whispering poison into old men's ears.

“He didn’t have to.”

A pause followed. You hated those pauses — Krennic never hesitated unless he was already five steps ahead.

“So you want to start with the Vizier?” you asked, voice steady.

He finally met your eyes. “I want to end with the Emperor.”

Your stomach knotted — not from the baby, but from the weight of what he meant. He didn’t say it to shock you. He said it because it was true. Because it was time.

“But we start with someone the Empire won’t miss,” he added, setting the glass down with a quiet, deliberate touch.

He laid it out like a campaign. Not loud, not theatrical. Just methodical. A collapse engineered one inch at a time.

“His aides first,” he said. “Then him.”

You folded your arms, keeping your voice even. “We can’t win that kind of war. Not with weapons.”

“We don’t need weapons,” he said. “We have decay.”

“Bureaucracy,” you said.

He gave a slight nod. “It’s already rotting. All we need to do is pull the thread.”

You tilted your head. “What if we did use a direct strike?”

He didn’t blink. “There’s only one person who could pull it off.”

“Vader.”

“Exactly. And I plan to save him for the finale.”

Your gaze stayed on him. He wasn’t the man who once begged the galaxy to notice his work, to validate his worth through steel and fire. He was quieter now. Sharper. And far more dangerous.

“The Emperor still obsesses over the Death Star,” he said. “It gnaws at him.”

You held his gaze. “You and him have that in common.”

He paused.

“Not anymore,” he said quietly. “I have you. I have our son. That weapon was built for an empire I no longer believe in.”

Your fingers brushed the edge of your plate. “Orson.”

He looked up at the sound of it — not startled, not softened, but focused. Like you’d called him back from somewhere far colder.

“Don’t lie to me,” you said. “You’ve blackmailed senators. Officers. I know your hands aren’t clean.”

There was no denial. Only stillness.

“Loyalty doesn’t exist here,” he said. “Only leverage.”

“Then tell me,” you said. “Tell me about them. The senators. You’ve spent more time with them than I have.”

He leaned back, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. “Most of them don’t care who rules. They wear the Emperor’s face like a mask. But inside? Hollow. They serve no one. Not even themselves.”

You exhaled, quiet. “The Death Star was brutal. Direct. It gave the illusion of clarity.”

“And it silenced the galaxy,” he said.

“But it’s obsolete,” you added, tone dry. “Weapon ships aren’t sexy anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly. “Oh really?”

“That depends,” you said, letting the words linger. “What is?”

He studied you for a moment, then leaned forward, voice low. “You. Still you.”

You didn’t smile. You kissed him — not for comfort, not for manipulation. Just because the world was unraveling, and for one stolen moment, he was the only constant.

His hand curled lightly around your wrist, thumb brushing the inside of it like he needed proof you were still here.

You pulled back, breathing him in.

“We need something new,” you said. “Something to break the Death Star narrative.”

“You’ve thought of something.”

“Education,” you said. “Real systems. Opportunity.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Not strong enough.”

“What would be?”

“Agriculture,” he said. “Food security. Infrastructure. Instead of feeding fear, we feed survival.”

You nodded. “We take credits meant for destruction... and use them to fill stomachs.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “We don’t sell hope.”

“No,” you agreed. “We offer stability. Direction. Not grand promises. Just something worth staying for.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand on his.

“We help them find who they are,” you said. “Give the youth identity. Purpose.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

“You’re not thinking like an operative anymore,” he said.

“I’m thinking like a mother.”

A pause.

“And I’m thinking like a father,” he answered.

The words landed heavier than you expected.

“I don’t want our son growing up in this Empire,” you said, quieter now.

“He won’t,” Krennic said. “Not if we dismantle it before he learns its language.”

Silence settled again, different this time. Not cold. Not tense.

“Then we start with corruption,” you said.

He didn’t blink. “Blame it on Mas Amedda. And the Council.”

“That’s our first step.”

He stood from his seat and walked to your side, cupping your jaw with one hand. You leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, letting yourself breathe again.

“We do this right,” you whispered. “No more wreckage. No more ghosts.”

Krennic’s voice was soft in your ear. “Only a future.”

**********

A few days after Mas Amedda's death, the Imperial Council had grown quieter. Too quiet. Meetings were shorter, the usual backroom whispers dulled to a low hum. No one dared to take up the space Mas once filled. No one wanted to be next.

