#memo's constellations

[captn3]

orbot has been scheduled for public execution

(this is a joke i love orbot)

[satyricplotter]

short of a soulmate au (my goat) you really cannot go any better than a pacific rim au

[natsaffection]

Redline 5.2 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: arguing, illegal street race, mention of blood, accident, feelings

Word count: 10,8k

A/N: I’m sorry if it feels rushed, I really didn’t want to make a part 3, or my inbox might actually explode 😅 So… good luck getting through it!

Part 1

The sun hung directly overhead, white-hot and unforgiving, but you barely felt the heat. Your race suit clung to your body, the zip pulled down just far enough to breathe, the Romanoff Racing crest on your chest dark with sweat. A champagne bottle hung loosely from your fingers. You stood on the second step of the podium.

Second.

Not because you weren’t fast enough. Not because you made a mistake. Because you gave it up.

On your right, Willow stood high above, flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, a grin so wide it seemed like her whole body might shatter from the force of it. She bounced slightly on her heels like the adrenaline hadn’t let go yet. Trophy in hand. Camera flashes sparkling around her like a constellation she didn’t know how to navigate.

The announcer was calling your names. Applause. Cheering. Distant horns and drums from the fan zone. And you were smiling, too. But it wasn’t joy. It was reflex. A veteran’s mask.

You turned your head just enough to look at Willow. You weren’t angry.. Not anymore. Somewhere between the call and the checkered flag, the fury had given way to something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or peace.

This had been the right choice. You accepted that. Willow didn’t need to be punished for being proud. For being good. For finishing first on a day when everyone said she couldn’t.

And Natasha..God, Natasha had done what a team principal was supposed to do. She had protected both cars. She had protected Willow.

It had just hurt anyway.

The paddock was a blur of people and sound and color. Speakers pumping low bass. Crew laughing, embracing, holding up glasses of something bubbly and golden. Champagne dripped from the floor to the walls in some corners.

Willow stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a towel, her race suit unzipped, hair pulled back in a damp braid, a Romanoff-branded champagne bottle cradled in one arm like a baby.

Her smile hadn’t faded once. She made the rounds, techs, PR, mechanics, thanking every single one of them. They cheered when she passed. Someone handed her a mic for a quick sponsor vid. Her voice cracked a little when she spoke.

Meanwhile, you had slipped in through the side door of the garage. You peeled off your gloves slowly, one finger at a time, listening to the distant chaos but not part of it. No one saw you come in. You preferred it that way.

You walked past the engine bench. Past the tire wall. Past the monitors still looping your lap times. You had driven like a god today. And not a single camera had stayed on you after lap 34.

You reached for a bottle of water on the edge of the pit bench. There were still unopened champagne bottles on the table nearby, leftovers from the stash PR had dropped off earlier.

Natasha stood near them, speaking with one of the tire engineers. Her posture was relaxed now. The tension that had lined her face all morning had bled away.

You watched as she handed a bottle to Willow, no theatrics, no applause. Just a quiet nod. You didn’t want one. That’s not what hurt. It was that the moment didn’t include you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way you were used to being seen. You turned away before Natasha noticed you watching..

The silence in the car was thick in the back seat, so thick you could choke on it. You sat behind Natasha, legs drawn up slightly, your body curled near the window, earphones in again. Hood pulled low. Eyes locked on your phone screen.

Natasha drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming her fingers softly against the steering column. She didn’t speak.

Willow sat up front, still bright-eyed, still breathless. Her phone was out, flipping between photos of the podium, voice memos of her initial race reactions, media alerts already pinging in from Formula 1 socials.

“God..” she said, laughing softly. “It’s already everywhere.”

Natasha glanced at her. “You’ll get used to-”

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses. You turned up the music. Louder. Drowning them out. It didn’t work tho, and you opened your news app.

“The Rise of Romanoff’s Rookie”

“A New Star in F1: Willow Petrov’s Victory in Her First Grand Prix”

“Has L/N Lost Her Edge?”

You kept scrolling.

“Tensions Behind the Podium? Sources Say Team Orders May Have Cost L/n the Win”

“Petrov Shines, L/n Fades, Changing of the Guard at Romanoff Racing?”

Your thumb paused. The articles weren’t cruel. But they were full of words like transition, evolution, legacy. The kind of words they use when they’re already writing your ending.

You felt a slow, sick twist in your stomach. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just that old ache. The one that told you, you might be slipping. That maybe..despite everything, you weren’t what Natasha needed anymore.

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. Your face was unreadable. Still. The kind of stillness that didn’t mean peace. The kind that meant you were leaving your body to avoid the pain.

Natasha’s fingers froze for a second on the steering wheel. And for the first time all day, Natasha’s stomach dropped.

