#just one more bag of cheetos...!

[rxttenfish]

i still find it absurd how many people lose their shit over anglerfish and other deep sea fish and talk threateningly about how scary and awful they are, and then you look at them and how big they actually are, and they're just like, the size of your hand, maybe. like this isn't even a swarm situation, they're notoriously solitary. it makes more sense to be the token trope of a person standing on top of a chair screaming about a mouse.

[fio-of-the-fae-realm]

So anyways this is how my day is going

[pomegranatelifethis]

Sister

The Wayne Manor was a fortress of brooding intensity, except for one glaring anomaly: you. Y/N Wayne, younger twin to Damian Wayne by a measly two hours, were the antithesis of everything the League of Assassins had tried to forge into your brother. Where Damian was disciplined, you were lazy. Where he was stoic, you were a walking smile. And where he thrived on pain and perfection, you’d rather nap on the couch with a bag of Cheetos.

It was the first day of summer, and the Gotham heat was already unbearable. The Batfamily was gathered in the Batcave for a mandatory training session, orchestrated by Bruce Wayne himself. You, however, were sprawled across a rolling chair, spinning lazily, your Robin suit half-unzipped to reveal a tie-dye T-shirt underneath.

“Y/N, get up and join the sparring session,” Bruce’s voice echoed, stern but tinged with the exhaustion of dealing with you for sixteen years.

You grinned, kicking your feet up on a console. “Pass. My muscles are on vacation. Besides, I’m morally opposed to sweating.”

Damian, mid-kata with a katana, shot you a glare that could curdle milk. “You’re an embarrassment to the Wayne name. Get up before I drag you.”

You blew a raspberry, unfazed. “Try it, Dami. I’ll cry, and then Alfred will make you feel guilty with his disappointed eyebrow.”

Tim Drake snorted from his computer station, while Dick Grayson, ever the peacemaker, tried to mediate. “Come on, Y/N, just one round. It’s good for you.”

“Nope!” you chirped, popping a Cheeto into your mouth. “Pain and I broke up years ago. We’re not getting back together.”

Jason Todd, leaning against a stalactite, laughed. “Kid’s got a point. Why suffer when you can eat snacks and vibe?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Y/N, you’re a Wayne. You need to be prepared—”

“For what? A villain who challenges me to a nap-off? I’d win.” You winked, and even Damian’s scowl twitched into something less murderous.

Despite your antics, Damian was fiercely protective. He’d never admit it, but the idea of you getting hurt—or even mildly inconvenienced—made his blood boil. You were his twin, his responsibility. The League had trained you both, but you’d rejected their ways, choosing laughter over lethality. Damian, though, saw you as a fragile flower in a world of thorns, even if you were more like a weed that thrived in chaos.

As the training session wrapped up, you skipped out of the Batcave, humming a pop song. Damian followed, because of course he did. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To the kitchen. Alfred’s making cookies, and I’m gonna steal the dough.” You flashed a mischievous grin.

“You’ll ruin your appetite,” he muttered, but he trailed you anyway, like a grumpy shadow.

In the kitchen, Alfred was indeed baking, his apron pristine despite the flour everywhere. You leaned over the counter, batting your eyelashes. “Alfred, my favorite human, can I have a teensy bit of cookie dough?”

Alfred’s eyebrow arched, but he handed you a spoonful. “Only because you asked politely, Miss Y/N.”

Damian scoffed. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Says the boy who hides her from every mission,” you teased, licking the spoon. “I’m not a baby, Dami.”

“You’re reckless and weak,” he shot back, but his tone softened. “You need to take this seriously.”

You rolled your eyes, hopping onto the counter. “Lighten up, twin. Life’s too short to be so… you.”

That night, after everyone had retired, you sneaked into the library, a place you rarely visited unless you were hiding from chores. You weren’t looking for anything specific, just bored and curious. That’s when you found it: a dusty, leather-bound book tucked behind a shelf, its cover etched with strange symbols.

“Oooh, spooky,” you whispered, giggling. You opened it, expecting boring Latin or something equally dull. Instead, a puff of golden dust exploded in your face, making you cough. “Gross! Who booby-traps a book?”

The room spun, your vision blurred, and the last thing you heard was your own voice muttering, “Well, that’s not good.”

---

When you woke up, everything was… big. The library floor loomed like a football field, and the bookshelves towered like skyscrapers. You tried to stand, but your legs felt weird—short, furry, and way too many. You glanced down and screamed, except it came out as a high-pitched *mrrrow!*

You were a cat. A small, fluffy, black-and-white cat with big, bewildered eyes.

“Oh, come ON!” you tried to say, but it was just more meowing. You scampered to a mirror, your tiny paws slipping on the polished floor. The reflection confirmed it: you were adorable, with a white patch shaped like a heart on your chest and whiskers that twitched with every emotion.

“Okay, Y/N, don’t panic,” you thought, pacing in a circle. “You’re a cat. This is fine. You’ve handled worse. Like that time you accidentally set off the Batmobile’s alarm.”

Your first instinct was to find Damian. He’d know what to do, even if he’d lecture you for eternity. You bolted out of the library, your new body surprisingly agile despite your human self’s aversion to exercise. The manor was a maze, but you followed the scent of Alfred’s coffee to the kitchen.

Damian was there, sipping tea, looking as grumpy as ever. You leaped onto the counter, skidding into a bowl of fruit. Apples rolled everywhere, and Damian’s eyes narrowed.

“What is this creature doing here?” he demanded, glaring at you.

“It’s me, you idiot!” you yowled, but it just sounded like an angry cat. You swatted at his hand, and he recoiled.

“Disgusting beast,” he muttered, reaching for you. You dodged, because if Damian caught you, he’d probably lock you in a cage “for your safety.” Instead, you jumped onto his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek to get his attention.

“Stop that!” he snapped, but he didn’t push you off. His eyes softened slightly. “You… remind me of someone.”

“Wow, rude,” you thought, but you purred anyway, hoping to charm him. It didn’t work. He set you on the floor and called for Alfred.

“Pennyworth, there’s a stray in the manor. Remove it.”

Alfred appeared, eyeing you with curiosity. “She’s rather charming, Master Damian. Perhaps she wandered in?”

“She’s a nuisance,” Damian said, but he kept glancing at you, like he sensed something familiar.

You decided to lean into your new form’s potential for chaos. You knocked over Damian’s tea, sprinted across the counter, and dove into a pile of flour Alfred had set out for baking. The kitchen erupted in white dust, and Damian’s shout of “YOU LITTLE DEMON!” was music to your ears.

--

The next few days were a blur of mischief. As a cat, you discovered you could get away with almost anything. You shredded Jason’s favorite leather jacket, blaming it on “natural instincts.” You hid Tim’s USB drive under the couch, watching him tear the manor apart looking for it. You even napped on Bruce’s Batcomputer, leaving a trail of fur that made him sneeze for hours.

Damian, though, was your favorite target. You’d sneak into his room, knock over his sketchbooks, and curl up on his pillow, knowing he’d be torn between kicking you out and secretly finding you cute. He named you “Shadow,” which you found hilarious since it was so close to your actual codename, Dusk.

But Damian was also the most suspicious. He’d stare at you, muttering about how your eyes were “too intelligent” for a cat. He even set up a camera to catch you doing something “unnatural.” You thwarted him by batting the camera off the table, because screw surveillance.

The rest of the Batfamily was smitten. Dick cooed over you, calling you “the cutest vigilante ever.” Tim built you a tiny cat-sized Batmobile, which you promptly used to chase Alfred’s vacuum cleaner. Jason fed you scraps of his burgers, declaring you “the only sane member of this family.” Even Bruce, the stoic Batman, let you nap on his lap during briefings, though he’d deny it if anyone asked.

Your human absence, however, was causing problems. Damian was frantic, tearing through Gotham to find you. He interrogated everyone, from Alfred to the mailman, and even hacked into your phone, only to find it dead in your room. His overprotectiveness was in overdrive, and you felt a pang of guilt every time you saw his worried face.

You needed to turn back, but the book that caused this mess was written in a language you couldn’t read (not that you could turn pages with paws). You tried to communicate, but your attempts—scratching “HELP” into a table or meowing Morse code—were dismissed as “cute cat behavior.”

---

By mid-summer, you were enjoying cat life a bit too much. You’d discovered you could sneak into the Batmobile and hitch rides to Gotham, where you’d terrorize pigeons and steal fries from food carts. But your antics were drawing attention. A local news outlet dubbed you “Gotham’s Mystery Cat,” and suddenly, every villain from Catwoman to the Riddler wanted to claim you as their mascot.

Catwoman, in particular, was obsessed. She scooped you up during one of your city adventures, cooing about how you’d be her “perfect partner in crime.” You hissed and clawed, but she just laughed, petting you until you begrudgingly purred. Damian, who’d been tracking you (because of course he was), showed up in his Robin suit, demanding your return.

“She’s not yours, kitten,” Selina purred, holding you up.

“She’s not yours either!” Damian snapped, and you could’ve sworn he was jealous. He snatched you back, cradling you like you were made of glass. “Stay away from my… cat.”

You wanted to laugh, but you also felt a surge of warmth. Damian might be a pain, but he cared. A lot.

Back at the manor, you decided it was time to get serious about turning human again. You sneaked into the Batcave, where Tim was analyzing the book. He’d figured out it was tied to an ancient curse, but the reversal spell required a “willing heart” and a “sacrifice of pride.” You had no idea what that meant, but you were pretty sure it involved groveling, which you hated.

You pawed at Tim’s keyboard, trying to type a message. All you managed was “IAMYNFIXME,” but Tim’s eyes widened. “Wait… Y/N? Is that you?”

You nodded frantically, purring for emphasis. Tim cursed, calling for the others. Within minutes, the Batfamily was assembled, staring at you like you were a science experiment gone wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Dick asked, scratching your ears.

“Because she’s an idiot,” Damian said, but his voice cracked with relief. He picked you up, holding you close. “You’re never leaving my sight again.”

---

The reversal spell was tricky. Bruce and Tim deciphered that the “sacrifice of pride” meant admitting vulnerability, something you and Damian both struggled with. You, because you hated looking weak. Damian, because he was, well, Damian.

In the Batcave, with the family gathered, Tim read the spell aloud. You sat in a circle of candles, feeling ridiculous as a cat. The spell required you to “speak your heart,” but since you could only meow, Damian had to do it for you.

He knelt beside you, his face a mix of embarrassment and determination. “Y/N… you’re my twin. My responsibility. I’ve always protected you because… because I’m scared of losing you. You’re not weak, even if you skip training. You’re strong in ways I’m not. I’m… sorry for underestimating you.”

You stared, stunned. Damian, admitting he was scared? That was the sacrifice of pride, all right. You felt a tear slip down your furry cheek, and you nuzzled his hand, purring softly.

The candles flared, the room glowed, and suddenly, you were human again, sprawled on the floor in your tie-dye shirt and Robin pants. “Well, that was a trip,” you croaked, grinning.

Damian tackled you in a hug, then immediately shoved you away. “Don’t ever do that again!”

The Batfamily erupted in laughter, relief, and teasing. Dick ruffled your hair, Jason handed you a burger, and Tim promised to burn the cursed book. Bruce just nodded, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

---

The rest of the summer was less magical but just as chaotic. You went back to your lazy, smiley self, but you made a small effort to train with Damian—not because you liked it, but because you wanted to show him you could. He, in turn, eased up on the overprotectiveness, though he still hovered like a grumpy hawk.

You and the Batfamily had countless adventures: stopping a Penguin heist, pranking Tim with glitter bombs, and convincing Alfred to let you throw a manor-wide water balloon fight. Through it all, you realized how much you loved your dysfunctional family, even if they drove you nuts.

On the last day of summer, you and Damian sat on the manor’s roof, watching the sunset. You leaned against him, munching on Cheetos. “So, twin, admit it. You kinda liked having me as a cat.”

He snorted. “You were a menace.”

“But you loved me anyway,” you teased, nudging him.

He didn’t reply, but his arm slipped around your shoulders, and that was answer enough.

[cheftsunoda]

Hi!!! I adore your poly works so much so i was wondering if you could do a russell x reader x albon smau fic. But HEAR ME OUT george and reader have been dating for years (ever since he was in williams) and obvs are super close with alex to the point the three of them often playfully flirt and stuff, so everyone suspects something’s going on. And alex is obviously in love with both of them but reader and george think he’s just joking around until one day they realize alex loves them and they kinda love him too. So anyway they end up happily dating and everyone in the paddock is relieved lol.

about time — gr63 + aa23

smau + blurbs

george russell x !nurse norris reader x alex albon

yn and george have rarely existed as just a duo—because wherever they go, alex is never far behind. their so called third wheel, their partner in crime, their constant. what alex has kept hidden for years, though, are the deep feelings he harbors for both of them. he has convinced himself it’s better that way—safer to stay quiet, to play the role of the best friend, the flirty buffer. what he doesn’t know is that yn and george feel the same. and what none of them realize… is that everyone else already knows.

fc : jazmynmakenna on ig and used some pics of carms and lily

(a/n) : tyyyy for the love! such a cute idea <3

—

yn_norris

liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon, lando & 5,002,007 others.

yn_norris : photo dump from an overworked, underpaid and tired nurse. (ft the necessary alex pic bc if i post a dump without him everyone assumes we had a friendship break up)

tagged : alexalbon and georgerussell63

—

view 175,090 other comments.

alexalbon : i’m flattered to be included but i’d like to campaign for more than one photo next time. i’m the fan favorite.

liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63

↳ yn_norris : i can make a whole account dedicated to you with how many pictures are in my alex folder

liked by alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : honestly that account might be more popular than your own

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : sassy king apocalypse has taken over the paddock. first, george, then lando and now you. sigh.

liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon and lando

↳ georgerussell63 : i prefer the term witty

liked by yn_norris, alexalbon and lando

username00 : yn can both of your boyfriends fight?? i want you

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : george may be all posh and brit but he is ready to swing at anytime

liked by georgerussell63 and alexalbon

↳ yn_norris : and alex, my sweet little cinnamon bun, will quite literally not even kill a spider bc “it has a family too”

liked by georgerussell63 and alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : @/username00 i may not fight but i will send someone to your location that can.

liked by georgerussell63 and yn_norris

↳ username1 : the way she didn’t deny Alex was her boyfriend??? and instead called him a little cinnamon bun

lando : stop posting your aesthetic cute pictures from work. show the real you. like the gremlin I saw at the nurses station at 3 am when I brought you coffee. cheeto fingers, eye bags and all.

liked by yn_norris

↳ georgerussell63 : ive seen that 3am gremlin. id still risk it all. even with the cheeto dust

liked by yn_norris

↳ lando : you need help

↳ alexalbon : the cutest gremlin ive ever seen

liked by yn_norris

↳ lando : and you need even more help.

username0 : ynnnnnn. fave 2019 rookie??? (yes I am asking you to pick between your brother and both of your men)

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : legally i am required to say lando.

liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon and lando

↳ lando : damn right. i’ve got baby photos and blackmail material. tread carefully.

↳ yn_norris : but emotionally? alex. physically? george.

liked by alexalbon

↳ georgerussell63 : I won a category but I still feel like I lost

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : you won where it counts, baby. don’t be greedy.

liked by georgerussell63

↳ lando : BARF. just say you love me the most and move on.

liked by yn_norris

franciscagomes : omg. cough. im sick. i need this smokin hot nurse to come take care of me rn😷🤭

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : omw! got something that’ll fix you right up bae 😈

liked by franciscagomes

↳ pierregasly : HEY. you alr have two boyfriends. take your advice and don’t be greedy, norris.

↳ yn_norris : mind your business baldpine #1

liked by lando

—

your pov

The fluorescent lights above me flickered one too many times as I signed out for the night. My back ached, my scrubs were wrinkled, and I was 97% sure there was dry formula in my hair. Twelve hours, four codes, and one toddler with a death grip on my ponytail later—I was done.

The sliding doors whooshed open and cold night air wrapped around me like a sigh. I blinked up at the parking lot, expecting the usual quiet walk to my car and maybe crying to a podcast on the way home.

But instead, parked in front of the hospital like they owned the place, were my boys.

George was leaning against the passenger side of Alex’s car, arms crossed and hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it for the last ten minutes. Alex was in the driver’s seat, scrolling through something on his phone with the windows down and music playing softly—my playlist.

“Hi!” George called when he spotted me, that big, exhausted grin of his lighting up his face. “We come bearing gifts.”

I didn’t even have the energy to be dramatic about it. I just dropped my bag to the ground and walked straight into George’s arms.

“I hate everyone except you two,” I mumbled into his chest.

“We know,” he laughed, kissing the top of my head. “That’s why we came prepared.”

Alex popped the trunk and hopped out. “Ta-da,” he said, gesturing like a magician.

Inside were— my favorite snacks including the weird gummy worms only one petrol station sells, an iced coffee from that place across town, a cozy hoodie I’d stolen from George and they’d returned freshly washed, and a heated blanket plugged into the car. There was even a tiny bottle of micellar water and cotton pads.

“I don’t deserve you,” I whispered.

George grabbed my bag. Alex opened the car door for me. And without even asking, they handed me the coffee, tucked me into the blanket, and turned on the seat heater.

“You saved lives today,” Alex said, buckling me in. “We’re just here to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

George climbed into the backseat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Rest now, nurse. You’re off duty.”

I didn’t say anything—I just reached for both their hands. And for the first time that day, I breathed. The coffee cup was half-empty in my hand, my head resting on George’s shoulder, his thumb gently tracing circles over the back of my hand. Alex was humming along to the music—quiet, low, and warm—and I only caught snippets of their conversation as the car rolled through the near-empty streets.

At some point, my eyes fluttered shut. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but exhaustion settled into my bones like sand and the rhythm of their voices was just too soothing. The next thing I registered was the car slowing to a stop and the faint click of a seatbelt unbuckling. I think I mumbled something. Or tried to.

“Shh,” Alex whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “You’re okay, love. Go back to sleep.”

Then I felt it—his arms slipping beneath me, lifting me like I weighed nothing. The scent of his hoodie, the soft rumble of his voice close to my ear. George’s footsteps behind us. A door opening. Warmth. Home. I stirred slightly as he carried me up the stairs, but Alex just held me tighter.

“You guys didn’t have to come,” I slurred, barely audible.

George was ahead of us, flipping on the bedroom light, already pulling the covers back. “Shut up and let us love you,” he said with a sleepy smile.

Alex laid me down gently, brushing a kiss over my forehead before sitting on the edge of the bed to untie my shoes. George helped me out of my hoodie and pulled the blankets up around me with such tenderness I nearly cried.

“Come here,” I mumbled, blindly reaching for them.

They didn’t need asking twice. George slid in on my left, Alex on my right, both of them instantly folding around me like I was the center of the universe. My head rested on George’s chest, one hand tangled in Alex’s shirt. I felt safe. Held. Home.

“I’ve got early rounds tomorrow,” I murmured.

“We’ll set an alarm,” George whispered, already half-asleep.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Alex added, rubbing my back in slow, lazy strokes.

I smiled, finally letting the last of the tension leave my body. Surrounded by the two people I loved most in the world, I fell asleep again—warm, safe, and exactly where I belonged.

—

lando’s pov

It wasn’t that unusual not to hear from YN right after a shift—sometimes she passed out for hours, sometimes she called me mid-breakfast while still wearing her scrubs and eating cereal out of a measuring cup. But tonight… something felt off. I waited. And waited. No texts. No memes. No updates. Nothing.So naturally, I panicked like any good brother would. I used the spare key she pretends she doesn’t know I have.

Her apartment was dark and quiet, which would normally be comforting, except every light in the hallway was off and I could hear soft music playing from her bedroom. I dropped the takeout I brought for her on the kitchen counter, tiptoed toward the door, and slowly pushed it open—And froze.

There, tangled in her sheets, were both George and Alex. George was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, with YN tucked into his side. Alex was lying on her other side, awake and half-asleep, scrolling on his phone like this was completely normal.