You were still reviewing reports in the study when Thrawn’s signal came through.

Krennic answered, his posture sharpening as the hologram flickered to life. Thrawn’s expression was unreadable as always, but there was a faint trace of something new — approval.

“You’ve moved faster than I expected,” Thrawn said. “Efficient. Precise.”

Krennic gave a short nod, the bare minimum. You said nothing, waiting for the catch.

“But don’t mistake momentum for control,” Thrawn added. “Be careful. Don’t move too fast.”

And with that, the signal cut off.

Krennic exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes as he stepped back from the console. “He always has to get the last word.”

You chuckled under your breath. “You know he’s right.”

He turned toward you, one brow raised, mouth curling with that familiar smirk. “Then the real work begins.”

You leaned against the desk, arms folded. “Who’s next?”

He stepped closer, close enough to brush his knuckles against yours, but didn’t take your hand. “Didn’t you hear what Thrawn said?” His smirk deepened. “Baby steps, my darling.”

The way he said it made you blush, and he saw it. He always did.

“Besides,” he added, already turning toward the hallway, “I still need to finish the crib.”

You blinked. “The crib is done. You don’t need to add anything else.”

He paused at the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “Just in case.”

And then he disappeared down the hall, steps soft but certain. You stayed where you were, letting the silence settle for a moment before your hand moved instinctively to your belly. The baby kicked — once, then twice — as if answering him.

You smiled.

“Seems like someone’s excited to see it,” you whispered.

The house was quiet now, the political chaos of the past week tucked away behind locked doors and encrypted lines. But here, in this moment, there was only you, your son, and a man who had burned a hole through the Empire for the future you were building together.

It wasn’t over. But it had begun.

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Please feel free to leave your comments. I'd love to know what you think. What do you want too see in the next chapter?

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[dont-touch-the-flower-child]

Carol isn't the Caller

Many people, myself included, has thought that this person on the phone with Kris is Carol Holiday.

However, I no longer believe so.

Let's break down the reasons, one by one.

"But, she was home early! After Kris called about Susie getting the guitar!"

This is one of the most common arguments for Carol Caller. Indeed, it all seems to line up: Carol wasn't going to be home for hours, until the call from Kris sent her rushing back. And her first priority upon entering was to take the guitar away from Susie.

But, is it really that simple?

What if Carol came back for something else entirely, and it had nothing to do with Kris?

Exhibit A: the same segment in Weird Route

On Weird Route, Kris never made the call. And yet, Carol still came home early, asking everyone to leave. Why would she had come if Kris didn't call her?

"How do we know if Kris didn't call offscreen?"

Because on Weird Route, Kris didn't know Susie got to the guitar until later, when they were both outside.

And from Susie's account, we can gleam that Susie went from Dess' room—found guitar—went to living room with guitar, and was held up by Asgore until Carol's arrival.

Meanwhile, we see Kris went from Noelle's room—bathroom, and had a massive crashout upon entering. Said crashout was also interrupted soon after by the news that Carol came home.

If the call did somehow happen, it would leave an extremely small window of time for Carol to come home. She would probably need literal wings for that.

And that's without considering how dissonant and improbable it would be for Kris to notice Susie with the guitar and make a call for it in enormous emotional anguish and rage.

Therefore, I think it's unreasonable to assume that Kris still made the call on Weird Route.

"What if Carol was summoned by Kris on Normal Route, but by someone else on Weird Route?"

That's essentially acknowledging that someone else could have called Carol home. What stops them from also doing so on Normal Route?

So if Kris didn't call Carol home, who did?

Asgore did.

He was, after all, the one who revealed that Carol was coming home early.

We also know that he'd been working with Carol to find out what happened to Dess.

And, on that day, he also happened to have an reason to call Carol.

To show her his latest discovery. A black shard.

Exhibit B: the call from actual Carol at the end of Weird Route Ch.4

And as you can see, her speech was completely normal. Not like the Mysterious Caller's voice at all.

These calls happened at around the same hour in late night. Carol would be in the same place, calling with the same device. If the Caller were Carol, it makes no sense for her voice to be different.

"What if she changed her voice to sound dark and ominous?"

Okay, but why would Carol need to do that? Kris had her contact. They knew who she was either way.

"To obscure her identity from the SOUL? The Caller even knows about Kris' SOUL situation!"