——

The afterparty had fizzled hours ago. There were no more cameras, no more journalists lurking in the lobby with subtle microphones, no mechanics slapping backs and shouting over music. Just the low hum of city life below and the warm flicker of golden light spilling from the hotel’s open windows.

You sat on the balcony of the team lounge, legs up on the railing, hoodie draped over you, a glass of something untouched in your hand. The night air was cooler now, but the wind didn’t bite. You didn’t want company. But you weren’t surprised when the glass door slid open behind you.

“Hey..” Willow said softly, hovering near the edge of the doorway. “Can I..?”

You nodded, not looking at her. “Sure.”

Willow stepped out slowly, dressed down in a loose sweatshirt and compression leggings, her hair still slightly damp from a shower. She walked over and lowered herself into the chair beside you, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet stretching gently between you like something neither of you wanted to break.

“I, um…” Willow started, then stopped. Tried again. “I wanted to say thank you.”

You glanced over at her, one brow raised. “For what?”

“For…” Willow hesitated. “Letting me win. I mean, I know it was team orders, and Natasha said it was for safety, but, I know what that cost you. I do.”

You looked back out at the skyline. The city pulsed in quiet waves, lights blinking, a train moving in the distance. “It wasn’t mine to keep.”

“That’s not true..” Willow said. “You could’ve ignored her. People do. You could’ve stayed in front, taken it. No one would’ve blamed you.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “She would’ve.”

Willow didn’t answer.

“But she made the right call.” you added after a beat. “Your car could’ve failed. Wolfe was closing. We would’ve lost both podiums. It was smart. Strategic.”

“And it still sucked..” Willow said quietly.

Your jaw flexed. You stared down into the glass in your hand.

“I just don’t want to mess this up..” Willow continued. “Not the driving. Not the team. Not with you. I look up to you. I studied you.”

You turned toward her fully then. Your eyes were tired, but not unkind. “You’re not messing anything up, Willow.” you said. “You’re good. You’re…better than I expected.”

Willow blinked, caught off guard. “That sounded like a compliment and a threat at the same time.”

You finally smiled. “Maybe it was.”

You shared a laugh, small, real. Willow tilted her head. “Do you miss when it was just you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes went distant. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “But not because of you. It’s not about competition. It’s about…knowing where I stand. When I came here, I had nothing. Just pain, and wreckage, and Natasha. And now I have this…empire I helped build. I just don’t always know if there’s still a throne.”

Willow’s voice softened. “There is. I’m not here to take it.”

“I know.” you said. “But what if I’m the one stepping down without meaning to?”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not sharp. Just true. Willow reached for her water and took a slow sip, then looked back at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You glanced sideways. “Sure.”

“Would you ever do it again? Step aside?”

You stared at her, long and hard. “No.” you said simply.

Willow nodded. “Good.”

They sat there until the wind picked up. Until the city below dimmed into the hush of midnight. Until the comfort between them didn’t feel like forgiveness or surrender, just a moment of quiet before the world started spinning again.

Most of the team had cleared out to prep media duties. Willow left too to bed. The door opened behind you again, slow and deliberate. Natasha’s footsteps were soft, but the silence was louder.

Natasha crossed the room and sat at the edge of the couch. Close, but not touching. A beat passed.

“This whole ‘silent exile’ routine is…?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You always get tired when Willow wins?”

You snapped your head toward her, eyes narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

Natasha held your gaze, serious, but not cruel. There was something behind it. Not mockery, no judgment. Just…surprise. Like she still didn’t get how the hell you even got here.

“I think it’s kind of unbelievable..” Natasha said. “That you still don’t see what I see.”

You crossed your arms. “Which is?”

Natasha leaned forward now, resting her elbows on her knees. Her voice dropped, calm but firm.

“That girl out there is twenty. She gets excited about free t-shirts. She still calls me Ms. Romanoff by accident.”

You stayed quiet. Natasha’s tone softened. “She’s young, and loud, and yes..good. But she’s not you.”

Your eyes flicked away. “Why do you think that would ever matter to me?” Natasha asked.

You swallowed. “Because maybe she’s easier.”

Natasha blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

You kept your arms crossed. Tight now. “She doesn’t question you. Doesn’t push back. Doesn’t come with history or trauma or baggage. She just drives and smiles and says thank you.”

“Jesus..Y/n..” Natasha muttered.

You shook your head. “You think I don’t notice how you light up around her?”

“Because she reminds me of you when you started.” Natasha said, suddenly. “Not because I want to replace you.”

You stilled. Natasha leaned back, arms now resting on the couch, looking at you, not angry, but wide open.

“I didn’t fall in love with a clean slate.” she said. “I fell in love with you. The stubbornness. The fire. The goddamn walls you put up so high I had to crash through them to reach you.”