Which, apparently, it was. They both looked up at me. Paused. I stared. Blinked. Held up a hand.

“Before I start yelling… is she alive?”

George gave me a sleepy smile. “Sleeping like a log.”

Alex waved, entirely too casual. “She fell asleep in the car. Long shift. We brought her back. I carried her in.”

I stared harder. “Why are you here?”

“I live ten minutes away and she fell asleep on me,” Alex said, shrugging. “And drooled on me. So it felt serious.”

“I’m going to kill you both,” I muttered.

Then YN stirred a little in her sleep, nuzzling closer to George, one of her hands fisting the fabric of Alex’s shirt like she was anchoring herself to him. And the worst part? They both melted. Alex immediately adjusted the blanket over her shoulder. George smoothed her hair back like it was instinct.

“Okay, never mind. I’m not gonna kill you,” I said, voice flat. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Alex gave me a look. “You brought food?”

I turned on my heel. “I’m leaving. This is cursed.”

George called after me, barely containing his laughter. “We’ll tell her you came for a visit, yeah?”

“Shut up!” I yelled from the hallway. “And I want the Tupperware back!”

—

your pov

The first thing I felt was warmth. Not just from the blankets cocooned around me, or the sun peeking through the curtains, but from the steady rise and fall of George’s chest beneath my cheek. His arm was draped around my waist like a seatbelt, keeping me tucked against him, his breath slow and even against my hair. For a second, I let myself stay there—limbs tangled, heart full, sleep still clinging to the edges of my mind. Then the scent hit me. Coffee. Toast. Something vaguely maple-y. Something… Alex. I smiled before my eyes even opened fully.

George stirred behind me, shifting just enough to press a kiss to my shoulder. “Mmm. Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” I mumbled, voice still scratchy. “Alex is cooking.”

There was a pause. Then George snorted, pulling me closer again. “God help us.”

I giggled into his chest, burying my face against his skin. “He’s gotten better.”

“He literally burned oatmeal.”

“I like my oatmeal crispy,” I murmured, and he groaned.

“You’re just biased because he worships you.”

From the kitchen, we could hear Alex singing softly under his breath. I recognized the song—it was the one I always played when I was making breakfast for them. My heart tugged a little at the sound. Everything about this moment felt so us.

George yawned. “We can go help him in a minute.”

“I’m comfy.”

“I’m not moving.”

“I might love you.”

He kissed my hair. “Might?”

Another clatter from the kitchen. A muffled “I’m fine!” from Alex.

I smiled again. “Okay, do you want him to burn the place down?”

George groaned, finally stretching. “Fine. But only because I think he’s trying to make the fancy eggs you like and I don’t trust him with a whisk.”

He rolled out of bed with all the grace of a sleepy golden retriever and offered me his hand. I took it, still wrapped in blankets, and shuffled behind him like a burrito.

We walked into the kitchen to find Alex—shirt rumpled, hair a mess—very proudly plating something that resembled food.

“I made breakfast!” he announced, holding up a pan with far too much confidence.

“You made smoke,” George replied, rubbing at his eyes.

“I made love in breakfast form,” Alex argued.

I leaned into the doorframe and smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “You guys are idiots.”

Alex turned and grinned at me. “But we’re your idiots.”

God help me—I really was in love with both of them.

—

I was halfway through my very questionably cooked eggs, still wearing George’s t-shirt and wrapped in the blanket I’d dragged from the bed, when I realized both of them were staring at me. Too intently.

“What?” I asked through a mouthful. “Do I have egg on my face?”

“No,” George said slowly, smiling like he was up to something.

Alex was practically vibrating with excitement. “You know how you thought you had a shift today?”

I froze. “Yeah…”

George reached behind him and grabbed my phone, placing it on the table like it was a trap. “Check your schedule.”

I raised an eyebrow, swiped it open, and blinked.

[Schedule updated – you are no longer working today.]

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Alex gasped. “Excuse you. We did something wonderful.”

George took my plate before I could throw it. “We may or may not have called in a favor with the scheduling supervisor. Something about ‘nurse burnout statistics.’”

I stared at them.

“You manipulated hospital management?”

George shrugged. “You work so hard, love. You never take a real break. You needed one.”

“And we figured,” Alex added, holding up a duffel bag triumphantly, “why waste a perfectly good day off when we can turn it into an adventure?”

I blinked, still processing.

“We have a full itinerary,” George said proudly. “Spa appointment at noon, your favorite bakery at 1:30, then we’re going to the zoo, then driving out of the city for a little bit.”

Alex wiggled his brows. “Picnic included. And a disposable camera. And George packed the card game you always cheat at.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried not to cry into the blanket.

“You canceled my shift and planned a perfect day because…?”

“Because we love you, dummy,” Alex said, stepping forward to kiss my forehead.

“Because you take care of everyone else all the time,” George added, arms wrapping around my waist from behind. “Now it’s our turn.”

I just stood there, overwhelmed, two sets of arms wrapped around me, my face squished between kisses and soft fabric.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let me go shower and find something cute to wear.”

Alex lit up. “Matching outfits???”

“Let’s not push it,” I muttered, hiding a smile as I slipped out of their arms.

Still—the warmth stayed. A day off. My boys. A field of sunflowers. I couldn’t have dreamed up anything better.

—

I’ve never been so clean and so judged at the same time. George was wearing a robe like it was custom-tailored to his soul—relaxed, smug, prince energy radiating off him like mist from the eucalyptus steam room. Alex, on the other hand, had immediately broken every spa rule known to man. He wore the complimentary slippers with socks, brought in his own music, and accidentally drank my infused water because “it tastes better than the one they gave him.” 

“You’re impossible,” I said as he handed me back my empty lemon-cucumber glass.

“You love me,” he shot back, laying across the lounge chair next to mine like a sleepy golden retriever.

George leaned over from his own chair and brushed a kiss to my temple. “To be fair, yours had more cucumbers than his did.” 

“Traitor.”

George smiled. “You’re glowing. I’d do anything to see you this relaxed.”

I sank deeper into the plush chair, wrapped in my robe, skin still warm from the facial I just got, and sighed. “Okay, maybe I’m not mad about this surprise.”

“Maybe?” Alex gasped dramatically. “Ma’am, you moaned during your massage.”

“I did not—”

“You definitely did,” George nodded. “I was on the next table. Thought I’d have to ask them to stop before it became inappropriate.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Lies,” they said in unison, and I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing.

Alex shifted closer and gently placed a hand over mine, a rare moment of calm settling in. “You really needed this, YN.”

George’s thumb ran along my wrist. “You give so much. You forget to keep anything for yourself.”

I blinked.

“I’m okay, you know?” I whispered. “Just tired.”

“And we’re here,” George said softly. “Always.”

“We’re gonna spoil the hell out of you today,” Alex added, grinning. “And then maybe make George pay for dinner later. Princesses shouldn’t have to open her wallet.”

I laughed again and squeezed both their hands.

There was something so safe in the way they looked at me—in the way they’d planned all this just to see me breathe. For once, I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t on edge or bracing for a night shift or another exhausting day. I was just… here. Loved. At peace.

“Okay,” I said, straightening up with mock determination. “What’s next? Body wrap? More lemon water? Can someone fan me like a Roman empress?”

Alex was already reaching for the complimentary spa fan. “Your wish, my queen.”

George rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. And so was I.

—

The spa glow hadn’t even worn off yet by the time we pulled up to my favorite little corner bakery—the one with the pastel pink awning, the windows always fogged from fresh bread, and the dangerously addictive almond croissants.

Alex practically fell out of the car when he spotted the sign. “This is the one, right? The croissants that made you cry that one time?”

“Stop bringing that up,” I groaned.

George looked at me in the rearview mirror with the same smug grin he always wore when he was about to say something unserious. “I’ve never seen a pastry make someone so emotional.”

“That’s because you’ve never had one warmed up with the honey drizzle,” I mumbled, grabbing my bag and sliding out of the car. “Life-changing.”

Alex gasped. “You didn’t tell me there was a drizzle.”

Inside, it smelled like sugar and cinnamon and heaven itself. The display case was full of the usual suspects—flaky croissants, jam-filled danishes, tiny cakes decorated like art. There was an elderly French woman working behind the counter, and the moment she saw me, her face lit up.

“Ah! La petite infirmière!” she said cheerfully.

“I come here on my breaks sometimes,” I explained as she greeted me with a warm smile. “And maybe… after night shifts. And sometimes before them.”

“She knows your order by heart,” Alex whispered, eyes wide. “You’re a legend.”

George leaned in. “She also called you her favorite. I’m a little offended.”

Ten minutes later, we walked out with a box stacked full of pastries, coffee orders in hand, and Alex already halfway through his second croissant.

“Okay, but this is ridiculous,” he said through a mouthful. “There’s almond paste. There’s honey. There’s flake. I would die for this.”

“You said that about my pancakes last week,” George muttered.

“Yeah, well, this is sexier.”

I laughed, leaning into George’s side as we walked. “He’s not wrong.”

George huffed dramatically, stealing a sip of my coffee. “Unbelievable. I take you to a spa, plan a whole day, and you betray me for a baked good.”

“You’ll live.”

Alex nudged George from the other side. “Don’t worry, Georgie. You’re my favorite man. The croissant’s my favorite object. Very different categories.”

“You two are so stupid,” I said, grinning like an idiot as we reached the car again. “But like. The cute kind of stupid.”

They both smiled at me then—this warm, knowing, love-drunk kind of look that made me want to pause time.

“I really don’t deserve either of you,” I said softly, not even meaning to say it out loud.

George pulled me into a hug, holding me against him. “You deserve the world.”

“And a third croissant,” Alex added, already holding it out for me like an offering.

God help me—I think I loved them more than I loved that pastry. And that was saying something.

—

I don’t know whose idea it was to go to the zoo—probably Alex’s, considering the way he literally sprinted toward the penguin enclosure like it was a life or death mission.

“THEY’RE WEARING TUXEDOS,” he yelled, pointing through the glass. “LOOK AT THEM. DAPPER LITTLE MEN.”

George and I stood behind him, coffees in hand, trying not to laugh.

“He’s been like this since the flamingos,” George whispered to me. “He thinks they’re judging him.”

“They are judging him,” I said, sipping my drink. “They saw his sock-and-sandal combo and had thoughts.”

George leaned over and kissed the side of my head. “You look happy.”

“I am happy,” I admitted quietly. “You two are insane, but you’re my kind of insane.”

Alex finally turned around, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “Guys. I need a penguin. For my apartment.”

“No,” George and I said at the same time.

“But what if we built a little arctic section in the bathtub—”

“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You almost flooded the kitchen trying to recreate Finding Nemo last month. Remember?”

Alex pouted but took my hand as we walked to the next exhibit. He held it casually, like he always had—but something in me shifted when George reached out and linked his fingers with mine on the other side. Like… I was surrounded. Anchored. Loved. The three of us squeezed together in front of the red panda habitat, leaning on the railing, giggling at the way one of them tried to climb the fence and immediately fell asleep mid-effort.

“It’s giving YN post-night shift,” Alex said solemnly.

“It’s giving you after two mimosas,” George replied.

They bickered. I leaned my head on George’s shoulder. Alex looped his arm around my back. We stood like that for a long moment—quiet, warm, weirdly soft in the middle of a zoo full of screaming children and overpriced hot dogs.

“Okay, serious question,” I said. “If we were zoo animals, what would we be?”

George hummed. “You’d be a koala. Cute, sleepy, deceptively mean when provoked.”

I nodded. “That’s fair.”

Alex grinned. “George is a flamingo.”

George turned to him, affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Tall. Pink. A little awkward but elegant when he tries.”

George opened his mouth. Closed it. “Okay. Not… the worst comparison.”

I tilted my head at Alex. “And you?”

“Golden retriever that got into the lemur enclosure.”

We laughed so hard we nearly doubled over. The sun was starting to dip by the time we reached the exit, arms linked, bellies full of zoo snacks and heads full of ridiculous animal facts. Alex was still insisting we could totally adopt a capybara. George glanced over at me while Alex argued with a souvenir stand employee about whether or not the penguin plushies were “accurate to scale.”

“You’re glowing again,” he murmured.

“Must be the zoo energy,” I whispered back. “Or maybe just the fact that I’m with the two best boys in the world.”

George smiled so softly it made my heart ache. Alex returned, holding three matching penguin keychains.

“For the polycule,” he said with a wink.

I didn’t correct him.

—

The drive out of the city was full of bad singing, shared snacks, and the kind of laughter that made your cheeks hurt. By the time we pulled into the clearing—golden fields stretching into forever, sunflowers towering in gentle rows—I couldn’t even remember what stress felt like. It was quiet. Warm. The kind of place that smelled like wildflowers and safety.

“This is so unfair,” I whispered as I stepped out of the car, sunlight immediately spilling across my skin. “You two are trying to make me cry.”

George gave me a small smile, arms crossed, leaning against the car door like a smug Pinterest boyfriend. “We’re succeeding.”

Alex popped the trunk with a flourish. “We brought everything. Blanket, food, Polaroid, a Bluetooth speaker, and George’s deeply questionable taste in picnic wine.”

“It’s French,” George muttered, already spreading the blanket out in the soft grass.

“It’s gross,” Alex replied.

“Both of you shut up and feed me,” I said, flopping onto the blanket and pulling off my shoes with a groan. “I’m the exhausted nurse princess today. I get fed grapes and kissed every ten minutes.”

Alex plopped down beside me and held out a strawberry. “Your wish, my love.”

George sat on my other side and kissed my cheek. “Only ten minutes?”

I didn’t even bother hiding my grin as I leaned against George, resting my legs across Alex’s lap. They unpacked everything while I just… existed. Sun warming my face. Birds chirping somewhere in the trees. Their soft voices filling the silence.

They made me a little plate. Fed me things I didn’t ask for. Wiped the honey off my chin. Snapped Polaroids when I wasn’t looking.

“You know this feels fake, right?” I mumbled eventually, eyes half-lidded behind my sunglasses. “Like I’m dreaming.”

George rested his chin on my shoulder. “It’s very real.”

Alex tossed a grape into his own mouth and missed. “And very underappreciated. I did all the logistics.”

“You picked the playlist,” George said.

“Exactly.”

I laughed, rolling onto my side so I could look at both of them. “Thank you. For all of this.”

Alex shrugged like it was no big deal.  ”It’s nice to remind you that you’re allowed to be taken care of too.”

At some point, I curled up with my head in George’s lap, Alex tracing soft patterns along my ankle. We watched the clouds drift lazily by. Took turns naming them. George said one looked like a giraffe; Alex said it looked like Esteban in a hat.

“I could stay here forever,” I whispered.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to. Alex gently brushed a strand of hair from my face, and George leaned down to kiss my temple. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

—

The apartment was quiet. Not silent exactly—just quiet in that strange way it always was after Alex left. Like the energy had shifted. Like something warm had been packed up and carried out with him. George was curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed over his knuckles, eyes following the end credits of a movie neither of us had really paid attention to. I sat cross-legged on the other end, wearing one of his sweatshirts and sipping lukewarm tea, my brain loud despite the calm.

“I miss him,” I said quietly, without meaning to.

George looked over at me. Not surprised. Just… waiting.

“I mean,” I started again, voice barely above a whisper, “he left twenty minutes ago. That’s ridiculous.”

George didn’t tease me. He just gave me that soft little smile that always made me feel seen. “It’s not ridiculous.”

I set my tea down and tucked my legs under myself, heart in my throat. “Do you ever feel like… we’ve just kind of been pretending we don’t know?”

George blinked slowly, brows furrowed. “Know what?”

I met his eyes. My hands were shaking.

“That we love him.”

The air shifted. George didn’t move for a long moment. He just stared at me like he was re-learning the shape of me, the sound of my voice, the weight of the truth between us.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said, “Yeah.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on me. “Yeah. I think… I’ve been in love with him for longer than I knew what to call it. And I’ve been scared that saying it out loud would break this… us.”

“It won’t,” I said immediately, because it couldn’t. “It won’t, George.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “He’s you, in a different shape. He’s home. Just like you are.”

I felt my eyes well up and didn’t bother hiding it. “I thought I was crazy for feeling it. For wanting… more. Wanting the two of you, together.”

George got up and crossed the room, sinking to the floor in front of me. He rested his head in my lap, eyes closed, and reached for my hand.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured. “You’re just brave.”

I kissed the top of his head, held him there like maybe that would keep everything from slipping.

“I don’t know what happens next,” I whispered.

George looked up at me, and for the first time all day, he looked a little less tired.

“We tell him,” he said. “We tell him everything.”

I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s tell him.”

—

alex’s pov

I shouldn’t have left. I told them I was tired, which wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t the reason either. I left because if I stayed a second longer, I was going to say something I couldn’t take back. Something real. Something like, I’m in love with both of you and I don’t know how to stop. The apartment feels cold. Quiet. Too still without YN’s soft laughter echoing down the hallway or George’s voice calling me an idiot when I steal the last pastry. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers, arms crossed over my chest like they’re supposed to keep me from unraveling. I can still see them. YN, eyes sleepy and smile soft, curled into George’s side while her fingers found mine under the blanket like it was the most natural thing in the world. George, reaching over her to fix my collar like he always does, like it means nothing.

But it does. God, it does. Every touch, every shared look, every morning coffee and middle-of-the-night text—it all means something. To me, at least. I roll over, bury my face in the pillow, and groan. I feel like I’m going to explode under the weight of everything I’ve never said. I’m in love with her. I’m in love with him. There. I said it—finally let it out like it might make the ache easier. It doesn’t.

I’ve been in love with them for longer than I want to admit. At first, it was just YN—her laugh, her mind, the way she always noticed when I was having a bad day without me saying a word. Then it was George, slowly and all at once—his dry humor, his ridiculous patience, the way he always let me in even when he didn’t say much. They’re together. They have each other. And I’ve always been… the extra. The best friend. The third wheel with the jokes and the camera and the conveniently empty passenger seat. And I thought that would be enough. That maybe just being near them would be okay. But it’s not.

Because every time YN falls asleep on my shoulder and George hands me something and his fingers linger on mine for a few seconds more than necessary, it feels like they see me. Like I belong with them. And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. What if I do? What if they felt it too? I let out a shaky breath and cover my face with my hands.

No. That’s dangerous thinking. That’s hope. And hope is a terrible thing when you’re the one standing outside the door, watching the light through the window, pretending you don’t wish it was your home too. I turn off the lamp and lie there in the dark, pretending sleep will come. Pretending I can keep pretending.

—

your pov

I couldn’t sleep. George was out cold beside me, one arm slung across my waist like it belonged there—and it did. But my thoughts were too loud, too insistent. It was still warm from the sun we’d soaked in earlier. My skin still smelled like strawberries and sunscreen and Alex’s cologne from when he hugged me goodbye. I’d watched him walk down the hallway with that quiet smile he wore when he was hiding how tired he was. How sad he was. I could feel the space he left behind like a ghost.

I shifted gently, brushing George’s hair back and whispering, “Babe… wake up.”

He blinked slowly, confused, warm. “You okay?”

I nodded. “We have to go.”

He sat up a little, still sleepy. “Go where?”

I looked at him, really looked at him, and he understood before I had to say it.

“To him,” I whispered. “We have to go to him.”

George smiled, soft and sad and full of something like relief. “Yeah. We do.”

We didn’t text or call. We just showed up. Alex opened the door in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants, hair sticking up on one side, eyes puffy like he hadn’t slept much either. He looked at the two of us standing there and immediately tried to smile, to laugh it off.

“What?” he said, voice hoarse. “You miss me already?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked in, and George followed, closing the door behind us like he was afraid we’d lose the courage if we waited another second.

Alex turned to face us, confused now. “What’s going on?”

And then I said it.

“I love you.”

His face shifted, just slightly. Eyes darting between us, trying to read whether it was a joke, a trap, a bit. His hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.