The Caller never framed the SOUL as a threat, though. They even said that Kris cannot enter the dark world without it. And truthfully, the SOUL does not have the sentience to be dangerous on its own; the Player does. And nothing suggests that the Caller knows about the Player.

And, while we're on the topic...

The Caller knew about dark fountains and dark worlds. I highly doubt that Carol knew those things, because if she did, then she was already extremely close to finding her daughter (on the premise that Dess is the Knight). Asgore and her wouldn't need evidence boards like they were still crafting theories, they could just make their own fountains.

So no, I don't think Carol could be the Caller. Which, would also mean that she hadn't been manipulating Kris and holding them to a promise.

"Then, what's with her 'you are always welcome here' to Kris? Kris was even uncomfortable, too!"

I have speculated that Kris saw Dess last.

To Carol, this meant that Kris Dreemurr remained the only person who could provide reliable clues to finding Dess. She was hoping Kris would one day open up, and being nice to them means it'd be more likely to happen.

Kris wasn't comfortable, of course, because the Dessappearance was a deeply traumatizing event that they still feel guilty for. They weren't ready to disclose anything yet.

But, we know that they aren't being harmed by the biggest authority figure in town.

[ghouljams]

divorced!price au question. How does Price’s parents/possible siblings feel about him?

This version of price is literally my future father-in-law. My fiancé’s dad has been married 6 times and they’ve all ended so messy and full of hate. Here’s the thing - my father in law’s mother always HATED how much he treated marriage like it was utilitarian and not for love. She hated how much he treated his wives and his children, and when she died she told him how ashamed she was of him. Really brutal stuff but I still laughed my ass off because the guy is a truly terrible person

In my mind Price is an only child whose parents are already dead or else entirely estranged from him, but in the divorce au I imagine his parents' marriage wasn't so different from his own.

He grew up with a father who was every picture of the worst kind of man. Indifferent to his child, cold to his wife, a man who valued utility over familial affection, who only came to footie games when there was a trophy on the line and barely spoke a word of congratulations even if Price's team won. He was a man that was successful in his career, who had medals hanging on the wall from his service, and who ran his house with the same precision that begets military discipline.

His mother was similarly detached. A failed socialite who still ached for the days before her son ruined her figure. A mother in name more than occupation, who stayed home not to care for him but to nurse a new bottle of gin. She didn't love his father, and neither of them cared to pretend, but she never took a lover, neither of them did. There was a utility for both of them in marriage. A mutual understanding that didn't come from respect but perhaps resignation. Price lived with a wire mother, offering milk but no warmth, and a father whom he was told he shared a legacy but who never taught him more than that.

And really in that way Price has become the man he always looked up to. There was an air of importance to his father, an untouchable nature that took the breath out of rooms and demanded authority even when he hadn't been granted it. He was the man in every space he entered. He wasn't emotional, he was the bread winner, he dressed the way he was supposed to, acted and fucked the way he was supposed to, and he never deviated from this seemingly pre-set programming. It could almost be considered a tragedy to raise a child in this environment, except that John Price never truly loved either of his parents either, never craved their approval, never sought their comfort, never cried without cause or went to them with an needs other than the most basic.

What did they care when a neighbor's cat went missing? Or set fire to his army men? There was no pride when he was married, but a certain star did shine in his father's eye when he told them he'd enlisted. Then again there was always a subtle violence in his father's movements, a quiet thrill when he watched war movies, if ever there was a legacy for John to carry on perhaps he found it in a long line of men who had never been designed for anything more than war.

[twst-blueoctopi]

Romance? In This Economy?

a/n: gift for @rizdoodles it was rly fun to write ^^ words: 2582 tags: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx +ask to be added

Jade was being normal again.

Not “normal” for a Leech twin—she’d long accepted that “normal” with them often meant weird smiles and cryptic comments about poisonous mushrooms—but normal in a way that made her feel like she could breathe easy.

The kind of normal where he gently corrected her knife grip during Culinary Club without teasing her wrist strength. The kind of normal where he explained how a specific mushroom only bloomed after a thunderstorm, and she could actually take notes without second-guessing if it was a trap.

Pépito liked that Jade. He was still a little weird, but he was calm, kind, and—okay, a little too good at explaining things. Like he enjoyed watching her try to figure stuff out. But she appreciated it. Really.