You looked at her now, eyes tight. “So why does it feel like you look at her the same way you used to look at me?”

Natasha laughed, short and breathless. “Because you don’t let me look at you like that anymore.”

That hit hard..

“I try.” Natasha said, voice lower now. “But you flinch. You pull away. You act like you’ve already lost me.”

You looked down. Your voice cracked. “Because I’m scared I have.”

Natasha moved then, finally closer. Her hand rested against your knee, firm and grounding. “You haven’t. she said. “And if I ever made you think for a second that you did, then I fucked up.”

Your lip trembled. Natasha cupped your cheek now, gentle but sure. “You are the one I come home to. Not because you’re easy. Because you’re you.”

Your hands finally moved up, into Natasha’s hoodie, gripping at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

“I hate that I think like this..” you whispered. “I hate that I care so much what you think of her.”

“I love that you care.” Natasha said. “But don’t let it eat you. You don’t need to prove anything to me. You already did. A long time ago.”

You looked at her. “So you’re not leaving me for the excited twenty-year-old with a Spotify playlist full of anime intros?”

Natasha smirked. “Not unless you start quoting Fast & Furious again.”

“I said one thing-”

“You quoted family, baby.”

You both laughed, finally, something light. Something real. And Natasha pulled you close.

“I don’t want easier.” she murmured into your hair. “I want you.”

You lay curled on your side on the couch, wrapped in a blanket Natasha had found tucked behind the utility cabinet. Your breathing had evened out, but you weren’t asleep.

You hadn’t let go yet. Your fingers still held onto the edge of Natasha’s hoodie like an anchor. Natasha sat beside you, back against the couch wall, legs stretched out. The dim light from the hallway bled under the door, painting long stripes across the floor.

She watched you. Not to study, just to be near. No pressure. No expectations. Just the gravity of being together, after nearly tearing apart.

After a few minutes, you spoke. Barely above a whisper. “You can go. I’m okay now.”

Natasha didn’t move. “I mean it.” you added. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am.” Natasha said softly. “So I’m staying.”

You smiled faintly into the blanket. “That’s not how sleep works.”

“It is tonight.” You turned just enough to glance up at her. Natasha met your eyes and reached forward, brushing her fingers lightly over your cheek, tucking back a stray hair that had fallen over your temple.

“You’ve had the weight of everything on you for weeks.” she said. “Let me carry some of it.”

You looked down. “I didn’t know how to ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. Then, with a tired voice, raw but no longer tense, you whispered, “Will you lay down with me?”

Natasha didn’t answer. She just stood quietly, kicked off her shoes, and slid behind you on the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. She wrapped her arms around your waist and pressed her forehead to the back of your neck.

You melted into her like you’d been waiting all this time to just stop holding yourself up. And Natasha just held you. Breathing in sync. Heartbeats slow.

Your fingers found Natasha’s and tangled them together beneath the blanket.

“Thank you..”you murmured. “For coming back to me.”

Natasha pressed a soft kiss into your shoulder. “I never left.”

Another breath. A hum of comfort. Then silence again, but the kind that felt safe now..Warm.

Your eyes finally drifted closed. And Natasha stayed awake just a little longer, just to make sure you stayed asleep. Because for tonight, there was nothing left to prove.

Two days later, the sun was just beginning to dip. Most of the team had cleared out, techs heading to dinner, PR disappearing to prep media briefings, the garage growing quieter by the minute.

You stood near the back loading dock, arms folded, watching the sky change colors through a gap in the tarped service tent. Your hair was still damp from the post-sim shower, race suit unzipped, a pair of sunglasses hanging loose from your hand.

You checked your watch again. Then checked your messages. Nothing.

A soft breath escaped your lips. Not angry. Not surprised..Not anymore. Natasha had pulled you aside after debrief this morning. Quick, quiet, the way you always were when keeping things private.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked, resting a gentle hand on your back. “Just us. No phones. No PR. I made a reservation, something small.”

You raised a brow. “You made a reservation?”

Natasha smirked. “I know how. Occasionally.”

Your mouth twitched. “You sure you’re not trying to butter me up before you throw another team order at me?”

Natasha leaned in, close enough to press her lips lightly to your jaw. “I’m trying to remind you I’m yours. That’s it.” It was the first time in days you let yourself hope.

The restaurant was fifteen minutes from the paddock. Natasha had already changed, black trousers, blazer over a dark silk top, simple and sharp, understated but still a statement. She was five minutes from leaving. And then the knock came.

“Boss?”

It was the lead performance engineer. His face was tight. Serious. “We need you.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted. “What is it?”