“YN—”

“I love you, Alex. Not just as my best friend. Not just because you’re funny or good or always there. I’m in love with you. I have been. For so long it’s not even something I can explain anymore. It’s just part of me.”

I took a shaky breath, and George stepped forward beside me, his hand grazing mine.

“And I love you too,” George said, steady as ever. “I was afraid to say it out loud. Afraid it would change things. But it already has, hasn’t it?”

Alex didn’t say anything. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. His eyes were glassy.

I reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve. “We didn’t know how to tell you. We didn’t even know what we were feeling, for a long time. But you’ve always been the third piece of us, Alex. Not a third wheel. A third piece. And I think we’ve both known that for a while.”

Still nothing. So I kept talking, voice shaking now. “Every time you leave, the apartment feels wrong. Every time you smile at me or tease George, it feels like home. I miss you when you’re in the same room but not touching me. I love you and I’m scared and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

He let out a sharp breath like he’d been holding it since we walked in.

“You’re serious,” he said finally, voice cracking. “You’re both… serious?”

George smiled, that little crooked grin he only ever gave when he was feeling vulnerable. “I’d ask if you want to join our weird little couple, but I think we already claimed you. We just forgot to tell you.”

That broke him. Alex laughed and cried at the same time, and I swear my heart cracked open watching it. I stepped into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and he collapsed into me like he’d been waiting his whole life to be held like that. George hugged us both from behind, his arms strong and steady, and for a second none of us said anything. We just breathed. We just were.

“I thought I was imagining it,” Alex whispered against my hair. “All the time. I thought I was the joke.”

I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You were never the joke. You were always the answer.”

George kissed the back of his shoulder, murmuring, “Took us long enough, huh?”

Alex looked between us, eyes still wet, but smiling now—really smiling.

“You guys are so dumb,” he said, laughing through his tears. “I love you both. So much it’s stupid.”

“I know,” I said, smiling back. “But now you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

We stayed wrapped up in each other in the middle of his living room, swaying like the world had stopped spinning, like everything finally made sense. And for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t tired anymore. I was home.

—

yn_norris

liked by lando, georgerussell63, alex_albon and 7,901,555 others.

yn_norris : day w my boyssss

tagged : alex_albon and georgerussell63

—

view 555,090 other comments.

lando : oh this is why you couldn’t answer your phone?

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : no its just bc i don’t like u

username00 : the way yn and alex look at each other good lord. just fucking kiss already.

liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon

↳ lando : no pls do not do that.

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charles_leclerc : did yn hit the curb today??

liked by georgerussell63, alex_albon and lando

↳ georgerussell63 : surprisingly no

↳ yn_norris : lechair if i were you id watch your mouth. remember that time you couldn’t fit the car in the spot so we had to switch and i had to park your car??? yeah i do.

liked by charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, alex_albon and lando

↳ charles_leclerc : stop the cap

↳ yn_norris : charles you are more known in monaco for not being able to park than your actual driving career.

liked by lando, arthur_leclerc, georgerussell63 and alex_albon

georgerussell63 : can’t wait for all these pictures of me to be posted on pinterest under ‘boyfriend material’

liked by yn_norris and alex_albon

↳ yn_norris : what can i say? i love to feed the girlies.

alex_albon : i argued with the souvenir shop attendant for 45 minutes over the stuffies not being true to size

liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63

↳ yn_norris : babe i don’t rlly think anyone needs a 400 pound stuffed gorilla in their home.

↳ alex_albon : we do!!!!!

liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63

↳ username00 : BABE????

↳ lando : yeah^^^ what she said.

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 2,090,004 others.

f1gossipgirls : 3 recent moments that prove Alex Albon and YN Norris are absolutely in love—and that he’s very much involved in the long term relationship between her and George Russell. Listen, we’ve all joked about the YN–George–Alex dynamic being more than just close friends… but at this point, the receipts are stacking. Here are just a few moments that have the internet collectively screaming. 1. At the last race weekend, YN and Alex were spotted walking together through the paddock—nothing new. But what was new? The way she looked at him like he hung the damn stars. She was also seen multiple times with her hand wrapped around his or holding onto his arm like it was second nature. 2. In a recent behind-the-scenes Williams video, there’s a blink and you’ll miss it shot of Alex looking at YN with literal heart eyes. We’re talking soft, lovestruck, completely gone. Like sir, blink twice if you’re in love with your best friends. 3. Ahead of the next Grand Prix, the two were seen at the airport where Alex was pulling YN along on her suitcase—yes, like a scene out of a romcom—while she rested her head on his hand. He looked like he won the lottery. And honestly? So did she. Whatever’s going on here… we support it fully. Let us know your thoughts. Are they all in love? Is Alex part of the softest throuple in F1 history? Is this the plot of a fanfic come to life? Because either way, we are so here for it. 🫶

—

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username00 : girl we been knew. its just the three of them that don’t know.

username0 : charles and lando in the likes i can’t.

username1 : alex pulling yn on her suitcase while george is probably two feet away filming it and giggling??? i need a minute

username5 : remember when people thought alex was third wheeling? turns out we were just watching a love story unfold

username7 : the way alex looks at yn like she’s made of sunlight and the way george looks at both of them like they hung the moon… i’m SOBBING

username10 : i’m not even asking them to confirm it. just keep posting the domestic bliss. i’m FED

username11 : imagine being yn and waking up between george russell and alex albon. i’d simply never recover.

—

Alex was tracing lazy shapes into the back of my hand. George had one arm slung around my shoulders, fingers absentmindedly twisting the ends of my hair. We’d been sitting like this for ages—content, quiet, safe. And yet, I could feel the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air like dust in the sunlight.

“I’ve been thinking…” I started softly, breaking the silence. Both boys turned toward me immediately, eyes kind. “I know we’ve been keeping this—us—private. And it’s been really nice, just having it to ourselves. But… part of me wants people to know.”

Alex blinked slowly, then smiled, just barely. “You mean, like… going public?”

George leaned in closer, nuzzling into my shoulder. “You’re ready for that?” he murmured.

I nodded. “I think so. I mean, it’s not like we owe anyone an explanation, but… I also don’t want to hide something that makes me this happy. You guys—” I laughed a little, nerves bubbling up. “You’re both the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And it feels like we’re pretending when we’re out there.”

George pressed a kiss to my temple. “I feel the same,” he said, voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about it too. But I didn’t want to pressure either of you. Especially you, Alex.”

Alex looked between us, eyes a little wide, a little watery. “I—yeah. I think I’ve always been scared, honestly. Of how people would see me. Us. But then I watch you two with me—how kind you are, how normal this feels—and I stop being afraid for a while.”

I leaned over and took his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You don’t have to be scared,” I whispered. “You never have to be scared with us.”

George nodded. “We’re in this together. Fully. If people talk, they talk. But we know the truth. We love each other. That’s all that matters.”

Alex’s shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Okay,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Then let’s do it. Let’s show them what love looks like.”

I laughed, heart full to the brim. “God, they’re going to lose their minds.”

“Oh, they are,” George smirked. “But we’ve already won.”

Alex leaned forward and kissed my cheek, then George’s. “So… who’s writing the caption?”

—

alex_albon

liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63, lando & 9,005,004 others.

alex_albon : group project but i actually want to do the work. love you both ❤️

tagged : yn_norris and georgerussell63

—

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yn_norris : you’re the only group member i trust with the google doc. love you more than life.

liked by alex_albon and georgerussell63

↳ georgerussell63 : what about me??

↳ yn_norris : you’re more of an excel spreadsheet guy

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↳ username00 : omg i love them so much. they are such fucking nerds. SEDATE ME.

liked by yn_norris

charles_leclerc : FUCKING FINALLY. im definitely not crying

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↳ alexandrasaintmleux : he is def crying. congrats guys❤️

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↳ charles_leclerc : not crying. just got a spec of dust in my eye.

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lando : i knew this was coming yet it still just makes my stomach churn

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↳ alex_albon : hiiiii brother in law

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↳ lando : nope. uh uh. absolutely not. having george was already bad enough.

liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon

↳ georgerussell63 : oh you know you love me hush.

carlossainz55 : as a hardcore galex shipper and yn lover— this brings tears to my eyes. YAY

liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon

↳ carlossainz55 : but break her heart and i break you both in half

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↳ username1 : carlos does not play about the norris’. iktr mama

liked by yn_norris and lando

—

It was a perfect morning. Alex was still, arm lazily draped across my waist. George was scrolling through his phone with that little sleepy smile he always got when reading sweet comments, and I was somewhere in the middle of the world—blissfully cocooned in sheets, coffee on the bedside table, surrounded by the two loves of my life. And then the knocking started. Knocking that quickly escalated into pounding. And yelling.

“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”

I blinked. “Is that…?”

Alex groaned and yanked the blanket over his face. “God, please let it be fire alarm drills and not Lando Norris with a knife.”

George sighed. “It is definitely Lando.” 

George got up reluctantly, muttering something about regretting knowing Lando. He barely had time to unlock the door before it slammed open and my brother stormed in. Behind him? Charles, Carlos, Pierre, and Esteban—each looking like this was a full-on intervention.

Lando immediately shouted, “YOU.”

He pointed at Alex like he was about to be tried in court.

“You hard-launched. You emotionally traumatized Twitter and ME. And you didn’t even warn anyone?!”

Alex, peeking out from under the covers, managed a sheepish, “Surprise?”

Charles flopped into the armchair like he’d just run a race. “I knew it. I’ve been saying it for MONTHS. The hand-holding. The months of soft launching and I was laughed at.”

Carlos was pacing. I swear to God, pacing.

“Do you know how many Notes app entries I have? I had a theory chart. A timeline. Receipts. I was INVESTED.”

“Wait,” I sat up. “You had a timeline?”

Carlos showed me. It was color-coded. I honestly didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed. Pierre, casually raiding our minibar, popped open a tiny bottle of champagne like this was some kind of victory. “About time, poly trio. Santé.”

Lando whirled on me.

“And YOU! My SISTER. You didn’t think to tell me that you were out here in love with two drivers? Under my nose?!”

I shrugged, attempting innocence. “You’re dramatic. You’d have live-tweeted it.”

“I WOULDN’T HAVE—” he paused. “Okay, fair.”

Charles, still draped across the chair, nodded. “He does have a very specific meltdown tone.”

George returned to the bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, watching the chaos with mild amusement. “You guys act like we planned this.”

Esteban handed George a croissant. “Didn’t you though? With, like… all the longing stares and Alex sleeping over constantly?”

Alex sat up, rubbing his face. “For the record, I didn’t sleep over constantly.”

Lando shook his head, “Bro. You were wearing George’s shirt at breakfast in Barcelona.”

And then Carlos chimed in, “And YN’s fuzzy socks. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Pierre returned with snacks. “So… are we getting a couple name now? Throuple? Triad? Love triangle but healthy edition?”

George sighed, “Please. No.”

Charles chimed in, “I vote ‘Algeoyn.’”

Alex mutters, “You just made us sound like a dinosaur.”

Then there was a blessed moment of peace… until Lando sat down heavily, frowning at me.

“I’m not mad. I’m not. I just…” He paused dramatically and looked into my eyes. 

“If either of them hurts you, I will crash a scooter into both of them and it will not be an accident.”

“You crashed last week because you were texting.”

“UNRELATED.”

Everyone was laughing at that point—Carlos already halfway through a bag of chips, George was showing Esteban pictures from the Zoo trip, Charles and Lando had snatched Carlos’ phone to examine the timeline he made. Alex leaned into me, whispering, “This is kind of perfect, isn’t it?”

I looked around the room—at my brother trying to act tough, at my boys watching me like I was the only thing in the world, and at our chaotic paddock family crashing our soft Sunday.

I smiled. “Yeah. Kind of is.”

—

[ittybittyfanblog]

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man.  Anyway, enjoy!  This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It's close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega, a little over a mile away from your apartment, for about, three? five minutes—no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets are any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even is this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they're in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what are they here for? The dangers you're more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now— the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All hold significant power, all hold ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp—then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I suppose that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response—but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man—no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors are aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck—this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic—

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly— 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You—”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool—lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him—as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state, at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for—and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is now stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he���s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you—half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

[orphicsun]

1 and 4 with Ellie?

warnings: ellie williams + ex girlfriend reader, sexual content (18+), angst.

-

After the break-up, you and Ellie said you'd keep it on 'good terms.'

Good terms, as in staying away from each other. The good terms you both agreed upon being the both of you wallowing in your own beds, you watching Gilmore Girls and snacking on only containers of caramel dip made for apple slices while Ellie turned to The Notebook and the biggest bag of Jalapeno Cheddar cheetos she could pick up from Family Dollar.

But everyone surrounding you were extremely impatient, and you couldn't hide in your bedroom forever. Eventually, you changed out of your pajamas and let your friends drag you into some party. You didn't know whose, but you didn't care. You were there for the weed and a rebound. Classic break-up staples, of course.

It wasn't really a shocker that you had decided not to wear panties underneath your dress. It was extremely stupid. In the future, you'll rant on a tangent about the reasons you shouldn't have, but for now, all you can think about is being underneath someone. Feeling all over their back as they fuck you with a pretty toy. Keeping your lips shut tight so you don't moan Ellie's name instead of theirs.

But before you can even find a friend-of-a-friend who can deal to you, you're met with the sight of Ellie and some girl with your color hair, only her dress is significantly shorter.

There it is, the 'good terms.' You and Ellie had always been so closely intertwined, alike in the same tendencies and coping mechanisms that of course, if she wallows alongside you, she will also be someone else's for tonight. You can't be mad.

Your friends don't notice when you leave for the nearest bathroom, but someone else does. You open the door to Ellie, a look on her face entirely different than the one you had seen on her face with her lips plastered on a random girl's.

She shuts the door behind her, locking it shut.

You scoff. "Seriously, Ellie?" You say, voice strained with hurt and anger.

She raises her eyebrows in defense. "Seriously, what?" Before you can begin your emotion-induced rant, she cuts you off. "Don't start, okay? I'm sorry. I fucked up, I shouldn't have.."

"Of course you say that," you retort bitterly. "Of course you can apologize when I see it."

"We're broken up, okay? What am I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to come back!"

At that, she just stares at you, something forlorn in her gaze. She thinks deeply about it and takes a step closer.

"Is that what you wanted..?" She cups your face, her touch tentative. When you don't protest, she leans in. "Because I'll come back in a heartbeat. Just say it out loud, and I'll take you back right here."

You can't get the words out fast enough, and she immediately responds with a desperate kiss, her lips moving against yours with need. For a moment, it's perfect. Her taste is exactly how you had left it, the way she grasps your face like she had done in the past countless times, and her body meeting yours feels like coming back home after a trip that lasted far too long.

When you moan into the kiss, she breaks it to lavish attention all over the neck she remembers as sensitive. Her tongue is wet as it swirls against the delicate skin, making you gasp and lean further into her. It's not enough, though. You take her hand, tugging at it with an obvious request.

"Such a needy girl," she laughs, but Ellie doesn't hesitate, her hand moving up your dress. When she meets your bare, wet pussy, she pauses. Her eyes slightly widen out of shock.

"No underwear? Did you plan this?" She mumbles into your ear playfully, pulling back in hopes of seeing your flustered expression. Instead, she sees something more like guilt. "Babe..?"

"I came here planning on.. sleeping with someone else," you confess quietly, your heart sinking as Ellie's touch quickly leaves your body.

Now, she is the one to scoff, giving you a look of incredulity. "Really?"

"I'm s-"

"Don't fucking start," she cuts you off. You stay silent now. "You were all pissy at me for even kissing someone else, but you came to this party so sure you were gonna fuck someone else that you didn't bother wearing panties?"

You're quiet. It's telling.

"Yeah? That's what I thought."

Ellie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and you hear the slam of the door closing as fast as you register she had opened it. You're back to walling now, only this time, with a twinge of guilt you can't rid yourself of.

taglist: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @sawaagyapong, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @human-cacti, @tphmnv, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs, @vixxxen, @aceywaycy, @abbysbutch, @evoscancelled, @x0x0xkimara, @aviixol, @mysexy-anxiety, @rockstargfsblog, @maple-anon want to be tagged? click here!

[hearts4pbaz]

I Need Your Help (It's Stuck)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words 3.4K

Warnings: very mild sexual content

Synopsis: A grocery trip. A sudden text. A very unexpected emergency. Between mortifying moments and tender confessions, Paige and Azzi stumble their way toward something more—one tampon crisis at a time.

Notes: i didnt know about this idea at first but i think it turn out ok. lmk if you like it <3

“Yo! Paige! Earth to Paige!”

Paige blinked, the fluorescent supermarket lights momentarily blinding her as Ice shook a bag of Hot Cheetos in front of her face. The fiery red package waving in front of her and the sound of KK’s laughter echoing through the store snapped her out of her haze. Paige, surrounded by the brightly coloured packages of the snack aisle and the overall general bustle of a grocery store on a Saturday afternoon was starting to make her quite overstimulated. And Paige was beginning to regret ever agreeing to drive KK and Ice to the store to get ingredients to make some chamoy, hot pickle, monstrosity they insisted would be good.

“Let me guess,” KK said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity, “you’re thinking about your girlfriend again?”

Paige let out a dramatic sigh, a performance honed over years of enduring her teammates’ relentless teasing. She snatched a bag of Cheetos out of Ice’s hands, and tossed it into the cart with more force than necessary. “She’s not my girlfriend and I’m not always thinking about her,” she protested, though even to her own ears, it sounded less like a protest and more like a flimsy excuse.

“Yes, you are,” Ice countered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “You just stared at a pack of Doritos for a full minute, Paige. A full minute of profound contemplation over nacho cheese flavored chips. That’s peak ‘thinking about Azzi behavior.”

Paige rolled her eyes, a move she’d perfected right alongside her dramatic sighs. “It’s called zoning out. You guys should try it sometime instead of roasting me 24/7.”

KK wiggled her eyebrows, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We’d stop roasting you if you’d just tell Azzi how you feel. Or when you manage to not melt into a puddle of goo every time she touches you.”

Paige opened her mouth, a sharp retort already forming on her tongue – something about how KK’s fashion choices were a bigger crime than her admittedly massive crush on Azzi – but her phone buzzed, cutting her off.

She glanced down, and her breath hitched. It was Azzi.

Az 💗: Can you come over right now? I really need help.

Paige’s heart plummeted, a lead weight in her chest. The easygoing atmosphere of the supermarket vanished, replaced by a sudden, cold dread. “Something’s wrong,” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper, already abandoning the half-filled cart as if it were a burning effigy of her carefree morning. “It’s Azzi. I gotta go.”

Ice, usually quick with a joke, sobered instantly. “Everything okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing with genuine concern.

“I don’t know. She just said she needs help. We’re going.” Paige was already halfway down the aisle, her mind racing through every terrible scenario she could conjure. Has she fallen? Was she sick? Had she accidentally set her kitchen on fire trying to make toast again?

“But my pickles!” KK cries in protest.

“I don’t want to hear it Kamorea, we’ll get them another time, right now we’re leaving.”

Paige was already out the door, swinging open the door of her car, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

—

Paige’s heart was still pounding a frantic drum solo against her chest as she fumbled with Azzi’s apartment door. Whipping the door open, the familiar scent of Azzi’s vanilla candles and something vaguely citrusy filled her senses. She could hear Azzi’s voice, a muffled, distressed sound, coming from the back of the apartment.

“In here!” Azzi called out, her voice thin and shaky.

Paige followed the sound, her apprehension growing with every step, until she stopped short at the bathroom doorway. The scene before her was… not what she expected. Azzi wasn’t sprawled on the floor, nor was the bathroom covered in blood like Paige had worried. Instead, Azzi was standing in the middle of the bathroom, her cheeks flushed a bright red, her usual calm demeanor replaced by an expression of palpable distress. Her hands were wringing together, and her eyes, usually so soft and steady, darted around the room like trapped birds.