So of course, the very next day, he shoved a whoopee cushion onto her chair and casually acted like nothing had happened.

She’d screamed.

Then punched the table. Then yelled at him. And then—ugh—he had the audacity to look delighted.

“Your reaction was even better than I imagined,” Jade said with a gloved hand over his mouth, not bothering to hide his laughter. “I must admit, I’ve missed hearing your voice at full volume.”

“You are an actual gremlin,” she hissed, cheeks burning. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“Terribly sorry, Pépito. Consider it payback for the time you mistook truffle oil for soy sauce and nearly destroyed the risotto.”

“That was ONE time!”

“It was one time I’ll never forget.”

She groaned, grabbing her apron and storming off to grab ingredients. She could hear him humming behind her, infuriatingly pleased.

But… she didn’t really mind. He hadn’t messed up her dish. He never actually hurt anyone. And honestly, he was one of the few people here who didn’t treat her like some alien transplant from a girl’s school. Even if he had the maturity of a toddler with a chemistry set.

Still, his “normal” and “goblin” phases were exhausting to track.

The next week, he was normal again.

No traps. No weird experiments. No comments about how she'd react if he swapped her sugar with salt. Just quiet companionship in the greenhouse, where he taught her how to pinch off mint leaves without bruising them.

“You’re very good with basil,” he said, tilting his head. “Most people overwater it.”

She shrugged. “I kill succulents. Basil’s just more forgiving.”

He chuckled softly. “Forgiving, yes. But it still needs the right hands. You're more capable than you give yourself credit for, Pépito.”

That time, she didn’t answer. Her ears were hot, but she stared hard at the pot, pretending she didn’t notice.

Then came the prank war.

Apparently, Jade had decided “normal phase” was over.

First, he swapped the labels on her spice jars, so her cupcakes turned into an unexpectedly savory adventure. She nearly made Ace cry with those things.

Then, he planted fake mushrooms in her locker that released a puff of glittery spores when touched. That had been an actual mess.

But he never teased her too much. It was always just enough to fluster her. Just enough to throw her off balance. Just enough to make her throw a spoon at him (which he caught, smugly, every time).

“Why do you keep hanging out with him if he’s so annoying?” Deuce asked one afternoon.

Pépito hesitated.

“Because,” she muttered, staring into her tea, “he’s... not always like that. Sometimes he teaches me cool stuff. And I dunno... he’s one of the only people here who treats me like I belong.”

Deuce blinked. “Oh.”

“…Plus, he helped me hide when I blew up the club blender last month.”

“Ah. There it is.”

Later that week, she caught Jade waiting for her by the courtyard stairs.

No tricks this time. No flour bombs. No weird smile. Just... Jade. With a book under one arm and a relaxed posture, like he belonged to the scenery.

“I brought that field guide you asked about,” he said.

“Oh. Thanks,” she replied, taking it from him.

They walked together toward the greenhouse in silence.

“You haven’t pranked me in two days,” she mumbled.

“Hm. Are you complaining?”

“…No,” she said quickly. “Just... suspicious.”

His lips curved in amusement. “Your guard is impressive.”

“Well, someone made me this way.”

“Fair,” he admitted, chuckling.

It was strange how easy it was, being with him. When he wasn’t being an absolute pain, Jade was… calming. Smart. Kind of cool, if she was honest with herself. A little too good at getting under her skin. But maybe… that’s what made her feel seen.

Still, she had rules.

Rule #1: If Jade started acting like a cartoon villain again, she would retaliate.

Rule #2: Never trust mushrooms in unlabeled jars.

Rule #3: Absolutely never let him see her flustered.

Too bad she was already failing Rule #3.

“Are you cold?” Jade asked casually, though his scarf was already off and halfway around her neck before she could answer.

Pépito froze, staring up at him in horror. “What are you doing?!”

He blinked, amused. “Lending you my scarf. Your hands are shaking.”

“I—They’re not—!” she shoved the scarf back at him. “I’m fine!”

“You’re blushing.”

“No I’m not!”

“You are,” he confirmed, smiling with infuriating calm. “Though I admit, it suits you.”

She yanked her parka hood up, flustered beyond reason, and speed-walked toward the greenhouse. Jade followed at a relaxed pace, hands in his pockets, still smiling.

Lately, he’d been acting weird.