“The gearbox data wasn’t just a race-day anomaly. There’s more. A degradation pattern, unlike anything we’ve seen. We think it started during pre-season testing and no one caught it. Willow’s car may not be safe for the next race unless we recalibrate the entire load offset manually.”

Natasha blinked. “Can’t Luis run the analysis?”

“We’re already over the legal margin for virtual modeling. This is about the human call now. Strategy. If it fails in practice, she could spin out at 240 kilometers per hour.”

She looked at the clock. 6:43.

Then at her bag. Then back to the data pad in his hands. Her jaw tightened. “Fine. Pull the schematics. I want a full paper trace. Get me the torque curves.“ She didn’t think. She acted.

You stood outside, arms wrapped around yourself. You were dressed simply, black pants, boots, a cropped jacket Natasha once told you made you look dangerous in the best way.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

“I’m sorry. Garage emergency. Gearbox issue. I have to be here. I’ll explain everything later, okay?”

You stared at the message for a long time. Then opened the app and canceled the ride. You didn’t go back upstairs. You just started walking.

10:21 PM

Natasha’s eyes burned as she flipped through the fifth sheet of manual trace mapping. Her sleeves were rolled up, blazer discarded, hair tied back hastily. Grease stained one wrist. Her phone lay beside her, dark and still.

Willow sat two meters away, looking miserable and exhausted, clearly worried not just about her car, but about Natasha’s expression.

“You don’t have to stay..” Willow said. “The others can keep going. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s not about meaning to.” Natasha said, voice low. “It’s about fixing the problem before it’s bigger.”

Somewhere inside, something was twisting. Because she knew. She knew this wasn’t just another missed evening. This one mattered. And she hadn’t been where she promised to be.

11:34 PM

You lay on the far side of the bed, one arm under the pillow, phone still unlocked on the nightstand, the message from Natasha opened but unanswered.

You weren’t angry. Not yet. But you felt it again, that creeping thing under your skin. The slow, familiar ache of realizing that even when someone loves you, they can still leave you standing alone.

And the worst part? You understood why. That was the part that made it harder to forgive. You got up. Didn’t bother dressing properly. Just slipped on a hoodie, track pants, sneakers with no socks. Tied your hair back loosely and left without turning on the lights.

The gym was dark. Motion-sensitive. The fluorescent panels flickered awake as you stepped in. You hit the treadmill but didn’t start it. Just stood there.

Until the stillness became too loud again. So you moved. First to the weights. Then pull-ups. Then quick body circuits until your arms burned and your heartbeat finally drowned out your thoughts.

Sweat dripped down your back. Your breathing came faster. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything.

And still..no message from Natasha. No knock at the door. Not even a check-in.

When your water bottle ran dry, you grabbed it and wandered toward the garage. Not for any reason. Not to see anything. Just habit. Just to move.

You didn’t expect anyone to be there. But as you turned the last hallway into the service bay- You saw them.

Natasha and Willow.

Still in team gear.

Still awake.

Still working.

They were crouched beside the car. Natasha’s sleeves rolled up. Hands dirty, grease on her forearm. A panel open on Willow’s rear suspension. Manuals laid out on a low bench.

Willow was watching closely. Nodding. Then she reached, she picked up a wrench. And Natasha turned to her. Your stomach dropped. She said something. Her voice was soft. Almost smiling. Willow gave a quiet nod.

You turned and walked out. You didn’t hear and saw the rest. You slammed the door harder than you meant to. The silence that followed was deafening. You stood in the middle of the suite, trembling, not from exhaustion, not from rage. Just from the sick, sudden weight of enough.

You wiped your forehead with the sleeve of your hoodie. Sweat and tears mixed somewhere near your eyes, but you refused to let either fall. You dropped the empty water bottle onto the floor. And stood there. Staring at the wall. Every thread that had been fraying these past days finally snapped in silence. And you were done pretending you didn’t feel it.

10 min earlier

The undercarriage schematic was spread out across the workbench, half-covered in coffee rings and fast-food wrappers from the overnight shift. Natasha was halfway through rechecking torque measurements when she realized how late it was.

She rubbed at her temple with the back of her wrist, exhaling long and slow. Willow stood nearby, watching her, curious, unsure.

Natasha appreciated her interest. Really, she did. But this..this par, was sacred. She never let anyone touch her car during recalibration. Not you. Not engineers. Not even herself without silence.

And so, when Willow quietly reached for a wrench, likely just wanting to help, Natasha paused.

“You don’t have to do that.” she said.

Willow blinked, immediately withdrawing. “Oh- sorry. I wasn’t trying to-“

“I know.” Natasha said. “It’s not about you. It’s just…this is the part I do alone.”

Willow nodded quickly, stepping back with both hands raised. “Understood. Sorry. I’ll go get some rest.”