“Paige,” Azzi said, her voice a small, almost childlike whisper, a stark contrast to the powerhouse she was on the court. “I need your help.”

Paige’s initial surge of fear began to morph into something else – a deep, almost overwhelming concern. “Right. That’s why I’m here, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Sick? Dying? Azzi, you’re scaring me, what is it?” She took a step closer, her hand instinctively reaching out, wanting to offer the younger girl comfort.

Azzi took a deep, shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the tiled floor. Then, she mumbled, almost inaudibly as one word, “Mytamponisstuck.”

Paige blinked. Once. Twice. The words hung in the air, surreal and utterly unexpected. Her mind, still reeling from the frantic dash to Azzi’s apartment, struggled to process the information. “What?” she finally managed to articulate, the single syllable a mixture of disbelief and utter confusion.

Azzi bit her lip, looking utterly sheepish, her flush deepening to a fiery crimson. “My tampon. It’s stuck. I think I put it in wrong or too high or – whatever, I just… I can’t get it out. I’ve been trying for like thirty minutes, and now I’m panicking. Please, Paige, please help.” Her eyes, when they finally met Paige’s, were wide and pleading, edged with a raw vulnerability that twisted Paige’s gut.

There was a long, heavy silence. The hum of the bathroom fan seemed to amplify the quiet, making it almost deafening. Paige stared at Azzi. Her Azzi, standing there, mortified, asking her to… do what?

Then, a small, nervous laugh escaped Paige’s lips. It was shaky, on the verge of hysteria, and entirely inappropriate for the gravity of the situation. “Az, I love you,” she began, her voice a little choked, “but—no. I’m not reaching up your—no.” She shook her head vehemently, the absurdity of the request causing pink to bloom on the back of Paige’s neck and the tips of her ears.

Azzi, clearly at the end of her rope, seemed to deflate. She sank onto the edge of the tub, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled slightly. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t actually scared, Paige,” she muffled into her palms. “I really tried. And I don’t really want to go to urgent care and explain this to a random nurse. God” Azzi says letting out a noise so similar to a sob Paige thinks her heart nearly shatters into a million pieces.

Azzi rarely admitted to being scared about anything, and the genuine tremor in her voice was enough to cut through Paige’s initial shock and embarrassment. “Can’t you, like, squat and try again?” Paige offered, grasping at straws. “Doesn’t that help?”

“I have, Paige,” Azzi said, her voice muffled, but with a new edge of exasperation. “Repeatedly. Nothing’s working.”

Paige paced a small circle in the doorway, her mind scrambling for alternatives. “Do you want me to look it up? Maybe there’s a trick? Like, a secret handshake for stuck tampons?”

Azzi lifted her head, her face still blotchy but with a glimmer of her usual wit returning. “Google says to ask a friend. So. Hi.” She gave Paige a pointed look.

Paige leaned against the doorway, trying to appear cool, calm, and utterly normal – which was, of course, an impossible feat when the literal love of your life was asking you to perform gynecological rescue operations on her. Her brain felt like it was short-circuiting, sending sparks of panic and a rather unwelcome surge of attraction through her veins.

“I mean, Az,” Paige said, attempting to inject some levity, or semblance of normalcy into the situation. “I’ve seen you shoot threes being triple teamed, draining game winning shots like it’s nobody’s business, but this is what takes you out?”

Azzi groaned, burying her face in her hands again. “Please don’t make jokes, Paige. I’m so uncomfortable. And I’m about to start crying.”

And that did it. The sight of Azzi, her usually composed and fierce best friend, on the verge of tears, erased all of Paige’s reservations. The embarrassment was still there, a simmering cauldron in her stomach, but it was overshadowed by a fierce protectiveness and an undeniable urge to alleviate Azzi’s distress. Paige sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. She pushed herself off the doorway and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She steps forward wrapping her arms around Azzi, despite her heart doing a frantic jig in her chest.

“Okay. Okay. I got you,” Paige said, her voice softer than she intended, laced with a tenderness she usually reserved for internal monologues about Azzi. “But I swear to God, if I die of secondhand embarrassment, bury me with my iPad. And maybe a plaque that says, ‘Died bravely, assisting a friend with… a very personal crisis.’”

Azzi let out a watery snort, a small, genuine laugh bubbling up through her distress. “Deal.”

Paige, still reeling from Azzi’s utterly unexpected request, found herself scrambling. Her mind, usually so quick on the court, felt like a tangled mess of yarn. “Okay, okay, just… give me a second.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers fumbling over the screen, and blurted, “I’m just going to… google directions. To… to help.”

Azzi, still hunched on the tub’s edge, looked up, a bewildered frown creasing her brow. “Directions? Paige, I’m right here. And I don’t think there’s a Google Maps for… this.”

Paige winced. “No, no, not directions here. Directions for… for it. For getting it out. You know, best practices. A user manual.” She typed furiously, her thumb swiping wildly over the keyboard. Her search history was about to get really weird. “‘Tampon stuck help’… ‘how to remove stuck tampon yourself’… ‘is a stuck tampon an emergency?’” Each search felt like a betrayal of everything she thought she knew about being a cool, collected best friend.

Azzi, despite her distress, let out a shaky laugh. “Oh, my God, Paige. You’re really doing this.”

“Well, yeah! You asked me to!” Paige declared, though her voice cracked slightly. Her eyes, glued to the glowing screen, darted across articles with increasingly alarming titles. “Okay, so, ‘Remain calm.’” Check. Paige thought internally “‘Relax your muscles.’” Easier said than done. 

She scrolled down, muttering to herself. “ ‘Squatting or sitting on the toilet can help.’ You tried that. ‘Bearing down as if having a bowel movement…’” Paige’s eyes widened, and she looked up at Azzi, who was now staring at her with an expression that was a mix of mortification and sheer amusement. “Okay, Az, the internet says… you might need to… push.”

Azzi’s face, already flushed, turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Paige! No! I am not doing that with you in here!”

Paige’s own cheeks burned. “It’s what it says! I’m just reading the instructions! This is a medical consultation, Azzi, we need to be professional!” She gestured wildly with her phone, nearly dropping it into the toilet. “It’s like when Coach tells us to get low on defense, you just… do it! Except… lower. And more… internal.” She winced again. “This is going great.”

“Paige, you’re making it worse!” Azzi groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“I’m trying to lighten the mood!” Paige squawked, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her. She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “You know what, here,” Paige says before she moves over to the shower stepping inside and drawing the curtain closed. “Is this better?” Her voice came out slightly more muffed than before.

“Oh my God. Yeah you stay there,” Azzi quips back shaking her head. And she is suddenly very grateful to have someone like Paige in her life.

 “Okay, next step: ‘If you can feel the string but can’t grasp it…’ Can you feel the string, Az? Give me a yes or no. Don’t make me ask follow-up questions about the string.”

Azzi peeked through her fingers. “I… I think so. It’s just so short.”

“Aha!” Paige exclaimed, pointing at the screen triumphantly, as if she had just discovered the cure for all of humanity’s ills. “It says here, ‘You can try to use clean fingers to gently feel around for the string.’ So, Az, you just gotta… get in there. Be brave. Like you’re going for a loose ball, but… you know. Less sweat, more… precision.”

Azzi slowly started to crack a smile at that. A genuine, full-blown smile, despite the dire circumstances. “Paige, you’re impossible.”

Paige felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. “I’m trying to help! The internet is my witness! Okay, now it says, ‘If you still can’t remove it after several attempts, seek medical attention.’ So, this is our last stand, Azzi. You and me. Against the cotton monster. Don’t make me drive you to urgent care and explain this to a receptionist.” She shuddered at the thought. “My reputation would never recover.”

—

Ten minutes later, Paige was sweating like she’d just played a double overtime game in a sauna, and she practically was considering she was still hidden behind the shower curtain. She hadn’t actually touched anything – hadn’t even offered – her strict interpretation of “help” involved a firm boundary on physical contact – but she had coached Azzi through what felt like an Olympic-level event. 

“Okay, try again, one more time,” Paige instructed, her eyes squeezed shut, her voice hoarse from the effort of maintaining a calm, authoritative tone. “Gentle. Breathe. You got this, Az.” She pictured Azzi, in her mind’s eye, a warrior facing down a cotton beast, and tried to project confidence.

And then—

“Got it!” Azzi shouted triumphantly, her voice echoing in the small bathroom. Paige flinched, then tore open the shower curtain to see Azzi holding up the tiny piece of cotton between two fingers, like a prized trophy, or perhaps a captured villain. Her face was flushed, but this time with relief and exhilaration, not embarrassment.

Paige collapsed onto the shower floor, back pressing against the cool tile of the shower, letting out a long, shuddering breath. She sat there, staring at the ceiling, the stark white giving way to swirling patterns that looked suspiciously like tiny, cotton-filled horrors. “I’m never going to emotionally recover from this,” she declared. “My therapist is going to have a field day.”

Azzi laughed, a full, joyous sound that filled the bathroom, washing away the last vestiges of stress from her face. She tossed the offending object like a war hero burying her enemy, a silent, triumphant farewell. Then, with a playful nudge, she sat down next to Paige in the shower, their shoulders brushing.

“Now get out of here. I deserve a long shower after that shitshow,” Azzi says, shoving Paige out of the shower.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go,” Paige says walking out of the bathroom, hands in the air in fake surrender.

—

The soft click of the bathroom door finally opening pulled Paige from her semi-catatonic state. She’d somehow made her way from the tiled floor to Azzi’s bed, collapsing face-down onto the familiar duvet, the comforting scent of Azzi’s laundry detergent doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. The last half hour had been… a lot. The adrenaline rush, the mortification, the sheer absurdity of the situation – it had all hit her like a rogue basketball to the face the moment Azzi had triumphantly proclaimed victory over the cotton demon.

Now, as the shower sounds ceased and the bathroom door creaked open, the full weight of what had transpired truly began to settle. Paige kept her face pressed into the pillow, a pathetic attempt to hide from the reality of her own existence, which at this moment felt entirely composed of secondhand embarrassment and a terrifyingly exposed heart.

“Hey,” Azzi’s voice, now light and airy, floated across the room. “Mind if I get dressed?”

Paige offered a muffled grunt in response, which she hoped translated to a casual, “Sure, whatever, I’m basically furniture now.” She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, hoping Azzi would take the hint and simply disappear into her closet.

But Azzi didn't disappear. Paige could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle shifting of weight. The air in the room, already thick with the aftermath of their shared ordeal, suddenly seemed to crackle with something new, something charged.

Curiosity, that pesky little bug, got the better of her. Paige slowly, agonizingly, lifted her head, just enough to peek through one eye.

Azzi was standing by her dresser, bathed in the soft afternoon light filtering through the window. She was wrapped in a plush, white towel, fresh from the shower, a halo of damp hair framing her face. Water droplets still clung to her skin, glistening like tiny diamonds. She reached for a drawer, her movements fluid and unhurried, utterly oblivious to the seismic activity happening in Paige’s chest.

Paige’s breath hitched. Every last bit of self-control, every carefully constructed wall she had built around her feelings for Azzi, evaporated into the humid air. Seeing Azzi like this – so vulnerable, so completely at ease in her presence, after everything they’d just been through – it was too much. The mental image of Azzi, distressed and pleading in the bathroom, merged with this vision of relaxed, post-shower beauty, caused Paige’s brain to short-circuit.

Azzi pulled out a fresh pair of sweatpants, pulling them on, back still to Paige. She then turned, her towel still wrapped around her upper half, and begins to pull a T-shirt over her head. For a fleeting second, Azzi was silhouetted against the window, her body a perfect line, before the fabric dropped into place.

Paige found herself sitting up, then standing, her gaze still fixed on Azzi. Her mouth felt dry, her heart racing a mile a minute. 

“God,” Paige says, voice slightly raw. The word makes Azzi turn around and as soon as she is fully facing the older girl, Paige kisses her. Not a tentative, nervous kiss, but a kiss that somehow encapsulates everything Paige has been feeling since 2017. And Azzi kisses her back, hands coming up to cup either side of Paige’s jaw. Azzi then starts to walk them backward towards the bed, mouth still on Paige’s. 

When Paige finally reaches the bed falling back letting Azzi straddle her hips on top of her she lets out a noise that’s something between a gasp and cry because she can’t believe this is actually happening. That the girl she has craved since she was 15 is finally hers. Paige thinks her heart might combust on the spot. 

Azzi leans down peppering kisses along Paige’s jawline and neck, Paige then reaches up hands fiddling with Azzi’s waistband. Azzi then lifts her head up, her hands simultaneously coming to meet Paige's hands, “P, you know I can’t right now, but I can still get you right,” Azzi says before dipping her head back down to focus on Paige’s neck. Azzi’s comment then reminds Paige of a very critical fact, a fact that makes her curse God for giving her a uterus. 

“Fuck, Az, baby, I think you’re forgetting that we’ve been synced since we were like 16.”

Azzi sits up throwing her head back towards the ceiling, “Damnit.”

“Which reminds me…” Paige says trailing off, “I need to change my tampon and I think it’s stuck,” she continues eyes widening in fake horror, as a smirk creeps onto her face.

“Fuck you,” Azzi protests, swatting at Paige’s side.

“Oh, you’ll be able to just not this week,” Paige quips. “Come here, it’s been a long day, I need a nap,” she continues tugging Azzi down to rest her head on Paige’s chest.

“You know I love you right?” Azzi says before snuggling into Paige’s side and closing her eyes

“Yeah, I think I do,” Paige replies, tucking a stray hair behind Azzi’s ear.

Just as Paige is about to join Azzi in their nap, she hears the faint buzzing of her phone on the nightstand. She reaches over for it, careful not to disturb Azzi, checking to see what message awaited her. A text from KK the read:

KK: is everything okay with azzi? just wanted to check in

Paige types out a reply sending it before setting her phone back down and closing her eyes.

Paige: yeah, we’ll be okay

[fromdove]

KISS LESSONS ! d.grayson x reader

"There’s a version of me that only exists when I’m with you. And I think . . . I think he’s who I was always meant to be.”

— sleepover with mr (teen) richard grayson !! gn!bsf reader (but written with a fem reader in mind), dick trying (& failing) to be nonchalant, truth or dare & he dares you to kiss him (for educational purposes...)

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

You were both halfway through a bag of popcorn when Dick challenged you to call the pizza place and do your best Batman impression.

“I am vengeance,” you rasped into the phone, making your voice deep and gravelly. “I’d like… a large pepperoni. Extra cheese. No mushrooms. I hate mushrooms.”

The guy on the other end of the line paused, clearly confused. “Okay?”

You lost it, collapsing into Dick’s side, gasping for air.

“My god,” he wheezed, “Bruce would revoke your honorary Robin privileges for that.”

“I think I nailed it,” you said, grinning up at him. “Tell me I didn’t.”

He shot you a crooked smile. “You totally didn’t.”

You nudged him with your foot. “Alright, Mr. Wayne Jr., truth or dare?”

Dick flipped onto his stomach, grinning like a cat who’d just stolen the cream. “Dare.”

You let the silence drag on for a moment, savoring the anticipation. “…I dare you to show me your Batman voice.”

His grin falters. “I can’t. I’ve sworn a sacred oath.”

“Lame.”

“Alright, fine—” He cleared his throat and, without missing a beat, dropped his voice low and growly, furrowing his brow dramatically. “‘Justice is blind!’”

You burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, whatever that means.”

Dick smirked. “Fake fan. He’s literally said that before.” He tossed your challenge back at you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Coward.”

You snorted and threw a Cheeto at him. “Oh, yeah? Fine then, dare.”

His grin returned, wicked and sharp. “Great.”

For a moment, he twirled a thread from your bedsheet around his finger, and you noticed how his movements were oddly deliberate, almost too calm. There was something a little too suspicious about the way he was watching you. Then, his tone softened, becoming almost casual. “I dare you to kiss me.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“Excuse me?”

He met your gaze and shrugged like it was no big deal. “What? We’re playing the game.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you serious?”

His voice stayed nonchalant, but you caught the faintest hint of red creeping into his ears. “Unless you’re scared.”

You snorted, trying to mask the butterflies that suddenly took flight in your stomach. “Of you? Please.”

Then his tone shifts — a little softer, a little less teasing. “You’ve kissed people before, right?”

You glance at him. “Yeah.”

He nods, like that confirms something. “I haven’t.”

“Not properly,” he adds, casually. “There was a mission once, but it was more like… spy stuff. Doesn’t count.

You stared at him. “Wait . . . you’ve never actually kissed someone?”

He shrugged casually, like it was no big deal. “What? You said you’ve kissed people. I barely have. I figure I should… y’know… learn from the best.”

Suddenly, he wasn’t just the dorky kid in a cape. He was... Dick Grayson, the guy who made your heart do odd flips just by being himself.

You shifted, sitting in front of him with your legs crossed, your arms resting casually on your knees. “You want me to teach you how to kiss?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

You smirked. “Don’t take that tone with me, Boy Wonder. You’re the one who asked me to kiss you. But fine, I accept.”

His eyes lit up—bright, eager, giddy, and a little nervous. He was a goddamn mess, a cute one, but still a mess. A mess you were willing to deal with.

You moved closer, just enough that your knees brushed against his. “Lesson one,” you murmured, voice low. “Stop overthinking.”

“That’s—” He swallowed. “Very difficult.”

“You’ll manage.”

You kissed him.

It was sweet. Hesitant. His lips were soft, unsure, like he’d never quite known how to navigate this. But he leaned in like you were something he’d been searching for and didn’t realize he could catch until now.

When you pulled back, he just stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless. “I—” He blinked a couple of times. “Okay. That was. Huh.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I think I blacked out for a second,” he muttered, voice dazed.

You snorted. “So much for the Boy Wonder.”

“I’m regaining composure!” he insisted, sitting up straighter and giving you a dramatic wave of his hand. “Give me five seconds and a glass of water.”

You kissed him again. Just to shut him up.

And this time, he kissed you back. Steady. Warm. Clumsy in the most endearing way.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Okay,” he said, blinking slowly like he was still trying to come back to his senses. “I’m either really good at this, or you’re really nice.”

You smiled. “Maybe both.”

He grinned back at you—goofy, warm, and flushed.

You leaned back, almost teasing. “So?”

His gaze softened, and he scratched the back of his neck, clearly caught between trying to sound casual and letting the nervous excitement slip through. “So… I’m gonna need more practice rounds.”

You giggled. “Greedy.”

“Thorough,” he corrected, as if that made all the difference. “You wouldn’t want your best friend running around Gotham being a bad kisser, right?”

“Oh, the horror.”

“Exactly,” he said, leaning in just a little closer. “Think of the city.”

you smile.

He just melts.

[holyblonded]

now a culer | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: school is still… rough, so alexia finds a solution

warnings: school fight

notes: i am genuinely loving writing for azulita

Don’t get it wrong. you didn’t hate Barcelona. It was a beautiful city, full of life, history, and football. The architecture was stunning, the beaches were nice, and the food, objectively, was good. But nothing— nothing could ever compare to LA.

LA had everything for you. Your friends, your school, your culture. You knew every street, every corner store, every mural that decorated the sides of buildings. The people in your neighborhood weren’t just strangers, you knew them, and they knew you. You had history with them. Mr. García, who owned the corner store, always had something for you when you stopped by, chips, a drink, a free snack, as long as you swept up the front of his store. Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress down the block, had been patching up your old clothes for years because you couldn’t afford new ones. The local grocery store let you stock the juice shelves in exchange for a small bag of groceries. The paletero man that always made sure your favorite paleta was in stock People took care of each other in your LA. It was unspoken, but it was understood.

Barcelona had its own community, its own culture, its own way of life. But it wasn’t yours. It didn’t have your people. It didn’t have the same music blasting from car windows, the smell of carne asada grilling on the sidewalk, or the summer block parties that lasted until sunrise where you danced bachata til your feet hurt. It didn’t have the sound of Spanish and English blending together in a way that felt like home. It wasn’t the streets you grew up on. It wasn’t the familiar faces who had watched you grow. It wasn’t the city that had shaped you. It wasn’t home.