Weirder than usual.

He still helped her in culinary related subjects. Still dropped off interesting books in the greenhouse with little notes in the margins. Still teased her every chance he got.

But now there were… comments. Looks. Casual brushes of fingers when passing tools. Mysterious glances held just a bit too long.

Once, he’d said: “You always look so focused when you’re cooking. It’s charming.”

Another time: “If I were the jealous type, I’d have to eliminate everyone who made you laugh like that.”

WHAT WAS SHE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT??

“Stop flirting with me,” she had snapped one day.

He only tilted his head and said, “Oh? Was I?”

SHE DIDN’T KNOW. THAT WAS THE WHOLE PROBLEM.

She tried asking Floyd for help.

Big mistake.

“Ne~! So my brother’s flirting with you, huh? About time.”

“What?! NO! That’s not what I—!”

“Do you like him?”

Pépito opened and closed her mouth like a beached fish.

“…I—He’s—He’s Jade. He’s annoying! And smug! And weird!”

Floyd smirked. “That’s not a no.”

She left with a migraine and no answers.

One rainy afternoon, they were assigned greenhouse duty together. Pépito was crouched over a pot of creeping thyme, adjusting the soil, when she felt a presence behind her.

Jade leaned down slowly, his voice soft near her ear.

“You smell like lemon balm.”

She yelped and nearly dropped the whole pot.

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Just a compliment,” he said innocently, though the glint in his eye said otherwise. “I find your presence rather refreshing. Like a sprig of herbs in summer tea.”

“Are you quoting romance novels at me now?!”

He merely smiled, tapping the watering can like a metronome. “Would that work?”

“IT’S NOT WORKING,” she lied.

To be fair, Pépito liked being around him. She liked that he talked to her like she mattered. Liked that he never treated her like some novelty transfer student. Liked that he remembered what she liked without being weird about it.

He made her laugh. He always noticed when she was frustrated and subtly distracted her. He knew her coffee order. And he always saved her the last dumpling.

But also.

He was a menace.

A tall, cryptic, eel menace with a voice like honeyed seaweed and a fondness for watching her squirm.

It wasn’t romantic.

Right?

Jade, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.

He had discovered something even more delightful than rare fungi or new seafood dishes: the way Pépito’s eyes widened in horror when he said anything remotely flirty.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. Somewhere between her storming out of Culinary Club in a flurry of expletives and her proudly presenting him with a hand-picked jar of pickled daikon she made herself.

Now, he couldn’t stop smiling around her. He lingered after meetings. Found excuses to “casually” bring her favorite pastries. Teased her because he liked her—the real her, chaotic and shy and fiercely stubborn.

He knew she didn’t know. Not really.

But maybe that made it more fun.

A few days later, they sat on a bench after club duty, watching the moon through the glass ceiling.

“You’re not going to pull a prank on me right now, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“No,” he said, amused. “No tricks today.”

“Hmm.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

He laughed. “Would it be so terrible if I were simply enjoying your company?”

“…Yes,” she muttered. “Because then I wouldn’t know what to do with that.”

He turned his head, watching her curiously. “Do you often doubt sincerity?”

“From you? Yes.”

He went quiet. For once, not teasing. Not smiling. Just watching her with that sharp, unreadable look.

“I mean—" she backpedaled. “Not—like, all the time. You’re just hard to read. You mess with people for fun!”

He nodded. “I do.”

She turned to look at him.

And he smiled. A different one, this time. Smaller. Almost… nervous?

“But I don’t lie about the things that matter,” he said.

“…Oh.”

“Just something to remember,” he added lightly, stretching. “Now, shall we head back?”

“Y-Yeah. Sure.”

She followed, heart pounding and very, very confused.

Later, lying awake in bed, Pépito replayed everything he’d said. Every glance. Every offhand comment.

“You smell like lemon balm.”

“Would that work?”

“I don’t lie about the things that matter.”

And worst of all: She liked it. She liked him.

It hit her all at once.

She buried her face in her pillow.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I’m doomed.”

They were dating now.

Pépito was 97% sure of that.

Jade had asked, after a particularly quiet afternoon tending to some temperamental herbs in the greenhouse. There had been no teasing that day—just soft conversation, a rare moment of peace, and then a simple question:

“Would you like to make this official?”