Natasha nodded without looking up. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, Willow left. Natasha exhaled again. Sat back against the stool. Rolled her sore shoulder. It wasn’t until she looked at her phone, battery nearly dead, screen lit with the last text she sent to you three hours ago, that she felt it.

The hallway was quiet. Carpet soft underfoot. The whole floor wrapped in the kind of stillness reserved for dead-of-night regrets and things you can’t unsay.

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside. She was exhausted. Her jaw ached from tension. Her back was tight from hours hunched over schematics. She was about to call out for you when she saw you:

Standing and waiting by the window. Arms folded. Hoodie on. Face red and wet and burning with something that was not sadness anymore.

It was fury. Natasha froze mid-step. “I’m so sorr-”

“You were working with her.”

Your voice was low. Controlled in a way that sounded dangerous. Natasha blinked. “What?”

“I saw you.” You took a step forward. “In the garage. With her. Just the two of you. Just like always lately.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t- We weren’t doing anything. We were fixing her car-“

“You were laughing.”

That stopped Natasha cold. Your voice cracked. “She picked up a wrench. You smiled at her. And I just…watched.”

“Y/n..” Natasha said slowly, stepping closer, palms half-raised like she was approaching something fragile. “That’s not what you think.”

“You never let anyone touch that car..” you said, voice rising now. “Not even me. Not ever.”

“She didn’t help. I told her not to. She put it down.”

“I don’t care if she built the damn gearbox, Natasha. You let her get close.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then why does it feel like it?”

The room went still. Natasha’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Your hands were shaking now. “I waited for you. I got dressed. I showed up for that stupid dinner because..for once I thought maybe you saw what’s happening to me.”

“I do see you-”

“No!” you snapped. “You see what you want to see. You see the teammate. The PR-safe, obedient, team-first girl who steps aside when you tell her to. You see the ghost of who I used to be before she walked in and made it easier to manage everything without me.”

“Stop it.” Natasha said sharply.

“You promised me I wasn’t fading..” you said, voice dropping into something broken. “And now you barely look at me.”

“Jesus.” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Are we seriously doing this again?”

You stood up. “Yes, we are. Because I keep seeing it. And you keep brushing it off like I’m making it up.”

“I’m not brushing anything off.”

“You’re defending her more than you defend me.”

That was it. Natasha stepped forward, calm gone, heat rising. “You don’t get to stand there and accuse me of betrayal every time I do my job, Y/n.”

“It’s not just a job anymore! You treat her like she’s..like she’s the future of this team!”

“She is part of the future!”

“And what am I?” you barked. “The past?”

Natasha didn’t answer. The silence was loud. Too loud. Your voice cracked. “You could’ve chosen me tonight. But you didn’t. Again.”

“I was going to.” Natasha shot back. “But I also have a team to run. A team with a mechanical failure that could’ve killed a rookie if I ignored it.”

“She’s not your responsibility-”

“She is, Y/n! That’s the entire point of my job-”

“You used to make time for me anyway.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. Her voice dropped, dark and dangerous. “You never let me finish a single thought without interrupting.”

You froze. “What?”

“Every fight. Every conversation. Every attempt to explain myself, you cut me off. You decide the narrative, and God forbid I don’t fit inside it.”

“Because I’m tired of rehearsed answers-”

“I’m tired of repeating myself!” Natasha shouted.

“I waited for you. Dressed up. Told myself maybe you’d actually prove me wrong tonight, and you didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed!” Natasha roared. “I noticed every goddamn second! But I’m not just your girlfriend, I’m running a goddamn team!”

Your voice cracked as you screamed back: “I NEVER ASKED YOU TO CHOOSE!”

“Yes, you fucking did!” Natasha shouted, louder than she meant to. “Every fight, every sigh, every passive-aggressive look when I talk to her, I hear it! You want me to put you first every single second or I’m the enemy!”

You were crying now. Fists clenched. Arms shaking. “I’m trying to protect myself!”

“From me?!”

You shouted: “From feeling like I don’t matter to you anymore!”

“You’re the most important thing in my life!”

“You don’t act like it!”

“Because I’m TIRED, Y/n! I’m so fucking tired of trying to prove I love you in ways that you immediately rip apart!”

Tears spilled over your lashes, but your voice just got louder. “BECAUSE I’M SCARED I’M LOSING YOU AND YOU DON’T EVEN NOTICE!”

“I’m here every night, and all I do is get screamed at!”

“Then LEAVE!”

“Maybe I should’ve!”

You went still. So did Natasha. The air punched out of the room. Natasha immediately stepped forward. “I didn’t mean that-“

But your body folded in on itself. You grabbed your phone, your jacket, your bag with shaking hands.

“Where are you going?” Natasha whispered, her voice finally cracking.