And the culture shock? It hit hard.

The Spanish spoken in Barcelona wasn’t even the same as what you grew up with. You could understand it, sure, but sometimes, the slang threw you off completely. The food was different, too—no more corner taco stands or elote vendors pushing carts down the street. No more bodegas where you could grab a pack of Hot Cheetos and a can of Arizona for a dollar fifty. And the people? They didn’t move like LA people did. Back home, you walked with a purpose, always aware of your surroundings. Here, people strolled leisurely down the sidewalk like they had nowhere to be, like they had never had to be in a rush a day in their lives.

But the biggest difference? The way you carried yourself. In LA, you had to be on guard. Always. You had to be sharp, ready, because life had never given you the luxury of relaxing. You were always prepared for something to go wrong, because it always did. Here, though, everything was so… safe. People left their doors unlocked. Kids walked home alone at night. You saw people with their phones out, not even looking over their shoulders. It made you uneasy. You didn’t know how to exist in a place where you weren’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Olga just could not get it. She didn’t get why you always seemed tense, why you jumped at sudden noises, why you always had to sit facing the door whenever you went out to eat. She didn’t get why you never let yourself fully relax, why you kept waiting for something to go wrong. She didn’t understand because she had never had to live like that.

And then there was the biggest adjustment of all: actually living with Olga.

For years, she had been a figure in your life. A presence. Someone who popped in and out, who you called and texted, who sent you money when you needed it. But you had never lived together. You had never had to share space. And now, suddenly, she was supposed to be responsible for you.

And it was a disaster.

You weren’t used to having anyone tell you what to do. You had been living on your own for months, doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. So, naturally, you didn’t see a problem with leaving your stuff wherever you felt like it.

Your shoes? Kicked off in the middle of the living room. Your jacket? Draped over the back of a chair. Your gym bag? Somewhere. (You’d find it eventually.) Olga, however, was losing her mind.

“Do you not see the mess you’re making?” she snapped one afternoon, hands on her hips as she glared at the chaos you had left in the living room.

You barely spared her a glance from where you were sprawled on the couch. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“Later when? Next week?”

You shrugged.

And the music. You had always blasted your music at ungodly hours, back when there was no one around to complain. So, why would you stop now? Except now, you had Olga banging on your door at two in the morning, looking absolutely murderous.

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed, shoving open the door. “Turn that down!”

“It’s not that loud.”

“IT IS!”

And then, of course, there was the hoodie situation.

Olga owned nice hoodies. You had noticed this immediately. You had also decided, just as quickly, that they were now yours. You never asked— you just took them. Which made Olga’s blood boil.

“Where is my hoodie?” she demanded one day, hands on her hips.

You pulled the sleeves of said hoodie over your hands, looking at her blankly. “What hoodie?”

“That hoodie! The one you’re wearing!”

“Oh. This? Thought it was mine.”

“It’s not!”

Alexia just watched it all unfold with an amused smile. She had no intention of stepping in. In fact, it would only make it worse. The best thing for her to do was to let the two of you argue then drop you off at school.

You flex and extend your fingers as you stare down at your raw knuckles, the skin cracked, bruised, and stinging with every slight movement. Your hands tremble slightly, and not just from the pain. You sit on a bench outside the principal’s office, your legs bouncing restlessly, teeth clenched, chest tight. You’re trying to breathe, trying to calm down, but the fire inside you is still burning too hot. Why do you keep losing it like this?

You wrack your brain for answers, frustrated and ashamed. You didn’t come here to be the angry kid. You didn’t come to Spain to fight. But everything felt wrong. Your body was tense from the moment you stepped off the plane a few weeks ago. Everything’s been off.

You hate how different the Spanish sounds. Everyone speaks fast, sharp, clipped, nothing like the Spanish you grew up with back home. Your classmates either don’t understand you or mock your accent. Teachers correct you like you’re stupid. You’re constantly trying to translate everything in your head, to blend in, but all it does is make you feel more alone. You squeeze your hands into fists again. The pain grounds you, just for a second.

The door creaks open, and your head jerks up. Olga steps out of the office, her jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Alexia follows behind, calm as ever, but her gaze flicks to you quickly, assessing. She says nothing.

Olga doesn’t waste time. “In the car,” she snaps, voice low and furious. “Now.”

You don’t argue. You stand silently, walking past them both with your head down. It’s déjà vu, the second time in a month. You can feel her eyes on the back of your head, and you’re already bracing for it.

And sure enough, as soon as the car doors close, Olga turns on you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she explodes. “Do you even care about staying here? Do you want to get kicked out of every school in the city?”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, refusing to say anything.

“I’m trying, okay?” she continues. “I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to give you a good life here. But you’re making it impossible!”

“He was talking about you,” you mutter suddenly.

“What?”

You finally turn, meeting her eyes. “The guy I hit. He was saying disgusting stuff about you. I told him to stop. He didn’t. So I made him.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Nobody disrespects my sister,” you say simply.

Olga exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as her anger starts to crumble.

“I… okay,” she says softly. “Okay. But Azul, this can’t keep happening.”

You don’t respond. The car ride home is quiet, tense.

Once you pull into the driveway, Olga tries again. “Can we talk more about—”

“I’m miserable here,” you cut in, still staring ahead. “I can’t keep up with the Spanish, people make fun of how I talk, I have no friends, and there’s no girls’ football team for me to play with. I feel stupid all the time. I feel… wrong.”

It hangs heavy between you. You blink back the sting in your eyes, suddenly too tired to fight.

Alexia, who’s been watching from the driver seat, finally speaks up. “I’m taking her to the pitch.”

Olga hesitates but nods. “Go. Just— be careful.”

The second Alexia nods toward the passenger seat, you perk up.

The Barcelona training grounds are quiet, bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. You’re in your element the second you step onto the pitch, your body relaxing as you lace up your cleats. You and Alexia stretch in silence before falling into a one-on-one. The rhythm is familiar, the tension in your chest starts to melt away.

She’s good, obviously, but you manage to dust her with a ridiculous feint and spin move that has her stumbling, arms flailing as you laugh and tuck the ball into the net.

“Not bad,” she says, grinning as she shakes her head.

“You’re getting old,” you tease, jogging backward toward the penalty spot.

“Oh, please.”

Now she’s in goal, sleeves rolled up, expression focused as you line up your shots. One by one, you fire them in. She saves a few, but not all. The pop of the ball hitting the back of the net fills the air.

As you take a breather between kicks, you speak again. “I feel out of place at school. Like I don’t belong. It’s not just the language… it’s everything. I don’t talk like them. I don’t think like them. And there’s no football team. No girls to play with. I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Alexia watches you carefully from the goal, nodding. “That’s not fair. School’s supposed to be a place that supports you.”

“It’s not,” you mutter. “I don’t even want to go anymore.”

Alexia stands up, brushing her hands on her thighs. “Don’t worry about that part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just keep playing. We’ll figure the rest out.”

You take your last penalty kick, driving it hard into the top corner. The sound is clean, crisp, perfect. You grin.

Unbeknownst to you, two figures sit higher in the bleachers: Joan Laporta and Pere Romeu. They’ve been watching in silence, tracking your every move.

“She’s raw,” Pere murmurs. “Rough around the edges. But you can’t teach instinct like that.”

“She plays like she’s been fighting her whole life,” Laporta adds. “Because she has.”

“Alexia says she’s a winger, no?” Pere asks.

“Could be more than that, if someone gives her the right support.”

They keep watching as you and Alexia walk off the pitch together, sweaty and smiling, shoulders bumping. You don’t know it yet, but everything is about to change.

Back in the locker room, you clean up side by side, tying your hair back and trading casual banter. Your body aches, but your mind is calm for the first time in days.

The sound of your alarm blaring through your room was what, unfortunately, ripped you from sleep. You groaned, rolling over and slapping your hand against the snooze button with more force than necessary. Your eyes were crusty, your body stiff, and for a moment, you considered staying in bed and faking a stomachache. But you knew Olga would never fall for it.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on your face, and slowly made your way down the hallway toward the kitchen. Your hoodie was hanging half off your shoulder, socks mismatched, and your curls were a disaster. Typical school morning. You already dreaded the day.

What greeted you in the kitchen, though, made you pause. Alexia was standing by the counter, humming softly to herself as she tossed fruit into a blender. She was dressed, calm, and already looked like she had been awake for hours. There were slices of toast on a plate, eggs still steaming, and fresh juice already poured. You blinked slowly at the surreal domesticity of it all.

“Morning, ’Lexia,” you mumbled, rubbing at your eyes as you crossed the kitchen. “Have you seen my backpack? I swear I left it by the couch.”

Alexia didn’t even turn around at first. You heard the whir of the blender as she held the top down, blending with ease. When it finally stopped, she looked over her shoulder at you and that’s when you saw it. The smirk.

“You don’t need it today, nena,” she said coolly, pouring the smoothie into a cup. “You’re coming with me.”

You squinted at her. “Huh?”

She just handed you the smoothie. “Drink this. Get dressed.”

You stared at her like she had grown two heads. “Wait, what do you mean I don’t need it? I have school.”

“No, you don’t,” she said simply. “Not today.”

“Okay… am I in trouble again?”

She snorted and shook her head. “Just get dressed.”

The cryptic vibes were off the charts, but you went upstairs anyway, tugging on some joggers and a fresh hoodie, brushing your teeth quickly before grabbing your sneakers. When you came back down, Alexia was already at the door, keys in hand, sunglasses on like some undercover spy. The whole thing was sketchy—and a little exciting.

In the car, you peppered her with questions.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s a surprise.”

“Is it good or bad?”

“That depends.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “You sound like Olga.”

“She learned it from me.”

You pouted, leaning your head against the window as you watched the city blur past. The sun was barely up, streets still quiet. Your nerves were growing by the minute.

When the car finally pulled up to the FC Barcelona training facility, your brows furrowed.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, genuinely confused now. “Am I in trouble for playing here the other day?”

Alexia just gave you a tight-lipped smile and stepped out of the car. “Come on.”

You followed her slowly, legs stiff, anxiety kicking up. It was one thing to kick the ball around with Alexia when the place was empty— it was another thing entirely to walk through the main building in broad daylight. Your eyes darted around as you passed by trainers, staff members, and a couple of players you recognized. No one stopped you, though. Everyone just nodded at Alexia and let her through.

Finally, she led you to a quiet room off one of the main hallways. It looked like an office, kind of. You hesitated at the door, but Alexia gently nudged you forward.

Inside sat a man you recognized from TV—Pere Romeu. He stood when you entered, smiling warmly, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

“Buenos días,” he said kindly. “Alexia told me you go by Azulita”

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

He motioned for you to sit. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

You looked from him to Alexia, then back again. “Um… okay?”

He chuckled. “Relax. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite, actually.”

You sat stiffly in the chair, hands fidgeting in your lap. Alexia took the seat beside you, legs crossed casually.

“So,” Pere said, folding his hands. “The other day, Joan Laporta and I were here late, handling some administrative business. On our way out, we noticed someone playing on the pitch. You. With Alexia.”

Your mouth went dry.

“We watched for a while,” he continued. “And what we saw was raw talent. Instinct, drive, creativity, all of it. You play like it’s the one place you feel safe. And when we see a player like that… we pay attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… you were watching?”

He nodded. “Yes. And we’d like to offer you a place here. Not just training— on the senior team.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“We’ll handle all of your schooling through La Masia’s internal academic program. You won’t need to return to your current school unless you want to. You’ll train, you’ll play, and you’ll study here with people who understand what it means to be an athlete. You’ll be surrounded by others like you. And more importantly, you’ll belong.”

You couldn’t speak. Your brain had stopped processing words somewhere around senior team.

“I know it’s a lot,” Pere added. “But we believe in you. And we want to help you grow not just as a player, but as a person. So… what’s your decision?”

He leaned back in his chair, patient, while your heart thundered in your chest. Alexia turned to you with a soft smile.

And all you could do was sit there, wide-eyed, the weight of everything hanging in the air.

[cassiemaebarnes]

The Road Trip

Bucky x reader, forced proximity, one bed trope

Summary: You and Bucky are paired up on a mission...which is a 12 hour drive away.

Word Count: 4161

Your alarm pulled you from your sleep and you groaned as you reached over to turn it off. You hated waking up early.

You had just joined the Avengers a few weeks ago, and they needed two people to go on an undercover mission, so you were the obvious choice, as no one knew who you were yet. And you were paired with Bucky Barnes.

In the few weeks you have known Bucky, he’s barely said a word to you. You’re a very outgoing person, so you’ve tried to strike up conversations, but he just doesn’t seem to want to talk to you. And now you were going to be in a car with him for 12 hours. You wanted to just fly there, but they didn’t want to have to deal with a rental car since you had to use different names.

You laid in bed for a little longer, finally pulling yourself out of bed at 6:10. Bucky wanted to leave by 6:30, so he would kill you if you weren’t ready by then.

You already had everything packed except for what you had to use this morning, so it didn’t take you long to get ready. You pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, finished packing up your stuff, pulled your bookbag over your shoulders, grabbed your pillow, and finally picked up your heavy duffel bag. You didn’t know how long you were gonna be there, so you tried to pack as many clothes as you could.

You shuffled down the hallway and into the kitchen at 6:25, and Bucky was cleaning up dishes, obviously having been up for a while.

“Morning,” you grumbled, setting your bags on the ground by the door.

“Morning, I’m surprised you actually rolled out of bed this early.”

“Didn’t really have a choice,” you mumbled.

He just laughed, drying his hands and looking around the kitchen. “Okay, ready to go?”

“I guess,” you responded. “Do we have any good snacks to take?”

“Uhh, I don’t know, check the cabinets.”

You rifled through the cabinets as he went to his room to grab his bags, and you found nothing good. He walked back into the kitchen and you sighed as you turned to face him.

“A tower full of people and there’s no good snacks.” You sighed, running your hands through your hair. “Man, I just wanted cheeto puffs,” you mumbled to yourself.

“Alright, you sure you have everything?”

“Yeah,” you responded.

“Okay then, let’s go.” You put your bookbag back on and slid into your Birkenstock sandals, picking up your pillow. You were about to grab your duffel bag when Bucky stepped in front of you, grabbing your duffel bag with his metal arm and slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You followed him to his truck and walked around to the passenger side as he put his bookbag and both your duffel bags into the backseat. You stuck your bookbag in the backseat before opening the passenger door and hopping up. Bucky got in and set a packet of papers on the middle console.

“What’s that?”

“The directions,” he answered.

Your jaw dropped. “You mean you printed off the directions? You do have a phone, right?”

“Yes,” he said, obviously annoyed, “I’m just used to using a map.”

“I mean, that’s valid, but you’ve got to learn how to use your phone eventually.”

“I know how to use it,” he replied.

“Oh really? Get the directions up on your phone then,” you said, crossing your arms.

He didn’t look at you as he started the truck and put on his seatbelt. “We don’t have time.”

“Hmm, good save,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

He just ignored you, backing the truck out of the garage as you put on your seatbelt.

“Well, I’m gonna try to get some more sleep,” you said, setting your pillow up against the window.

“Okay, I’ll try to drive as rough as I can,” he said, smirking.

You just shot him a dirty look before leaning your seat back a little bit and resting your head on the pillow, drifting into sleep almost immediately.

--

When your eyes fluttered open, the sun was fully out. You yawned as you started to stretch, trying to wake yourself up.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Mmm, what time is it?” you asked.

“9:30.”

“Ugh, you mean we’re not there yet?”

“Not even close,” he said, laughing.

You leaned your seat back up and threw your pillow in the backseat. You stretched again, trying to get rid of the soreness in your neck and back from sleeping in a weird position.

Bucky reached his hand into the backseat and put something in your lap. You looked down and smiled when you realized what it was. A bag of cheeto puffs.

“I stopped and got gas and thought you might want those,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, obviously a little embarrassed.

“Thank you, I’ve been craving these so much,” you said, tearing the bag open.

You slipped out of your Birks and put your bare feet up on the dashboard as you started eating. You figured he would yell at you to put your feet down, but surprisingly he didn’t.

What you didn’t realize was how his gaze lingered just a little too long on your long tan legs stretching across his truck.

You sat in silence as you ate, and as soon as you were done, you crushed the bag and stuffed it in the cupholder. Bucky immediately opened the center console, pulling out a pack of wipes and handing it to you.

“You are not getting cheeto dust all over my truck.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me cheetos,” you said, smirking at him. You pulled a wipe out of the pack and wiped your hands clean. “You would be the type of guy to keep wipes in your truck,” you said laughing.

“Do you not keep wipes in your car?”

“No, I don’t have much of anything in my car honestly.”

“Well don’t worry, I’ll get you some wipes. You’re a messy eater so you’re gonna need them.”

You just slapped him on the arm as he laughed, obviously enjoying making fun of you.

You just sighed and picked up his phone. “Can I play some music?”

“I’m listening to the radio,” he said.

“Of course you are,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Well can I connect my phone and play some music?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m assuming you know how to do that because I don’t.”

You just laughed, pressing the Media button on the screen. “Obviously I do.”

You started playing music and drifted into steady conversation for the next couple of hours. You talked about a little bit of everything, all worries about the ride being awkward fading away.

You didn’t realize how long it had been until you looked at the clock.

“Wow, it’s almost 1 already? We need to stop for lunch,” you said, not realizing how hungry you had gotten.

“Okay, we can get off on the next exit and see what’s there.”

“Or, I can just look up restaurants near me and see what there is,” you said, grinning at him.

“You know, it’s okay to not use your phone for everything,” he said laughing.

You ignored him as you looked up restaurants. “Do we have time to go to a sit-down restaurant or are we just doing fast food?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I’d rather not have you get crumbs all over my truck though.”

“I’m not that messy of an eater,” you said, rolling your eyes. He just laughed.

“Okay, how about Chick-Fil-A? I mean, that’s technically fast food but it sounds so good,” you said.

“Fine with me.”

It only took five minutes to get there and you hopped out of the truck right after he parked, eager to stretch your legs.

He opened the door for you as you walked inside, surprised at how busy it was for being 1:00.

“Man, I have to pee,” you said.

“If you tell me what you want I can order for you.”

“Oh, perfect. I want an 8-count nugget meal, fries, mac and cheese, and a cookies and cream milkshake.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, obviously judging you for getting so much food, but didn’t say anything about it. “Okay.”

You went to the bathroom, and when you came back, Bucky was at the register ordering. You found a table and sat down, pulling out your phone to see a text from Nat:

So how’s sitting in silence going?

You just smiled and texted back:

We’ve actually been talking the whole time surprisingly! Well except for the first 3 hours I was asleep lol

Bucky walked up then, setting the table marker and two drinks down on the table. “I also got you a water since you haven’t drank any today.” That’s when you realized you forgot to bring a water bottle.

“Ughhh I totally forgot my water bottle,” you said, dropping your head in your hands.

“I asked if you had everything,” he said, laughing.

“I know but it was also 6 am, my brain was not functioning.”

“We can stop at the store when we get there and get a pack of waters, we have to go grocery shopping anyway,” he said.

You were interrupted by the waiter bringing out your food. You instantly grabbed yours off the tray, realizing how hungry you actually were. You grabbed a couple packs of ranch off the tray, realizing you never told him you wanted ranch.

“How’d you know I wanted ranch? Or is this yours?”

“Oh, no I got the Chick-Fil-A sauce. You made chicken tenders for supper the other night and had ranch so I just assumed you might want some.”

You didn’t even remember you made chicken tenders, and you definitely didn’t remember Bucky being there. He might not be talkative but he’s definitely observant. Exhibit A being the cheetos you ate earlier.

“Oh, well thank you!”

You finished eating in silence, stomach full with satisfaction.

“Mmm, that was good,” you said.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Bucky said in return.

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you’ve never been to Chick-Fil-A before??”