And because she liked him—liked his weird jokes, liked his calm voice, liked that he remembered her favorite drinks and knew when to back off—she’d said yes.

Immediately followed by spiraling into a catastrophic panic spiral the second she got back to her dorm.

“Okay,” she whispered to her reflection. “Okay. Okay. You have a boyfriend now. A boyfriend. This is fine.”

Her reflection looked dubious.

She gripped the sink tighter. “You’ve got this. Just… be cool. Be normal. Do romantic stuff. That’s what couples do, right? It’s not that hard.”

It was that hard.

The next day, Jade found her outside the cafeteria with two ice cream cups and a determined look on her face.

“Hi,” she said. “I got you something.”

He blinked, clearly amused. “What a surprise. Thank you.”

They sat on the nearest bench. For once, it was a normal moment. Quiet. Sweet. Nothing going wrong.

And then it hit her—romance! She was supposed to do something romantic!

Panic surged. Her brain short-circuited.

Without thinking, she dramatically scooped a spoonful of her ice cream and shoved it straight into her mouth, fast and wide-eyed, like she was trying to mimic a love confession in anime form.

She immediately regretted everything.

It hit the back of her throat like a frozen brick.

She choked.

Hard.

“Pépito?” Jade’s eyes widened. “Are you—”

She wheezed, face red, waving him off as she coughed violently into her elbow. A little ice cream dribbled down her chin. Jade instinctively moved to pat her back, clearly trying not to laugh.

Once she stopped hacking up her dignity, she looked up, mortified.

“I thought I was supposed to—y’know—do something romantic,” she mumbled, voice hoarse. “I panicked.”

Jade covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.

He was laughing.

“Glad to know I have that effect on you,” he said between chuckles.

“Shut up,” she groaned. “I’m never trying again.”

“Please do. This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

Things only got worse.

Because then came the Headbutt Incident™.

It was a quiet evening. They were alone again, just the two of them—Pépito replanting succulents that had been knocked over during Ace’s failed flirtation attempt (don’t ask), and Jade silently reading from a book about edible underwater plants.

It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Which meant her brain had space to think.

Which meant she thought: I should kiss him.

A normal couple thing. Right? That’s what people did! They kissed their boyfriends!

She could do that!

...Right?

She spent the next ten minutes working herself up. Her heart pounded. Her palms got sweaty. She tried imagining it over and over. Lean in. Tilt head. Quick peck. Easy.

Except it wasn’t easy. Her legs were jelly. Her stomach was eating itself.

Jade looked up just as she shot to her feet.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she said loudly. “Totally. Fine. Don’t move.”

He didn’t. But his brow arched slightly.

She took a deep breath, tilted her head back to gain momentum, and launched forward—

—straight into his forehead.

CRACK.

“AGH—?!”

The world blurred. Jade staggered backward, eyes wide.

Pépito reeled back, horrified, realizing she hadn’t kissed him.

She’d headbutted him.

He swayed once. Then crumpled.

She. Had. Knocked. Him. Out.

He woke up five minutes later with a cold compress and a panicking Pépito hovering over him, rambling like her life depended on it.

“I didn’t mean to! I just—I was trying to—oh my god, are you okay?! Please don’t die, Azul’s gonna kill me—”

Jade groaned softly, blinking as her face came into view.

“Did you… try to kiss me?”

She immediately turned bright red. “NO—well—YES?! I mean—I was going to, but not like that!!”

A beat.

Then Jade laughed. Long. Loud. Unapologetic.

He laughed so hard he had to sit up slowly and lean against the table for balance.

“I swear,” he gasped. “You’re going to kill me. And I’ll die happy.”

“DO NOT BRING THIS UP AGAIN.”

“Oh no,” he said, grinning. “I’m never letting this go.”

From then on, every time she got flustered, Jade would simply rub his forehead and say, “Careful now. I’m still recovering.”

She threw a spoon at him every time.

He caught it. Every time.

In public, things were different.

Not that they weren’t still them, but Pépito struggled. Couples at NRC were all weird PDA monsters. Hands everywhere. Gross kissing in hallways. Blegh.

Pépito wanted none of that.

She sat an extra inch away during lunch. Refused to hold hands in the hall. Froze anytime Jade so much as brushed her arm.

“Affection in public makes me want to crawl into a locker and never come out,” she explained one day.

Jade only smiled. “Understood.”