You didn’t even look at her. “My old room.”

“Y/n”

You turned, eyes full of hurt so deep it didn’t even look like anger anymore. “You keep saying I don’t let you speak. Fine. Here’s your silence.”

Door closed, and then it was just Natasha. Alone. Breathing hard. Regret coiling through her chest like smoke. And all the things she’d finally said, were exactly the ones she never wanted to.

In your room, you couldn’t stop pacing. The light in the room was dim, just the glow of a desk lamp you hadn’t turned off. Your racing jacket hung over the chair like a memory. You moved back and forth across the small space, your fingers pulling at your sleeves, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

Every echo of the argument replayed in your head, louder, harsher, more cutting. Natasha’s voice. Your own. The way everything just blew up.

“Maybe I should’ve!”

The sentence throbbed in your skull. You ran a hand through your hair and sat on the bed, only to get back up seconds later. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t even sit still. So you grabbed your phone. Swiped the screen. Opened Instagram. Mindless scroll.

Until..A story.

One of the drivers you spoke to last week. A short video of a black car idling under neon lights, tires hot with burnout smoke. A laughing voice behind the camera. Someone shouting “Let’s see what the boys really got tonight!”

Your breath caught in your throat. In the background, under the glow of streetlamps, a car. Not a race car, a street-tuned

You stared at it. They’d invited you.. You hadn’t said yes, but the invitation had stayed in your mind like a devil in the corner. Your fingers moved before your brain could catch up, and you were out the door in five minutes.

Natasha lay on her back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around her legs, too hot, too cold, too wrong. She’d tried to sleep. Tried to silence the echo of your voice, but guilt lived in her chest like a second heartbeat.

“I’m scared I’m losing you!”

Natasha blinked into the dark. Then she sat up fast. She couldn’t leave it like this. She swung her legs out of bed, pulled on a hoodie and soft pants, grabbed her phone..still dead, and slipped out of the room.

The hallway was too quiet. When she reached your old room, she knocked once.

No answer. Twice. Nothing.

Her gut twisted, so she opened the door, and froze. The light was still on. The sheets a little rumpled. A half-drunk water bottle on the desk. But no you.

No shoes. No phone charger. No jacket. Gone.

“Shit.”

Her heart dropped. Just then, a voice behind her.

“Hey, Natasha?”

Natasha turned, jaw clenched. “Not now.”

Willow held up her hands. “Sorry. I just…thought you’d want to see this.”

She held out her phone, Instagram open. A paused story. Natasha’s blood went cold. The frame showed a street-lit parking lot. A car lined up with two others. And in the corner, barely visible but unmistakable, you, leaning against a car.

Natasha snatched the phone from her. “When was this posted?”

“Two minutes ago..” Willow said, worry in her voice now. “They tagged the location.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already walking.

“Where are you—?”

“To go get her.”

Willow called after her: “Should I tell security?”

“NO!” Natasha barked. “You tell no one.”

She was doing 80 in a 50 zone. The GPS pinged the pin on the map, a tucked-away industrial lot just outside the city. She knew the type: unregistered circuits, drivers with too much ego, zero control, no helmets.

Her grip tightened on the wheel. “Fucking hell, Y/n…”

Her jaw was locked. One hand clenched the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white, the other flicked the high beams on and off through the darkness like a warning.

She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just scared. She was furious that you would risk everything, your life, your career, the team, just to escape for one night.

But even deeper than the rage, she was terrified. Because if something happened to you out there…

She’d seen what street racing could do. Crushed frames. Fire scars. Bodies slumped under tarps while a crowd looked away.

You knew better. And yet… Her phone lay useless in the passenger seat, still on Willow’s screen, the frozen Instagram story of the street, the smoke, the blur of a backup car she recognized like muscle memory.

Her thoughts twisted tighter with every mile: What if you raced? What if they crashed? What if you’re not answering because-

She pressed harder on the gas. The moment she turned into the lot, her heart dropped. Blue lights. Two ambulances. A police car blocking the exit.

Smoke still hung low in the air, mixing with exhaust and the sting of hot metal. One of the cars was nothing but a crumpled shell, front end folded in like paper. The second had wrapped around a streetlight, its rear half nearly torn free.

And worse? Your car wasn’t visible. People were shouting. Flashlights swung across the crowd. Medics were hauling stretchers. Phones were recording.

Natasha stopped the car in the middle of the road. Didn’t park, didn’t shut the door. She just ran.

“Y/n?!”

No one turned. She shoved her way past someone filming. “MOVE!” Her voice cracked with a sharp edge no one questioned.

She scanned the faces, but they all looked the same: drunk, dazed, anonymous. And then, she saw the wreck up close. Blood on the side window. A glove hanging from the mirror. A long strand of hair tangled in a shattered door hinge.