He just laughed and shook his head. “They didn’t exactly get take-out for you in Hydra.”

You froze, feeling bad for bringing it up. He never talked about Hydra with anyone, let alone joked about it.

He noticed your reaction and smiled. “It’s okay, I’m able to joke about it a little bit now.”

“Well – that’s good,” you said, still hesitant to say any more. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he responded, picking up the tray.

You picked up your water and made your way back out to the truck, hoping the conversation about Hydra wouldn’t make things awkward. But once again, you guys fell into steady conversation as you got back on the highway.

A couple minutes later, your phone vibrated with a new text from Nat:

I kinda expected that honestly, he definitely likes you

You choked on the water you had just taken a drink of, nearly spitting it out.

“Y/n, are you okay?” Bucky asked, his arm immediately on your shoulder.

Your skin tingled where he was touching you, hyperaware of what Nat had just said. You turned your phone off so he couldn’t see the screen.

“Yeah,” you choked out, coughing a little more. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

You continued to cough a little more, and Bucky moved his hand to lightly pat your back. Your coughing finally slowed and you took another drink to soothe your throat.

“Okay, I’m good,” you said, embarrassed.

His hand remained on your back for probably a second longer than it should have, until he finally moved it back to the steering wheel.

You thought about telling Nat what just happened, but she would only bug you about it more.

He definitely does not, I’m basically forcing him to talk

You pressed send and put your phone down, thinking about what she said. I mean, he did get you cheetos when you were just talking to yourself about it, and knew you wanted ranch because he saw you eating it one time. But you figured he noticed stuff like that with everyone. Right?

You pushed the thought away, not wanting to look too far into things.

You sat in silence for a while, drifting between easy conversation and comfortable silence for the next couple of hours, stopping only once at a rest stop to go to the bathroom.

Before you knew it, you were only 30 minutes out from your hotel.

“Wow, this drive went so fast,” you said.

“Yeah, it really did.”

“So, what’s the plan when we get there?”

“Well, I figured we’d check into our hotel first and then we can get something to eat if you want?”

“Ugh yes please, I’m starving,” you answered.

When you got to the hotel, Bucky went inside to get you checked in, then pulled around to the back door to park. You both got out and you were so relieved to finally stretch your legs again. You grabbed your bookbag but left your pillow in the car, and Bucky carried your duffel bag again.

You found yourself thinking, would he do that for anyone else, or does he really like me?

You shook your head, trying to shake the thought away as you followed him up to the door. He scanned the keycard and opened the door for you, letting you go in first. Okay, maybe he’s just a gentleman. I mean, he is from the 40s.

You tried to shake the feeling again as you pressed the button for the elevator. You went up to the fifth floor, then walked down the hall to your room. The hotel was really nice, and you just knew your room was about to be fancy.

You walked in and, once again, Bucky opened the door but let you go in first. Straight ahead was a couch and TV, to the left was a small kitchen and barstools to sit on, then there was a door to the bedroom. You walked over to the door, realizing almost immediately there was only one bed.

You started to freak out, only to remember Bucky sleeps on the floor, so it wouldn’t make sense to pay for a room with two beds. You dropped your bookbag on the floor and flopped face-first onto the bed, realizing how exhausted you were from the drive.

“You know they don’t wash the top comforter, right?” Bucky said, walking in behind you.

“I don’t even care at this point,” you replied, voice muffled from the bed.

He just laughed and set your bags on the other side of the bed. He went to the bathroom as you laid on the bed, seriously about to fall asleep. When he came back out, he immediately started unpacking his bags and putting his clothes in the dresser.

You rolled onto your side and put your hand under your chin to hold your head up. “Did you even look at the view from the window before you started unpacking?” you said, teasing him.

He just shot you a dirty look, but he couldn’t keep a little smile from peeking through. “Well, if I don’t do it now, I might not ever do it.”

“That’s a good point, maybe I should too.”

“Probably, you can take the bottom two drawers,” he said.

“Ugh, I just don’t feel like it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back.

“Well you gotta get up soon, I’m hungry.”

You groaned again, running your hands over your face then dropping them to your sides again. “Can’t we just like, order pizza to our room or something?”

Bucky looked at you and raised his eyebrows. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Now that I’m here I don’t wanna leave either.”

“Oh, perfect. Now we just have to figure out who will deliver here.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and Bucky gave you a look. “What?”

“You and your phone,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s been 100 years since you’ve been to a hotel, but they don’t usually have books with all the food places anymore,” you said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Alright, alright,” he said laughing.

You ordered from a local place, and the pizza got delivered about 45 minutes later. You wanted to eat it on the bed, but Bucky wouldn’t let you, so you ate at the barstools in the kitchen.

“Mmm, that was good,” you said, wiping the grease off your hands.

“Yeah, they really know how to make pizza,” Bucky agreed.

Together, you downed a whole large pizza in 15 minutes. You got up and washed your hands as Bucky folded up the pizza box so it fit in the small trash can.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” you said.

“Okay, I think I might run to the store and get a few things.”

“Oh, do you want me to come with you?”

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “It should only take a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

--

About 20 minutes later, you stepped out of the shower, drying yourself off, when you realized you hadn’t grabbed any clothes to change into. You opened the bathroom door and looked out, but Bucky wasn’t in the bedroom.

“Bucky?” you called out, with no answer. The coast was clear.

You darted across the room, first closing the curtains. The sun was about to go down, so you didn’t want anyone seeing into the room. You walked back over to the bed, rifling through your bag. You found the pair of shorts you wanted, but couldn’t find your favorite sweatshirt. You were reaching for your bookbag when you heard the door unlock.

You whipped around, gripping the top of your towel, suddenly realizing how little it was.

Bucky stumbled into the room, holding a case of water and a few plastic bags, freezing when he saw you. “Oh – uh, sorry,” he mumbled, turning around to set the groceries on the counter.

“No, I’m sorry. I – uh, forgot to grab my clothes,” you said, laughing nervously. You kept going through the bag, when you suddenly realized you left your sweatshirt sitting on your desk because you had planned to put it on this morning. You sighed, smacking your hand onto your forehead.

“Uhh, what’s wrong?” Bucky said, walking into the bedroom.

“I just realized I forgot my favorite sweatshirt.”

“Another thing? Wow, I’m disappointed,” Bucky said, holding back a smile.

“I didn’t bring another sweatshirt because it’s supposed to be warm here,” you whined.

“It’s okay, just wear one of mine,” he said, walking over to the dresser. He pulled open one of the drawers, revealing a stack of sweatshirts. He pulled one out and handed it to you.

“Oh, are you sure?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile.

You took it from him, suddenly hyperaware that you were only in a towel again. You spun on your heel and quickly walked back into the bathroom, as Bucky watched you the whole way.

When you walked out, Bucky did a double take, but you didn’t notice. He loved the sight of you in his sweatshirt. He quickly looked away though, playing it off. “I’m gonna shower now,” he said, grabbing his clothes.

“Okay.”

You forced yourself to unpack your bag while he was in the shower, and it didn’t take near as long as you thought it would. When you were done, you grabbed your phone charger and plugged it in beside the bed. You pulled the blankets back and slipped in under the covers. Hotel beds always felt so cozy, and you had to admit, you felt extra cozy with Bucky’s sweatshirt on. Did this mean he liked you?

As if Nat could read your mind, when you picked up your phone, you had a text from her:

Walked past your room and saw your sweatshirt on the desk, did you mean to leave that?

You quickly typed back a response, knowing you were going to regret it:

No, I was gonna put it on this morning but forgot :( Bucky let me borrow his tho

She answered almost immediately:

Omg which one

You were confused why she was asking, but answered anyway:

Just a plain gray one, why?

You quickly realized why she asked when she responded:

Shut up, that’s his favorite one

As if on cue, Bucky walked out of the bathroom, running a towel through his hair. When he put the towel down and shook out his wet hair, you had to admit, he looked really hot. If only he walked out in just a towel too.

Your eyes went wide from the intrusive thought, but you quickly regained your composure and looked down at your phone, sending Nat a quick text back:

I think it was the only one he brought and I was freezing

It was a lie, but you didn’t want her making a big deal out of nothing. It was nothing, right?

You looked at the time, realizing it was only 9:00. “Do you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Sure,” he said, “what’s on?”

“I don’t know, let’s look,” you said grabbing the TV remote and turning it on.

After scrolling through channels, you finally decided on Disney Channel, only because Frozen had just started and you begged Bucky to watch it, telling him it was one of the best Disney movies. Surprisingly, it didn’t take that long to convince him to watch it, and it took even less time to convince him to lay in the bed with you to watch it. Again, that means nothing…

You and Bucky didn’t say anything during the movie, and when it was finally over, you yawned, looking over at him. “So, what’d you think?”

“I think it’s definitely a kid's movie,” he said laughing. “Not as bad as I thought it was gonna be though. But I’ve had to pee since the rocks were singing,” he said, quickly getting out of bed as you laughed.

When he walked out of the bathroom, you had turned off the TV and were curled up under the blanket.

“Comfortable?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but you caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You smiled sleepily. “Very. Thanks again for the sweatshirt.”

“No problem,” he said, walking over to the other side of the bed and grabbing a pillow. “I’ll just—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, sitting up slightly. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He froze. “It’s fine, really. I’m used to it.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But you don’t have to be used to it anymore. It’s a big bed. And I promise not to kick you in my sleep.”

He looked at you for a long moment before nodding once, quietly. “Alright...if you’re sure.”

You smiled, patting the spot next to you. “I’m sure.”

He slid under the covers, staying as close to the edge as possible, stiff as a board. You turned to face him, grinning.

“You know,” you said softly, “you’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

He turned to look at you, and for once, didn’t try to hide the way he looked at you. Warm, almost amused. “And you’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be.”

You gasped. “Hey!”

He chuckled, his voice low. “Kidding.”

Silence settled between you for a second, the kind that wasn’t awkward anymore - just comfortable.

Then, you decided to be brave.

“Nat thinks you like me,” you said, staring up at the ceiling.

He was quiet for a beat. Two.

“And what do you think?” he finally asked.

You looked at him then, your heart beating just a little faster. “I think you remember what kind of sauce I like and got me cheetos just because I mumbled about them once. So…I think maybe you do.”

He gave you a soft smile - real, this time. “Well…she’s not wrong.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Really.”

You grinned, trying to keep your cool. “Well...good. Because I think I might like you too.”

He turned onto his side to face you more fully. “Good.”

And with that, he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair out of your face. Your breath caught slightly, and for a second, you thought he might kiss you - but instead, he just whispered, “Goodnight y/n.”

You smiled, heart full. “Goodnight Bucky.”

The two of you fell asleep, side by side, warm under the covers, tangled in a sweatshirt and something new neither of you quite expected to find on a mission. Something that felt a lot like the beginning of something really, really good.

[wordsofwhimsy]

⏱︎ 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 ⏱︎

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x fem best friend!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Friends to lovers, Mark’s spittin mad game, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1,822 

Synopsis: Mark comforts you after being stood up on a date.

a/n: i have it listed as a fem reader but i really did try to keep this more gender neutral!! i also have an idea for a 2nd part to this but idk i might just make that it’s own separate thing. we shall see

You used to joke that Mark Grayson was like gravity. Always nearby, always familiar. Something you didn’t have to think about.

He was your best friend.

The kind of best friend who sat on the floor of your bedroom, eating Hot Cheetos and watching you panic over homework. The kind who’d text you stupid memes at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh. The kind who, every now and then, looked at you like he wanted something more.

And before everything changed, maybe you would’ve let him have it.

Maybe you wanted to.

It was starting, back then. The soft kind of beginning. Lingering hands, long glances. You don’t remember who initiated the shift—but it was there. One of those stupid liminal phases, stuck between friendship and something else.

And then he got his powers, and the shift stopped all together.

He stopped being just Mark.

One day he was your dumbass best friend. The next, he was Invincible.

Suddenly he was gone half the time. Bleeding from places you couldn’t see. Showing up at your door with bruises he didn’t explain. Disappearing in the middle of conversations. Swallowing emotions like if he just didn’t talk about them, they weren’t actually real.

And still, he showed up.

Every single day.

He found you in parking lots. At work. On your stoop with takeout. Orbiting you like the earth was just a little too far and you were the only thing steady enough to keep him tethered.

He never said it. Not directly. But you could see it in his eyes—every time he showed up late with a smile, like he’d been lost but now finally found his way home.

But you wouldn’t let it breathe. Stepped on it before it could bloom. Told him he was sweet. That you loved him—just not like that.

Said things like, “We don’t make sense. You’re out saving the world. I’m… folding laundry and deciding if I’m ready to learn how to use a propane grill. I’m just not the kind of person that fits into a life like yours—not in that role.”

He’d just stand there. Quiet. Hurt. Letting you talk.

Letting you lie.

Because he knew the truth. He always had. You were the only person who could fill that role, and it would always stay an open position until the day you decided you were ready.

—

You hadn’t been on a date since... well, ever. Not really.

There was just Mark, and that almost-what-if stage that promptly collapsed under the weight of reality.

So when you finally downloaded the app, picked a stranger, and said yes to dinner, you told yourself it was progress.

You even styled your hair in a way that was new. Just for this moment.

You sat at the restaurant in an outfit that you swore felt like too much but talked yourself into anyways. Checked your phone a hundred times. Ordered a drink. Then another. Then realized slowly that you definitely had been stood up. This guy wasn’t coming.

No call. No message. Hell, you would’ve taken a messenger pigeon at that point. Some type of acknowledgement would’ve made it all feel just a little bit less… embarrassing.

You paid for your drinks and walked home in silence, feeling stupidly overdressed and like every person you passed knew about the wordless rejection you’d just faced.

Mark was already waiting on your stoop.

He didn’t ask where you’d been. Just handed you a bag of takeout and scooted over to make room.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat with your knees touching, paper bag warm between you, the hum of the streetlight buzzing faintly overhead.

 “Am I that bad?” you said abruptly without thinking.

Mark paused mid-chew, a fry half in his mouth. “Huh?” he mumbled, clearly confused.

You shook your head, eyes on the sidewalk. “Nothing. Just... I don’t know why I even tried.”

Mark swallowed. “Tried what?”

You gave a soft, bitter laugh. “The date.” His face changed instantly.

“Wait—you were on a date tonight?”

You scoffed, ripping the fry in your fingers in half. “If you could call it that. The guy didn’t even show up.”

You took the tiniest bite off one of the torn pieces, more so for the act of busying yourself than actually wanting to eat. “Guess I needed the reminder though. Like, of course he didn’t. Why would he?”

“Whoa, hey—” Mark leaned in, brows furrowed. “That’s not on you. That guy’s an idiot.”

You shrugged, but it was too stiff. “Or maybe he just looked at my picture a little too long and was like, y’know what, on second thought—”  

“C’mon, don’t do that,” he said, voice low, sincere. “That’s not fair.”

You laughed, like it was really starting to become funny (even though it wasn’t at all). “No no, seriously. The guy was probably showing his buddies my profile and they were all oof, you bagged a DOG—”

“Alright—unless the rest of that sentence is ‘a doggone beautiful creature’ I don’t wanna hear it.”

You choked back a laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. “God you’re so corny.”

Mark gave you a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips fell back into a harder line. “I’m serious. You’re not a dog. You’re not—whatever it is you’re trying to say right now.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to reach back into the bag for more fries—for another physical means of distraction. But his grasp closed around the greasy brown paper, around your wrist, locking you finger-deep in the takeout.

“I fight bad guys for a living, [y/n]. It’s literally my job to like, curb stomp your inner demons.”

You couldn’t help the pfft that sputtered past your lips. “You might need to clock in for overtime ‘cause they’re kicking my ass tonight.”

Mark grinned, just a little too much mischief sparking behind his eyes. “I’m always in overtime. Job never ends.” He finally pulled your hand free of the bag. “Now let a man work.”

You were fighting back a smile of your own as he turned your wrist in his hand, eyes tracing every line like he was inspecting rare art. “These hands?” he said, tone suddenly reverent. “Adorable. Perfect. Nails always going crazy.”

You snorted an embarrassing sound, but he’d heard it a hundred times before. “They’re literally just French tips...”

He grinned wider, ignoring you completely as he kept going. His fingers found a lock of your [hair color] tresses, twirling it around his knuckle. “This hair? Should be in a Pantene commercial. Smells like a teenage boy’s dream.”

You laughed again, softer this time, trying to pull away—but he held on, gently. Then he leaned back just slightly, eyes raking over you with a grin that slowly began to fade as his gaze caught on everything else.

“I mean, you’re dropping jaws just walking around in jeans,” he murmured. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to your still-sorta-date-night look. “The man should be thanking God he didn’t show. ‘Cause I promise you would’ve ended his whole life.”

Your face went warm, lips furling inward in your nervous habit. You tried to play it off, bury your smile in another shake of your head, but it was already happening. The racing of your heart. The stuttering of your breaths.

And then his hand came up, brushing your cheek so soft and careful. “These lips…?” he whispered.

You were still as stone, eyes wide as you watched him. “What about them…?”

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, so gentle it made your chest ache. His gaze flicked up to your eyes, then back down again, like he couldn’t keep his stare away for longer than a moment. “If God ever needed to talk, I’m pretty sure your lips would be the vessel.”

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

The words had dried up somewhere between your lungs and your throat, stuck there trembling while your lips—those stupid, supposedly divine lips—parted just slightly under the pad of his thumb.

And then he was leaning in, chocolate eyes never leaving your mouth as if he was following them to his destiny. Maybe in another lifetime you would’ve stopped him. Told him again that this didn’t make sense, that you two could never work. Maybe in another dimension. Another version of reality. But there, in that moment, it was inevitable.

It was barely a touch at first. His lips ghosting over yours like he knew what you were thinking, knew that you were probably begging internally for him not to take it here. But you didn’t push him away, didn’t pull back, and he felt like he’d been gifted a second chance at life.

The kiss lasted only a second before he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as eyes fluttered shut, stomachs tied tight in knots. “Tell me you felt that too,” he breathed, thumb stroking mindlessly over your jaw. You still couldn’t find your voice to answer, and instead tilted your head just enough to press another kiss to his lips. Then another. And by the third, it all began to unravel.

His hand slid to cup the back of your neck, locking you in as his free hand trembled against your hip. The manicured nails he just was praising now scratched lightly up his back, sending chills over his skin until one palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades and the other tangled in his hair.

Your mouth opened without thinking, and his tongue slipped in – no hesitation. You couldn’t believe you were tasting him like this. Couldn’t believe he was holding you like a lover, and not a friend. Couldn’t believe how utterly right it all felt.

What had you been denying yourself this whole time? How many other things in your life had you been so stupid over? Your thoughts could only spiral for so long before he broke away again, breathing hard – and not from lack of oxygen (the man could hold his breath for hours) – but from the sheer heat of it all.

“We should go inside,” he exhaled, his eyes glancing to a woman walking her dog past your front steps. Your pink cheeks burned cherry red, and all you could do was nod.