He didn’t press it.

But she still caught him looking at her sometimes. Not teasing. Not smug.

Just… warm.

And when they were alone, he’d still bring her tea. Still tie her apron behind her back. Still catch her in soft silences when she didn’t know what to say.

She wasn’t good at this.

But Jade never asked her to be.

He just laughed when she tried, picked her up when she flopped, and loved her exactly as she was.

Which made everything—awkward, chaotic, her—feel okay.

[xanthippe74]

Drarry Microfic: Brave

It goes without saying that Harry did not expect to find Draco Malfoy crouched outside his front door. In Harry’s very Muggle neighborhood, no less.

“Oh,” Malfoy said as he stood up, after Harry had nearly tripped over him. Clutched against his chest was a letter, precisely folded and sealed with a perfect circle of green wax. “I was, er, going to put this through the little slot in the door. That’s for the post, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Harry said slowly. “What is it?”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Ah. Right. It’s my apology.”

“You already did that when I gave your wand back, remember?”

“Yes, of course. I wanted to do it more formally. And thoroughly. I was rather out of sorts after my trial, as you can well imagine.” Malfoy then attempted a very un-Malfoy-like self-depreciating laugh, which came out as an awkward grunt. “I tried to send it by owl, but…”

Harry waited while Malfoy swayed worryingly. Maybe he’d been lurking on Harry’s doorstep in the sun too long in those dark, heavy-looking robes. And gloves, for some unfathomable reason. Always so bloody posh.

“But?” Harry prompted.

“I, erm, had second thoughts the moment my owl flew off with it, and I Stunned her.”

“You— You Stunned your owl? Malfoy.”

“I panicked! She wasn’t hurt!” Malfoy snapped before determinedly clamping himself back down again. “She landed in the shrubberies beneath the window. But now she’s sulking and won’t let me near her with a letter. And then I decided that it would be better anyway—more meaningful—if I delivered it in person.”

Harry considered the situation. He didn’t really need another apology. But he reckoned he should, at the very least, save Malfoy from fretting himself to death out here in front of the Muggle neighbours.

“All right, then. I suppose you’d better come inside and have a cup of tea while you read it to me.”

“What? Potter, I don’t think can— I’m not very composed at the moment, as you can see—”

Harry held the door wide open.

“You don’t have to be composed, Malfoy. Or so bloody formal,” he said, tilting his head in invitation. “You just have to be brave.”

350-ish words for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, "brave."

Masterlist of my microfics

[lovesickletters]

💜𝒴𝒶𝓃𝒹ℯ𝓇ℯ ℋℯ𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃ℴ𝓃𝓈 － ℛ𝒾𝓋ℯ𝓇，𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓃𝒾𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒹 (𝒟𝒶𝓉ℯ ℰ𝓋ℯ𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔)💜

Request from @asimp4yandere hope you like it my love, went a liiittle overboard on this one for fun💜💜💜

Winnifred took a shine to you the moment she saw you. No, not with the glasses, silly. The second you walked through that door she knew you were a keeper. Quick-witted, inquisitive, and too damn adorable for your own good. Your laugh alone could’ve made her overheat if she didn’t have a better grip on herself! She may have shouldered too many whirlwind flings and blissful love affairs to count, but her feelings for you were something else entirely. Fervent, fiery, passionate– and she couldn’t do a thing about them if she tried. Not until now, that is.

She lets her affections run wild now that you’re here, really here. She was never a prude to begin with, but now that you can really talk and connect with each other she’s making more steam than she knows what to do with. A torrent of pet names (‘cutiepie’, ‘dear heart’ and ‘sweet thing’, to name a few), a heaping of thinly-veiled innuendos and a fondness in her voice that was reserved only for when she’d found something real special.

It isn’t any secret that she’s besotted with you, and she has to scold any gossip-minded individuals (one loud mouthed candlestick in particular) for fear of you overhearing. Not that she was afraid you would find out, but more so you would be spared the indecent ideas people somehow managed to come up with. (One particularly salacious rumour involving the two of you and a locked boiler room door began circulating the dining room and within a week the whole kitchen was talking about it. It was a very testing time for her usually boundless patience.)