Her knees almost gave out. Her voice broke entirely. “No, no, no…”

She grabbed a man by the vest. “Who was in that car? Tell me who was driving!”

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “I-I don’t know, I- two, one of them was yelling, the other-“

“Was it a woman?! Did you see a woman?!”

And then, behind her, “Natasha?”

She turned like she’d been shot. You were there. Standing near a metal railing just beyond the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, jacket pulled tight. Your face pale, eyes wide. Your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha froze. For one breath. Two. Then she moved- no, she sprinted. And when she reached you, she didn’t say a word, just threw her arms around you, gripping you like she wasn’t sure if you were real or not.

You stumbled into it, arms pinned, breath caught. “Nat-”

“You don’t do that to me!” Natasha shouted, pulling back just far enough to look at you, eyes wet, voice ragged. “You don’t disappear and bring me to this- THIS!”

You tried to answer, but Natasha wasn’t finished. Her voice cracked harder. “I saw the wreck. I thought it was you. I thought I was going to walk over and find your-“ Her voice cut off. “I thought you were in there. I thought I lost you.”

Your eyes glassed over. “I didn’t race..” you whispered. “I-I was going to. But I backed out.”

Natasha just looked at you. “You don’t get to scare me like that!”

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, so small, so hollow, like it barely escaped your throat.

Natasha reached up, hand cupping your cheek roughly. “No. You’re not. Not yet. Not until you understand what it felt like to see that wreck and not know. Not until you know how fast I was willing to lose everything just to get to you.”

You said nothing. You just leaned forward. And Natasha pulled you in again, not soft..but safe.

——

The road was quiet now. The flashing lights had disappeared behind them. The industrial lot was miles back. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the horizon was softening, that cold blue-gray of a day trying to start.

Inside the car, it was silent. You sat curled against the passenger-side door, legs pulled up, jacket zipped tight. You hadn’t said a word since they left. Just stared out the window, arms wrapped around yourself, your face unreadable.

Natasha gripped the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. The adrenaline was gone now, but the fear lingered. It pulsed under her skin like something sour. She could still feel the moment when she thought you were gone. When she saw that wreck and didn’t know.

She couldn’t shake it. They hadn’t spoken, not really. Not until you exhaled a shaky breath and broke the silence with the smallest voice:

“Can you pull over?”

Natasha glanced at you. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

That was it. Just no.

Natasha blinked, then nodded. She eased the car off the road and into a small dirt clearing. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop.

The air was cold. You stepped around the front of the car, then just…stopped. Your back was to Natasha. You didn’t move for a long moment.

And then, your shoulders started shaking, and Natasha moved. She crossed the space between you and wrapped her arms around you from behind, pulling you in, holding you tight as you broke, really broke, the sobs silent at first, then raw and deep.

“I’m s-sorry..” you gasped. “I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking, I just- I needed everything to stop..!”

Natasha closed her eyes, holding you. Her chin rested on your shoulder. “You could’ve died.” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I wouldn’t have known until it was already too late.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the crash. I-” Natasha’s voice broke fully now. “I thought I was going to have to identify you.”

You turned in her arms. You looked like a wreck, hair wild, eyes red, face pale. But you were there.

“I didn’t race..” you said again. “But I almost did. I wanted to. I was two steps from getting in the car. And then they went ahead of me. And when they hit- I saw what would’ve happened. What could’ve happened.”

Natasha touched your cheek, gently this time. “And?”

“I felt sick. Like I’d swallowed all my anger and it turned to lead in my chest.”

You looked down. “I don’t deserve to be here with you.”

Natasha’s voice came quiet. “Don’t say that.”

“I scared you.”

“You did.”

“I scared myself.”

Natasha took your hand. “Then let’s just…sit for a bit, okay?” You sat for hours. The only time Natasha spoke again was just before they pulled into the driveway.

“If you want..” she said quietly, “I can cancel Willow’s contract.”

Your head turned slightly. Your brows furrowed.

“What?”

Natasha didn’t look at you. “If that’s what it takes for you to feel safe again. I’ll do it. No press. No drama. I’ll take the heat.”

You blinked. That offer hit hard, but not in the way Natasha expected. Because it wasn’t what you wanted. It never had been.

You swallowed, eyes back to the windshield. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

Natasha finally turned her head. “Y/n-”

“Please.”

Your voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want to forget it for one night.”

Natasha exhaled. Nodded once. “Okay.”

You didn’t shower. Didn’t undress all the way. Just crawled beneath the covers, your back to Natasha’s chest, both of you fully clothed, like you were too tired to be anything but present. Natasha’s arm curled over your middle. Not pulling. Just being there. And you let it happen.