[wrldhoon]

where you are (1)

PAIRING. jungwon ༝ fem.ᐟreader

WORD COUNT. 1.7k

GENRE. angst ⋆ fluff (if you squint)

part two

note: kinda wanna make a pt2 cuz i love angst but i crave a happy ending who knows.

this fic was inspired by this song!

rejection.

it’s something you have become used to in all your years of living. the initial pang of hurt, the never ending tears the morning right after, the hollow feeling in your chest the following days after that. it feels like a never ending cycle.

you often wonder, “when will it be my turn?”

the constant belief that one may never be good enough, or pretty enough, or funny enough. you have trained yourself into believing that maybe, just maybe, you were the reason for your own hurt. your own suffering. maybe love is just not meant for you. deep down, you have come to terms with that. a part of you feels okay with not having found ‘your person’ despite all your friends seemingly be in happy relationships. and for a while, you were okay with that.

you were okay with being alone.

these feelings—the doubt, the anguish, the yearning—were all constants in your life.

another constant being yang jungwon.

you don’t remember when it happened, or even how.

the boy who watched your heart get broken time and time again. the first time he saw it happen was in high school—your sophomore year crush had split your heart in two after a (long) meaningful confession on their birthday. it was devastating to watch, and even jungwon felt the pang of heartbreak seeing the hope in your eyes vanish as they delivered some half-assed speech to somehow soften the blow.

you had been acquaintances then, having shared a few friends. you had hung out a couple of times, but not often enough to have each other’s phone numbers. he had slowly began to creep his way into your life after that. from shared classes, joint study sessions, cafe dates (though, you would never call it that), to deep conversations over chocolate ice cream and a disgustingly large bag of cheetos.

he was your best friend, your hope, your lifeline.

the boy you could come running to with your heart on your sleeve after another had broken it.

the boy who wiped your tears and told you how it was always their loss and never yours.

the boy who always managed to pick up your broken pieces and put them back together without ever complaining.

your jungwon.

what you don’t remember is when he became the boy you loved.

the thing that confused you most was that you knew.

you’ve always loved him.

you had loved him since he started barging into your home without needing to ask because you knew your mother loved having him over (and so did you).

you had loved him when he accidentally spilled his drink all over your senior prom dress and tried to clean it up for you, only to make it much worse.

you had loved him when he helped you move into your new university dorm and accidentally brought over a box of his own stuff instead of yours.

it’s still there, though.

his stuff. the box is tucked away under your bed. his spare toothbrush sits in the little mug you have in your bathroom. his hoodie hangs off the back of your desk chair. it’s a constant reminder that he’s there. always.

your love for him was obvious. he knew you loved him. you knew you loved him, and he loved you too. the confusing part was when the love started to feel different.

you did not love him like you loved your other friends. you did not love him like he was the boy you spent majority of your teenage life with. you did not love him like he was the boy you shared a dorm floor with. you did not love him like he was your best friend.

and that terrified you.

you take a mental note of when it all started to feel different.

the sun started to catch the tips of his hair differently. his laugh started to make you smile a little harder. his cologne started to make you feel dizzy. every time he spoke, your eyes would briefly land on his lips. his little habits became more endearing. his voice became the one thing you wanted to hear after a long day. you stopped crushing on other people. even he noticed.

“so, what happened with that one guy? y’know, the tall scary dude from your history class,” jungwon’s fingers played with the loose thread on your comforter. you reached for another gummy bear, popping it into your mouth.

you shrug, “he’s just.. not that cute anymore.”

jungwon snickered. he gave you that look. the one where he had to bite back a smile and raised his eyebrows at you.

“just the other week you were going on and on about him. now he’s just not that cute? i listened to you talk about him for months just for him to not be that cute?”

you grabbed the nearest object, your penguin pillow pet that he had gifted you for your 18th birthday, and chucked it at his head. he let out a scream, protecting his head with his arms.

“a girl changed her mind! sue me.”

jungwon peeks up at you from behind his hands, a teasing smile on his lips.

“if you say so.. you know, every time i ask you about one of your little love interests now, you never actually seem that into them. has y/n finally decided to live her life as an independent woman?!”

“i’ll hit you again.”

spending time with him every day only made things worse. the feelings began to grow. the pieces started to fit together and it was terrifying. you loved jungwon—no.

you were in love with him.

somehow, he managed to dig a cozy little hole in your heart and planted his ass in there. permanently.

first, came the panic. you were freaked out of your god damn mind. how did this even happen? you were supposed to be friends. best friends. what if this ruined your friendship? or worse—what if he rejected you? god, you could not possibly come back from that because this time, it was different.

it wasn’t just another crush. this was love. sick, twisted, and cruel love.

then, came the overthinking. what if he thinks you’re weird? for years, you would come to him crying over another. what if he thinks you were just using him as a rebound? would he view you differently if you confessed? what if you weren’t good enough for him?

he was the light of your life. he lit up every room he entered. there was never a smile unaccounted for when he was around.

your tried your best to be everything he needed, but what if it wasn’t enough? he deserved to be with someone great and you weren’t so sure that someone could be you.

your feelings grew, and so did the distance.

it started off as cancelled hang outs and cafe dates (again, not like you would call it that). then, it turned into missed text messages and calls. you no longer wished him ‘good morning’ first thing after you opened your eyes. eventually, you started avoiding him physically. it was a bit difficult considering he lived on your floor, but you knew him. you knew his schedule and worked around it.

it was clear that he noticed the space between you two. he had asked you about it when he caught you in the lobby of your dorm building, but you quickly brushed him off and ran for the front door. eventually, he stopped trying. the texts stopped coming in and every time you passed him by the elevator, neither of you acknowledged the other’s presence.

it hurt. the ache in your chest was more powerful than any heartbreak you had endured in the past few years. you missed him. your eyes lingered on his toothbrush every morning. even though he was gone, pieces of him were still scattered around your life.

you had finally had enough. you realized that his absence pained you more than his rejection ever could.

you love him and you wanted him to know that. you were ready.

you had written him a letter—just in case you couldn’t get the words out yourself. you even put a heart sticker on it. cheesy, but it made you smile.

with a newfound determination, you walked to the cafe. you knew he would probably be there at this time, thanks to your mutual friends who had secretly kept you updated on jungwon’s life and whereabouts. not like you asked or anything.

you stopped once you reached the building. you looked down at your hands, your thumb gently running over the inked letters of his name.

“now or never i guess, right?” you mumbled to yourself.

with closed eyes, you took a deep breath before turning the corner and approaching the glass door. you glanced through the large windows, and before you knew it your feet had stopped moving.

inside, tucked in a little corner, was jungwon. he sat facing the window which allowed you full view of his face. he was smiling. he seemed happy.

except, he wasn’t alone.

long brown hair. her back was facing you but it felt like her presence was mocking you.

you watched as he laughed along to whatever she was saying, his eyes crinkling into those little crescents you always admired. your heart squeezed a little harder when you watched her hand reach out to grab his.

you felt your breath catch. you didn’t realize you were crying till you heard your tears hit the envelope in your hands.

you were too late.

his eyes drifted to yours, widening in shock. recognition flashed in his expression. you watched his shoulders tense up. the moment was fleeting before he looked away, his attention returning to the person in front of him.

your felt your heart shatter.

you had gotten your heart broken countless times before, but this time the pain felt different.

this time, he was the one to brush you off.

this time, you had nobody to run home to. nobody to wipe your tears or piece your heart back together.

this time, it was your loss.

and that realization was something you weren’t sure you could heal from.

© wrldhoon 2025

[demie90s]

Parents

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Kate Martin X Y/N L/N ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Kate Martin x reader (fem!reader)

⭑ summary: Everyone on U of I jokes that you and Kate are the mom and dad of the squad, but lately, the teasing’s starting to feel a little too accurate—especially when your ‘fake’ dynamic starts slipping into something real.

⭑ genre: slow burn, flirtation, team banter, locker room humor, lowkey romance

⭑ warnings: mild language, locker room teasing, tension with heart

⭑ word count: ~0.3k

You’d think by now the team would’ve gotten over it.

The whole “mom and dad” thing started as a joke when Lexi caught you passing Kate her water bottle before practice. Then it was Molly walking in on the two of you planning meals before away games. Then it was Sydney saying you both looked “stupidly domestic” when you handed Kate her folded jersey during warmups.

At first it was harmless. Light. Annoying in the way that only teammates can be. But the more they said it, the more it started to feel… not so far off.

Especially now.

Kate’s standing across the gym with her arms folded, watching Gabbie and Taylor mess around at the three-point line. You’re sitting on the floor, one knee up, tying your shoe, and you don’t even notice when she glances back at you. Again.

“You two argue like parents too,” Kennise mutters beside you, tossing her head toward Kate. “All you’re missing is the divorce paperwork.”

You snort under your breath, not denying it.

It’s not that you and Kate fight, really. It’s more that you understand each other too well. You both lead in different ways—her voice is quieter, steadier. Yours comes with looks that say get it done and a tone that shuts shit down before it starts. On court, you’re ironclad. Off court, the lines blur.

Paige calls you the “second most nonchalant player in the NCAA,” right behind herself, but even she knows you’ve got one soft spot. And it wears No. 20.

“You coming to dinner?” Kate asks as you walk past her toward the locker room.

“You cooking?”

“I’m ordering.”

You raise a brow. “Then yeah. But I’m not tipping if it’s your idea.”

Kate smirks, brushing your shoulder with hers as she falls into step beside you. “Fair.”

Inside the locker room, Gabbie’s already blasting music. The younger girls are yelling over each other, and Ava’s trying to convince Jada to teach her how to Dougie. You don’t even blink when Kate plucks your water bottle from your locker and opens it for you.

“Mom and Dad are back,” Sydney teases from across the room, pulling her hair into a bun. “Y’all gonna start tucking us in next?”

“Only if you stop eating Hot Cheetos at 11 p.m.,” you shoot back, kicking off your sneakers.

“They’re soulmates,” Lexi chimes in, flopping dramatically across the bench. “They just don’t know it yet.”

Kate looks at you then, like she might say something. You hold her gaze, half a smirk tugging at your lips, but you don’t speak.

You don’t need to.

Later, at her apartment, Kate’s sitting cross-legged on the floor while you dig through the takeout bag. She’s got her glasses on—something you rarely see—and she’s writing notes in a planner, completely unaware that you’re watching her.

“You always this responsible?” you ask, handing her a container of pad thai.

She shrugs. “Someone’s gotta be.”

You lean against the couch, arms crossed, head tilted. “Yeah. That’s why you keep me around, huh?”

Kate doesn’t look up. “Pretty much.”

But she’s smiling now. That quiet, small smile that’s only for you.

And in that moment, with the warm glow of the kitchen lights and the distant sound of your team’s group chat blowing up with memes, you realize something:

Maybe they were right.

Maybe you and Kate are mom and dad.

But if that’s true, it’s only because you already feel like home to each other.

⸻

[obeymeluv]

Food and Friends [Random TWST Boys]

You make food from your world and get the boys to try it. If you can't make it, Sam gets it to you.

Featuring: deviled eggs, fried pickles, and flaming hot cheetos

I haven't read all the vignettes on every card or watched all of the events so I don't know if these foods already exist in Twisted Wonderland but I thought of the food I'd miss. Or ones I think would be kind of hard to explain.

I guess this is like a "Southerner Edition" since I'm from the south lol. Any references to how things are made are just how my family makes them, not the ultimate way to make anything.

Not proofread. Might do that tomorrow.

I. Deviled Eggs

You've been trying to find a way to ease the homesick ache with little success. The school had great food (a surprise, given that Crowley was the headmaster) but nothing like what you were used to. There were things that came close to your favorite foods but nothing was exact. After scrounging up enough money, you stocked your pantry with staples and went to work recreating things.

Ace and Deuce let themselves in when you were in the middle of taking eggs out of an ice bath. Deuce's eyes sparkled as you expertly freed the eggs from their shell prison. He enjoyed basically every style of egg and was not above a plain boiled one. Honestly, he was silently wondering if he could slip you a few thaumarks to eat a few since they were right there and he was here now.

"What are you doing?" Ace squinted at you curiously as you deftly cleaved the egg and scooped the yellow yolk balls into a bowl.

"Making deviled eggs," you replied, arranging the pitted halves to make room for more.

"What's that? Spicy eggs?" he watches you add mayonnaise, yellow mustard, and paprika, mixing and fluffing until there's something creamy in the bowl. He can smell the mustard and it stings his nose just a little.

"No. It's deviled eggs." you laugh, grasping blindly for the nearby cup with a plastic sandwich bag already folded over it. Deuce and Ace look like children, peering at you with big eyes as you taste a bit with a second fork, sprinkling salt and pepper over it before plopping it into the bag. You push and twist the filling down into a corner of said bag before snipping it off.

No one says a word as you paint the hollows with the mix. Sometimes you swirl it into a little heap, sometimes you fan it back and forth so it's flat but no less full. Deuce thinks it's absolutely genius that one egg can make two of these things. He hasn't tried them yet but he's sure he'll like them.

"I can't really explain it. You just have to try it." you pop one in your mouth, pointing a thumb back at the plateful. Ace looks mildly skeptical but you can see the intrigue. Deuce makes the face you usually see when Crewel gives an essay question on an Alchemy test. He's debating on how to pick said egg up; the half is small in his big hand. And slippery.

And Ace's complaining about the filling getting on his finger is right in his ear.

Deuce takes his first bite and it's like heaven in his mouth. You have the tang of the mustard, the creaminess of the mayo, the complimentary fattiness of the yolk and he doesn't think he's tasted anything like it! He lets out an involuntary moan and has no shame, reaching around Ace for another one before he's even swallowed the first.

Ace is on his third and Deuce is gunning for a fourth. You've wisely stolen a few and stepped aside. Living in Twisted Wonderland has given you a sixth sense and something's about to go down.

There's one deviled egg left and they've both realized it.

A small fight ensues and you nearly choke to death when Deuce wins.

When did they even fall to the floor?!

He's jammed Ace against the cabinets, leaning back into him like a chair. You're ninety percent sure one of Ace's arms are pinned to his chest. Ace tries to hook his legs around and kick Deuce, or at the very least kick himself free, but that just makes Deuce push himself up to sit on Ace's shoulder so he can stretch and tangle their legs together. "Get off!" Ace hisses, Deuce's weight forcing him to roll forward.

Deuce ignores him, settling into the flat of his back. He swings his once-tangled leg out in front of him and hums happily, feet now crossed at the ankles.

"Get off!" Ace yells again, kicking his feet.

"Good, right?"

Deuce can't answer you. His cheeks are full.

Who else likes them: Epel, Ruggie, Trey

Who refuses to eat them: Vil, Idia, Leona

--------

II. Fried Pickles

You were glad Twisted Wonderland had pickles but were surprised none of the restaurants offered fried pickles. When you asked Azul if he'd ever put it on the menu he just looked at you like you were crazy. Not unusual for someone who came from the Coral Sea but if fried chicken made sense to him, why didn't fried pickles? Hell, he even knew what fried mozzarella sticks were!

"Because that doesn't seem like something you'd fry?" he adjusted his glasses. It was something he did when he didn't know how to fill the silence in a conversation. The silence was an honest one, too, because what in the sevens were you talking about?

"How can you fry it, anyways? It already comes in liquid." Floyd questioned, interested now. He couldn't quite picture what you were talking about.

"One can generally only fry something in batter and the pickle liquid is not thick enough for frying." Jade observed.

"No one's ever heard of it? Seriously? It can't just be from my world!" you looked between the three mermen. Their blank eyes stared back at you.

"Easy fix. C'mon!" you motioned for them to follow you into the Mostro Lounge kitchen. They abandon their midmorning tea to watch you grab little food gloves and set up your dredging station. You don't know how you did it or when it happened but the Lounge's kitchen became your second kitchen and your preferred seasonings are always at the front of the cabinet. Azul watches you season the flour with spices, adding splashes of buttermilk, pickle juice, and hot sauce until there's something dippable and smooth.

"This is a really common appetizer where I'm from." you explain. "And you can make a lot of it from one pickle. Or a jar of pickle slices."

"Ah. I see," Jade leans over the two plates you've set out beside the flour mix. One is for the handfuls of pickle slices covered in the juice, the other is for slices that have been blotted dry. "The frying is possible because there's no longer a juice film to compete with the batter."

"Pretty much." you shrug. You never imagined someone would want to scientifically analyze the fried pickle process. Then again, it's Jade.

You'd set up a sauce pan with a few inches of oil before they'd entered the kitchen. Once the thermometer went off, you started frying in batches. Azul's stomach turned a little at the sight of oil soaking into the napkins but not out of disgust. He was a sucker for fried chicken and the distinct smell of something fried was making him hungry.

Pickle chips were a blessing and a curse. Small and convenient but dangerous at times like these. A few handfuls made more than fifty fried pickles and you were afraid they'd go to waste. You'd like them, hell yeah, but you were also afraid to get sick from eating so many.

For all his curiosity, Jade was the last one to try it. He kept his eyes locked on Floyd, drinking in every twitch of the brow and crinkle on his face. Floyd munched away happily, sometimes tossing in two or three at a time. Azul tutted and huffed at his burnt lip, nibbling a pocket for the heat to escape so he didn't make the same mistake again.

They were crispy, flavorful, and a bit vinegary with a flash of heat at the end. Definitely something you could eat a lot of without realizing it. Azul wouldn't even let himself question the calories or how much exercise he'd have to do to break even. No, instead he asked you, "How much do people pay for these?"

Who else likes them: Rook, Jack, Ruggie, Cater

Who refuses to eat them: Jamil, Malleus, Sebek

--------

III. Flaming Hot Cheetos

Sam was, admittedly, intrigued by the packaging. Flames and some kind of spotted cat on the bag? Interesting. You told him stories about how kids would pay others to split bags of these at your school. At one point there was a ban on them because teachers got tired of finding red fingerprints on classwork after lunch. They were also tired of kids using them as an excuse to get up for water, trying to stay out of class as long as possible.

He watched you open the bag and briefly forgot you came from a world with no magic. With a name like 'Flaming Hot Cheetos' he thought the bag would give a little cloud of smoke or pop of fire when you opened it. An unusual blend of spices hit his nose and Sam didn't know what to think. Cater peered interestedly into the bag as you pulled out a chip; it was thin, long, and dusted an almost violent red.

Not quite Riddle red, but redder than any chip he'd seen!

His mission to bring Trey jugs of milk and sticks of butter was temporarily forgotten as you began to feast on your other-dimensional treat. You gave Sam one for his troubles--poor fella had to transport and disguise himself and everything--and Cater batted his lashes at you sweetly. He was a mega-lover of spicy things, after all!

Too bad he couldn't post about it on Magicam, though. It'd make for an interesting picture!

It made Sam cough and you thought you saw his eyes water. He thanked you for sharing but quickly refused another one. The shadows pawed at you and slithered up your side, begging, but Sam told you to ignore them. Cater made a happy noise as you passed him one, warning that his fingers would stain red. The boy shrugged, biting down.

Cater didn't know what to think at first. It wasn't a super dense chip but it wasn't airy nothingness, either. There was a crunch but not much substance. Once you bit it, though, your mouth tingled with a rush of heat. It's almost like it dissolved on his tongue! His nose felt like it wanted to run but he didn't care; these things were crunchy and delicious!

"I like these!" he accepted another one, ignoring the temptation to crack open some of the milk and take a swig as the heat lingered. He bought a drink to mellow the burn but didn't regret the taste. "My lips look hot, too," Cater checked his reflection in his phone when his lips started to feel a little funny. They looked plumper and tinted from the spices.

A sexy flushed, just-bitten kind of look!

"They're pretty good," you agree.

Who else likes them: Rook, Lilia, Malleus, Idia

Who refuses to eat them: Jack, Ruggie, Jade, Vil, Riddle, Leona

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (55/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Game night with friends is great - even if you're playing Monopoly.

Warnings: fluff, tiny bit of angst (talks about their relationship), Kika and Pierre are a menace but we still love them

Word Count: 3.7k

series masterlist

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A/N: thanks for being so patient with me. only four chapters to go! feedback is appreciated!

The rain had started just before sunset, a gentle percussion against the windows that makes everything inside feel more like a refuge. You’re already sunk deep into the soft beige couch when Kika’s voice floats in from the kitchen. 

„No. Absolutely not. Salt and vinegar chips are aggressive, Pierre.“

„They are honest“, he counters. „They have character. Unlike your … hummus.“

You glance at Charles, who’s sprawled next to you with one leg crossed over the other, nursing a bottle of beer. His mouth curls upward without hm really smiling. 

„They’ve been in there for ten minutes“, you say. 

„Twelve“, he replies, checking his watch with mock seriousness. „They’ll emerge either with snacks or serious injuries.“

You chuckle and shift your weight, leaning slightly into his side. The couch smells faintly of lavender and some kind of woodsy incense Kika always uses. It’s the sort of home that feels lived-in in a curated way – plants in every corner, art books fanned out just so, mismatched mugs that somehow match. 