River isn’t sure how she feels about you at first. She and Winnie had always been… ‘something’ together, and Winnifred’s gentle suggestion of an addition to their dynamic of so many years made her feel… uneasy. Winnie hadn’t been keeping her crush a secret, not at all. She was more than forthcoming about all her relationships, and her feelings for you were no exception. River hadn’t been avoidant about it either, she listened to her stories and heard her rambling out. She even admitted to lingering longer among the swirling steam and dripping tap when you took a shower than she should’ve, just to see what the fuss was about (Winnifred tried her hardest not to seem inordinately interested when she relayed her encounters with you).

When she hesitantly agreed to share she wasn’t sure how she felt about the violet blush that creeped across her face at the thought. She had encountered you plenty of times, helped you clean the house, water the houseplants, soaked your weary limbs in the bath, but in all that time she’d never really considered a more personal connection herself. You were her client and she was there to help, nothing more, nothing less. But now as Winnie held her hands and talked through it with her she felt her cheeks flush as a new perception took root. And with Winnie looking at her with sparkling eyes that danced like a flame she couldn’t help but feel excitement bloom in her chest.

It took her a little while to warm up to you, though it was sped along by Winnie’s coaxing hands. It was her job, after all. River had never been quite sure what to make of her own mind, and there was no room for pretence around Winnie. Any mask she could slip on would inevitably crack at her teasing smiles and lingering touches. Any careful constructed line like “What can I do for you, honey?” would melt in her mouth like sugar. So she was honest. And though it took a couple of tries she started to get the hang of things. Laughing with you came naturally with Winnifred to poke fun and play, and banter was not her forte but she made for a wonderful listener. Sometimes when Winnie felt like teasing her you would join in, and where she thought she would feel annoyed instead she felt the water flowing through her rush faster, a butterfly-like whirlpool in her chest.

Being with the two of them came easier than you thought it would– River caught on quickly with Winnifred lighting a flame under her, fanning it with her mischievous insinuations and good-natured teasing. You and River enjoyed quieter moments alone together, too. Half-watching some tv show Telly had playing in the background as you both went about your own personal pursuits in the same room. You offered to help her with her work and (with more than a little prompting from Winnie) managed to lighten the load between the two of you. She reminded you of a cat that you spent a little time with each day until it came to you on its own terms. You’re not sure if she would appreciate the comparison though, since cats do typically hate water.

Seeing the two of you making an effort to grow closer was just about the cutest darn thing Winnie had ever seen. The two of you listening raptly to one of her many stories from over the years she’d been around alone made her swell with affection. The day she saw you had fallen asleep against River in the tub and River had let you curl up at her side, doing her best to keep the water warm for you, River had to beg her not to get Phoenicia to take a picture of the moment (she didn’t seem to mind the fact that you were unclothed, so hopeful to get a record of the image to keep it didn’t seem to cross her mind).

They had both grown incredibly endeared to you, in their own ways. Winnifred’s fondness for you was stoked every day, and River’s quiet appreciation grew to adoration. Winnie grew quite protective of the both of you, not a hair on your head could be harmed without her knowing about it. She wasn’t aggressive or anything to the other objects about the house, but there was a clear hint of danger whenever anyone mentioned one of your names with anything short of reverence. River was a little more underhanded, if something had happened neither you nor Winnie would hear about it because the issue would be dealt with so swiftly it might never have happened. Water is a force of nature after all, and dear, sweet River who takes such good care of everybody would never hurt a fly! Right?

This behaviour alone might not have been concerning– perhaps a little endearing, even– had the blaze not burnt harder and the rapids not grown more treacherous with time. You had grown to know them so intimately, it was difficult to recall a time when either of them had not been so… overbearing?

You all adored each other so, it was very easy to get carried away at times– that just proved your relationship was strong, didn’t it? They’re simply looking out for you... And the people who cowered in the face of it were simply envious, or couldn’t stand to watch others rise where they had fallen. Your close friends at the very least all seemed happy for what you had together, even if they had to shield their eyes from the glare to be able to see. Any vain attempts to stop this before it burnt away what was left fell short. The blistering heat that sometimes scorched the trees to ash was only meant to encourage growth, after all.

And thought of somehow losing everything… Unthinkable, unknowable. But you’re only human. And if you somehow got pulled under, then hell hath no fury like the tides crashing against the shore, the storm that rages and weeps. She will erode all in time. But as long as you’re at their side, the tides stay at bay. Sometimes it’s easier to let yourself get swept away than continue fighting the current.