„She’s going to veto anything that leaves dust on fingers“, you say.

„She banned Cheetos last time“, Charles nods. „Tragic.“

In the kitchen, the debate escalates into dramatic rustling – cabinet doors open and slam, a bag crinkles, someone groans. 

„You think we should go help?“, you ask, not moving. 

Charles raises an eyebrow. „You want to walk into a domestic snack standoff?“

You don’t. The couch is too soft, and there’s something nice about this moment – just the two of you in someone else’s home, in that quiet space between arrival and activity, before the jokes start flying and someone gets way too competitive about something. 

„I like their kitchen arguments“, you admit. 

„They make it sound like they’re planning a heist“, Charles says. „No, not that dip, you fool!“

You both laugh, and just then, the kitchen door swings open, Kika appears with a triumphant grin and a tray of bowls – olives, popcorn, baby carrots, fancy crackers shaped like leaves. Pierre trailes behind her with two bags of chips cradled under his arms like contraband. 

„Okay“, Kika announces. „We reached a diplomatic compromise.“

„No hummus“, Pierre says solemnly. „But I secured limited rights for kettle chips.“

„Under strict supervision“, Kika adds.

„I’ve never felt less free“, Pierre mutters. 

The Portuguese sets the snacks down on the coffee table like sacred offerings. „We’ve matured“ she tells you both. „This is what growth looks like.“

„See? No Cheetos“, Charles whispers to you. 

You give him a subtle nudge with your knee. „Don’t get us kicked out bevore we even pick teams.“

„Teams?“ Kika perks up. „No teams tonight. We’re playing Monopoly.“

Pierre freezes mid-chip pour. „Non. Kika, we’ve discussed this. Monopoly is violence disguised as capitalism.“

„I love violence disguised as capitalism“, she says sweetly, already pulling the battered game box from the bottom oft he stack next to the small table. The corners are frayed, the logo almost worn off from years of grudges.

You glance at Charles, who looks as though he’s just been handed a ticking bomb. He leans in, murmurs, „This is how families fall apart. Just like mine did when you cheated during the game on Christmas.“

You nudge him once more and watch as Kika sets the board down with the gravity of a courtroom clerk opening a trial. „Exacty. That’s why I’ve been saving it for a night when we all really trust each other.“

The French sinks into an armchair with a groan. „I trust no one here.“

„That’s the spirit“, she beams. She unfolds the board with a ceremonial gravity, the creases stubborn from years of being tucked away, corners curled like they remembered past battles. Kika smoothes it flat with the palm of her hand while Pierre laid out the stacks of money with the precision of a disgruntled accountant. „No teams tonight“, she repeats, her usually sweet voice now like a knife wrapped in velvet. „Just four adults making emotionally healthy financial decisions.“

Charles rolls his eyes and grabbs the dog token, rolling it between his fingers before placing it a GO. 

„Perfect“, you mutter, grabbing the battleship. „I’ll just go full naval dominance.“

Your best friend selects the top hat without hesitation while Pierre eyes the thimble, considers, then chooses the wheelbarrow with a dignified nod.

By round three, the board starts to fill like a storm creeping in. Kika has Park Place, Charles has a dangerous hold on the oranges, and Pierre is quietly gobbling up railroads like he has a personal vendetta against public transit. 

You land on unnowned Boardwalk, pausing for a moment, reading it like it might say something else this time. Then you buy it, casually. Too casually – something the others notice. 

„Really?“ Pierre says. „Already?“

„I manifest luxury“, you say, sliding the blue deed toward your pile. 

Charles lets out a low whistle. „That’s going to be a problem.“

You smile at him like a dare. 

Midway through the game, it’s clear that civility reached ist expiration date. Kika enters what she calls speculative frenzy – trading like a Wall Street broker in a blackout, building houses across the dark blues and light greens with unsettling speed. 

„You’re overleveraging“, Pierre warns, scowling as he lands on her Connecticut Avenue with two houses. „This is how bubbles burst.“

„No“, Kika grins. „This is how you win.“

Charles lands on one of Pierre’s railroads next turn. „Jesus, again?“, he groans, peeling off another $200. „He’s bleeding me through infrastructure.“

The French is serene. „This is socialism with Pierre characteristics.“

But it isn’t until you place your third red hotel on Broadwalk that the table shifts. Literally. The Monegasque leans back and blinks at the plastic monument. „Wow“, he says. „That’s – aggressive.“

You shrug. „Kika wanted to play Monopoly.“ 

Pierre sits back as well, arms crossed. „There are war criminals with more restraint.“

The game stretches long into the night. Charles keeps landing one swaure away from danger like he has some unspoken deal with the dice. Pierre clings to his railroads, bitter and oddly proud. Kika tries to orchestrate a mega-deal – trading utilities, two yellows, and a get-out-of-jail-free card to bankrupt Charles – but he turns it down, smiling. 

„I’d rather die than owe you.“

„Your funeral“, she says sweetly.

You start to win. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the cold precision of someone who decided they’ve had enough of losing. You build slowly, collecting rent patiently, and refuse almost every trade. When Pierre finally lands on Boardwalk, you say nothing, just holding out your hand. 

He counts bills in slow motion. „You’re a monster“, he says, sliding the bills across the table. 

„You said that like it’s a revelation“, Charles mutters, sipping what’s left of his beer. But when Charles finally lands on it too – late in the game, when the room is quiet and the snacks are almost empty – he just laughs. 

Of course, it’s Charles. Of course, he lands there after you built the whole thing up. He looks at the hotel, then at you. There’s a pause, a long one. He glances down at his dwindling stack of Monopoly cash, flipping through the bills theatrically – mostly tens and ones, a crushed five. 

„Well“, he says. „I appear to be financially devastated.“

„You’re short by two hundred and fifty“, you say, barely hiding your grin. „And that’s with the discount for being cute.“

Kika makes a noise between a gasp and a snort. 

Pierre leans forward, delighted. „Ah! Romance enters the economy!“

Charles places his last bill down, slides it slowly across the table like it weighs much more than it does. Then he leans back in his place, tilts his head toward you and says with mock solemnity, „In lieu of payment, I’d like to offer alternative compensation.“

„Oh?“, you raise your eyebrow. „Like what?“

„A kiss for each hundred I owe“, he says smoothly, „and one bonus kiss for emotional damages sustained while being financially crushed by someone I trusted.“

Pierre claps. „This is better than Netflix.“

Kika tosses a baby carrot at him. „Shut up. Let them negotiate.“

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, feigning deep consideration. “So that’s three kisses total?”

“Three now. More if you offer a payment plan.”

You can feel the heat rise up your neck, but you keep your voice cool. “Is this a legal tender situation? Because I don’t think the rules of Monopoly include mouth-based currency.”

“I’m improvising,” he replies. “It’s either that or I give you Pierre’s remaining railroad.”

Pierre hugs his last deed card to his chest. “Over my dead body.” He looks over at his girlfriend. „I take it back. I don’t like this negotiating thing.“

“I’ll accept the kisses,” you say, sitting back and crossing your arms. “But I’ll be filing a report with the Monopoly banking commission.”

Charles grins and leans closer to you. Everyone else has gone quiet now — not uncomfortable quiet, but that hushed space people give when something sweet is unfolding and no one wants to ruin it.

He leans down, one hand resting behind you on the back of the couch, and kisses your temple first.

“One.”

Then the corner of your mouth.

“Two.”

Then finally — soft, warm, and far too brief — your lips.

“Three.”

“Bonus kiss?” you murmur.

He smiles. “With interest.”

The room exhales in a ripple of laughter and fake groans. Pierre throws a napkin in the air like a referee calling the end of a match.

Kika stands and stretches. “Okay, game night is officially over. You’ve turned it into Love Actually.”

You laugh, but you don’t move. Charles‘ arm is around your shoulders, warm and certain, pulling you into his side with that casual confidence that makes it feel like he’s always known exactly where you’re supposed to fit.

The others start packing up. Pierre is half-heartedly scooping dice and Chance cards into the box, humming a French song under his breath. Kika’s loading empty glasses into the dishwasher, narrating every step like a cooking show host who’s also mildly tipsy.

You and Charles stay seated on the couch, sunk into that rare, effortless quiet that only happens after a night full of laughter — where you don’t feel the need to speak because everything has already been said in jokes, in glances, in gestures.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check it right away. Just presses his chin lightly against the top of your head and breathes in.

Another buzz.

You feel him sigh against you, just barely.

He pulls out the phone and unlocks it. The screen lights up his face in the dim room. His eyes skim the message, and you feel the shift before he says anything — his body going just a little stiller, his breath just a little quieter.

“What?” you ask, not moving away, but already knowing it’s not nothing.

He shows you the screen. A message from his boss, or maybe someone higher — formal, clipped.

“Need you in Maranello by Thursday. Ferrari x Shell gala locked in. Black tie. PR expects full grid image – don’t be late.“

You stare at it, the words too cold to hold onto.

“Maranello?” you ask softly.

Charles exhales through his nose, still staring at the message like it might change if he waits long enough. “Yeah. Shell sponsorship gala. Some new multi-year thing. They want the whole team there. Photos, speeches, charm.”

You blink, letting that settle. “So it’s not just a dinner.”

“No. It’s a full Ferrari circus. Tuxedo, press, sponsors, probably some awkward speech I’ll have to fake-smile through in Italian.”

“And you’re flying out -?”

He looks at you. “Wednesday night. I’ll be gone maybe four days. Five, max.”

You lean your head back against the cushion, the ceiling suddenly more interesting than the conversation. You can feel him watching you, waiting for the follow-up questions that haven’t formed yet.

Then, softly: “Come with me.”

You turn your head. “To Maranello?”

He nods once. “You’d be working. Ferrari wants content from the whole week. Behind-the-scenes, pre-gala, the event itself. I could ask for you to be cleared as my personal photographer, that you already are." His gaze softens. „And as my girlfriend.“

The official term makes your heart race.

You hesitate, unsure of how to respond. The idea of flying out with him feels overwhelming in the best way possible, but also complicated. It's one thing to be his personal photographer, to stand behind the lens and capture the moments that everyone else misses. It’s another to be there as his girlfriend — visible to the public, to his team, to the world.

"Charles," you say slowly, your voice threading with uncertainty, "You know it’s not just that easy, right? I’m not - I’m not sure I can be both at the same time. I mean, how do I even show up there? As your photographer? Or, what? As your girlfriend? It’s one thing to be behind the scenes, out of view, but to be visible, in the middle of all that? I don’t know how –"

You feel a twinge of panic at the thought of all the eyes on you, the people who will look at you and immediately know who you are. How will they see you? Just another girl in the spotlight, or someone who’s there for work? Maybe both, but it feels like one will overshadow the other.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but his eyes lock onto yours, steady and patient.

“I get it,” he says softly, his voice careful, measured. “But that’s what I’m asking. You to come with me. Not just as my photographer, but as everything. We’ve talked about this before. We’ve kept things quiet for a reason, and I’ve kept you out of the spotlight because I didn’t want you to feel like you were defined by me or my job."

The words settle in your mind, and you realize how much he’s been thinking about this, how much he’s weighed the possibility of putting you in a situation where you might feel like you’re exposed, vulnerable.

“You said you didn’t want me to get caught up in the circus,” you remind him quietly, your gaze dropping for a moment. “That was the whole point of keeping things separate. You wanted to protect me from all of it. From the pressure, from the opinions - the cameras. But now -” You let your words trail off, unsure of how to finish.

He shifts, leaning closer, his hand finding yours, holding it gently as if to remind you he’s right there with you, standing in the same uncertainty. “I didn’t want you to be part of the circus back then, no,” he admits. “But things are different now. This – what we are, it’s real. And I don’t want to hide it anymore. If you’re not ready, I understand. But I’m asking you because I want you to be there, with me. Not just working, but being with me. And I want the world to see us, too.”

There’s a rawness to his words now, something almost vulnerable in the way he’s looking at you. You’d been caught up in your own fear of what this all meant for you — how you’d fit into his world, how others would see you. But now, looking at him, you realize that maybe he’s just as scared as you are. Scared of pushing you too far, too fast.

Scared of losing you in the process.

“I don’t want to hide,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost like a confession. “Not from you, and not from the world. If you come with me, it’ll be because we’re doing this together. I’m not asking you to be invisible. I’m asking you to be with me.”

You think for a moment, feeling the weight of what this would mean. The risks, the pressure, the eyes that will be on you. And yet, when you look at Charles, there’s something comforting about the idea of being by his side. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But maybe, for once, it doesn’t have to be.

“I’m scared, you know,” you finally say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What people will say, how they’ll look at me. We haven’t even really talked about us — what we are, what this means, and now you want me to step into that world? Just like that?”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “I don’t want to rush you into anything. But I also don’t want to hold you back, or keep you from what you deserve. If you’re not ready, that’s okay. But if you are, if you can handle it - then I’d love for you to come. As you — as my girlfriend, as my photographer. Whatever you want. Whatever you are comfortable with.”

There’s something reassuring in his words, something that makes you feel like you’re not alone in this decision. You know it’s not going to be easy. But maybe, just maybe, this could be your chance to step forward and own this moment, both the professional and personal sides of yourself.

“Okay,” you say finally, the uncertainty still lingering but fading just a little bit. “I’ll go. But only if we do this together. I’m not just your photographer, and I’m not just your girlfriend. I’m me, and I need you to see that.”

“I see you,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving yours. “Always.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and you feel the weight of them, heavy with promise. You watch him, still unsure of how all of this will play out, but something about the way he’s looking at you — like you matter just as much in this world he’s a part of — makes you feel a little more certain.

“I know this is a big ask,” he says, his tone soft but firm, as though he's been thinking about this for a while. “And I’m not rushing you into anything. I’m not asking you to step into the spotlight with me right away, if that’s not what you want. But when we hit the red carpet, I want you to be my personal photographer. I want you to capture all the moments. The behind-the-scenes stuff. That’s your space. I know you’re amazing at it, and I want that for you.”

He pauses, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand, the gesture gentle and deliberate, grounding you in the present moment.

“But after that, when the red carpet's over and the cameras are focused on other things, when the spotlight’s not so much on me -” His voice trails off, and when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something softer, more vulnerable in his eyes. “If you’re ready, you can come an be by my side. If that’s what you want. No pressure. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. But I don’t want you standing behind a lens forever, either. I want to be able to look at you, to be with you, when we’re not in the middle of the circus.”

The room feels quieter now, his words sinking in like a quiet but steady rhythm. He’s giving you the space to make this choice for yourself — to step into this new world at your own pace. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s not a demand. It’s just an invitation, one you feel like you could take.

You blink, your heart beating just a little faster. “So you’re saying I’d be free to move between both worlds? The photographer, the girlfriend -”

“Exactly,” he says, his voice a little lighter now, but still steady. “No pressure to pick one over the other. You do what feels right in the moment. If you need to step back and do your thing, you can. But when the moment’s right for you — when you’re ready to stand beside me as more than just the photographer, as us — I’m not going to stop you from that.”

You let the silence settle between you, letting the idea marinate in your mind. It feels different now, lighter somehow. The boundaries are less rigid. You could be there as both, if that’s what you wanted. Not just one or the other, not just his photographer or his girlfriend, but you — with the choice to move in and out of both roles when it felt right.

“You’re giving me a lot of space,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “But I need to know something, Charles. You want me there with you as both, right? It’s not just because you’re asking me to do my job. It’s because you want me there with you — as me?”

His eyes soften, and the smile that forms on his lips is quiet, but so full of sincerity that it makes your chest tighten just a little. “I want you there because you’re you. Not just because you’re my photographer. Not just because you’re my girlfriend – even if we haven’t talked about the formalities yet. I want you there because you make this whole thing feel... real. And I want to be with you, no matter where we are.”

The words settle in your chest like a promise. You don’t have all the answers, and maybe there’s still a little uncertainty. But for the first time, the idea of stepping into his world doesn’t seem as daunting. He’s not just inviting you along for the ride — he’s giving you the freedom to be yourself, both professionally and personally, and trusting you to make the decision that feels right.

You take a breath, finally letting the tension leave your shoulders. “Okay,” you say, the word carrying more weight than it did before. “I’ll do it. I’ll come with you. As your photographer. And as your girlfriend, if you want me there. But we do this together, as us.”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the uncertainty between you both feels like something you can navigate — together.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “It’s always been us, even if we didn’t know it yet.”

[uluthrek]

au in which robert, the starks and the lannisters play monopoly instead of going hunting and pushing each other‘s kids from towers.

tyrion implements a tax system to make things more interesting and fights cersei over the cat for a solid ten minutes.

around thirty minutes into the game, catelyn realizes that she has free will and stops paying taxes.

arya and sansa haggle over new york avenue, which ends up being bought by theon. this causes the two to completely cast aside their differences, ally and subsequently start doing everything in their power to make theon‘s life hell.

theon himself is quite severely stoned the entire time throughout.

ned enters horrendous debt pretty much immediately and, after two hours of being financially sucked dry by both cersei and his tax evader of a wife, decides to just place his figurine in jail and never leave.

jon, playing the dog, controls the railroads and makes jaime, playing the ship, go completely broke within minutes. being beaten by a bastard and officially the first to lose the game makes jaime so mad he spends the rest of the evening perched on the family‘s ancestral armchair eating flaming hot cheetos and stifling sobs.

cersei is holding onto her last two dollars and her one house in atlantic avenue like a maniac and evades taxes like it‘s an olympic sport. she claims ownership of kentucky avenue on the grounds that red is her house‘s color at least twice. after three hours, she‘s consumed enough vintage red to kill a large mammal and keeps quoting the art of war. fascinatingly enough, she never goes completely broke.

robert, just as broke and drunk as his wife but not nearly as ferocious, proposes marriage for tax advantages to bran, who is in possession of the boardwalk and lets him dangle on his proposition for two rounds before accepting and feeling like a benevolent god.

sansa sees this and immediately proposes to arya, who accepts, only for them to be sued by their mother for public indecency („you‘re siblings, jesus christ!“). arya argues that this is just a game and that one could argue that robert‘s and bran‘s marital alliance is just as if not even more inappropriate, considering that bran is seven and robert thirtyseven. sansa countersues her mother for tax evasion, who promises she‘ll drop her lawsuit if her daughters let her keep hoarding perverse amounts of wealth. „love wins!“ arya says, which causes jaime, still perched on the armchair but now eating old nan‘s home made whiskey truffles, to hysterically sob. cersei stares him down.

robb, in a rare moment of almost prophetic foresight, excuses himself one hour in and goes on a very, VERY long walk with grey wind.

tyrion, whose tax system has spectacularly backfired in his face, proposes marriage to catelyn, jon and cersei in rapid succession, who all turn him down. „i wish i was the monster you think i am. i wish i had enough poison for the whole pack of you. i would gladly give my life to watch you all swallow it.“ he screams before he leaves the table.

at that, joffrey, who has refused to participate and instead sits on the couch playing doom on his nintendo ds, starts hysterically laughing. tyrion turns on his heel and awards his nephew with the bitchslap of the century. this causes cersei to completely abandon the game and chase after him with a broom. catelyn makes sure that everyone is distracted by the lannister antics and then reaches across the table and bags cersei‘s money and properties.

with a heavy heart, myrcella trades arya and sansa one of her limited edition bayala schleich unicorns for park place.

at this point, the game is between the tycoons that are catelyn and jon, the bran-robert alliance, the arya-sansa-alliance, and ned, who is still in jail and watching ice hockey on his phone under the table. that is when catelyn hears rickon gagging and discovers that he, in the absence of tyrion, the self declared bank manager, has managed to eat all bank notes from the box.

rickon gets his stomach pumped, cersei and tyrion have both been arrested, theon is still stoned, arya, sansa and myrcella have wandered off to go play schleich horses, and jon remains at the table, alone, content, and quietly considering himself the winner.