——

The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and soft sunlight warmed the edge of the bed. But that wasn’t what woke you. It was Natasha’s hand, moving in slow circles over your shoulder blade. Barely-there touches. Tracing the curve of old tension.

The sheets rustled. Natasha was already awake, and eyes open. You blinked, letting out a groggy sigh. Your voice was hoarse. “How long have you been doing that?”

Natasha smirked softly, voice still sleep-scratchy. “Long enough to know it still calms you down.”

Your lips twitched. “You trying to seduce me out of my trauma?”

“Maybe..” Natasha murmured. “Is it working?”

A soft hum escaped your throat, something between a sigh and a laugh. You rolled to face her, finally, and found Natasha’s eyes already waiting.

Then Natasha brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “It’s in the news.”

You didn’t flinch. “Figured.”

“We have a conference in three hours.”

You groaned and buried your face into the pillow. “Seduction cancelled.”

Natasha chuckled. “I’ll reschedule it. Post-conference. Post-disaster.”

You turned back toward her, eyes soft. “Thanks for not saying more last night.”

“I wanted to.” Natasha said honestly. “But it felt more important to just…stay.”

“You did.”

Your eyes met. There was a stretch of silence where neither of you moved, where the morning wrapped around you like a blanket heavier than the one on the bed.

Then you leaned forward, pressed your forehead to Natasha’s, and whispered, “I’ll talk. Just…not yet.”

Natasha nodded. “Okay.”

You stayed like that for a long time. The conference could wait. The news could wait. For now, there were only two people in a bed too big for the weight you’d both been carrying. And in the quiet, in the warmth, in the slow rhythm of being wrapped around each other, there was a peace that neither of you had known in weeks.

“Can we just stay here forever?” you mumbled. Natasha smiled, lips against your skin. “You give the press conference, I’ll fake our deaths.”

“Deal.”

Hours later, the mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

The mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

Natasha sat beside you, not across the table. Not near the monitors..Right next to you. The team was already assembled, Jared from PR, the strategy director, a few engineers, even Willow, seated opposite with her tablet tucked to her chest.

But Natasha hadn’t looked at anyone else since she walked in. Her chair was turned slightly toward you. One arm draped loosely over the back of your seat. She hadn’t said much, not yet, but she didn’t need to. Your hands stayed in your lap, twisting at the hem of your sleeve. Your voice hadn’t worked properly since you’d woken up.

“Let’s keep this clean.” Jared said. “The street race footage is circulating. No proof you raced, but public speculation is enough. We get ahead of it by framing it our way.”

Natasha’s jaw flexed. She didn’t speak. Jared kept going. “We’ll lean on team unity. Frustration under pressure. Personal responsibility. But we need empathy without opening you up to liability.”

You didn’t look up. Your eyes were on the edge of the table. Jared hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I’ve got talking points drafted. We’ll review together after. And for the joint interview-”

“Wait.” Natasha said suddenly, voice quiet but sharp. Her hand moved slowly, resting lightly on your knee under the table. Protective. Subtle. But there.

You froze. You hadn’t expected that. You didn’t know how much you needed it. Natasha didn’t look at the others. Only at you.

“She doesn’t need a script.” Natasha said. “She just needs space.”

Jared blinked. “We have to shape perception-”

“I’ll handle it.” Natasha interrupted. You turned your head, just slightly. And Natasha met your eyes. Held them. I’m not mad. I’m here. The message was silent, but loud enough to quiet the panic building behind your ribs.

You sat on the bench in the green room, holding a bottle of water you hadn’t opened. The questions would be brutal. The room would be hot. The world would be watching. You should’ve felt prepared. But your throat was tight.

“I’ll be next to you the whole time.” Natasha said, crouching in front of you. Her tone was softer than anyone else had heard it all week. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest.”

You looked down. “Honesty might get us dropped by two sponsors.”

“I don’t care about sponsors.” Natasha said. “I care about you.”

Your eyes burned, and then Willow stepped into the room. Quiet, hesitant. She didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look, not challenging. Not pitiful. Just… there.

You nodded once. It was the closest you’d come to a truce. Then you were called in. Three chairs. Three names. Three very different silences.

You sat with your hands folded on the table. Natasha to your right. Willow on the left. The first question came fast.

“You, last night’s footage paints a concerning picture. Were you involved in the race?”

You lifted your mic. Your voice came quiet but steady. “I was there. I didn’t race. But I shouldn’t have been there. It was a bad choice.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Do you feel like you’ve let down your team, especially the younger drivers?”

You exhaled slowly, but before you could answer- Willow leaned into her mic.

“No one in this room has the right to speak on what she’s carrying.”

Every head turned. Willow sat straight, eyes sharp.

“She’s not just a champion on the track, she’s the one who shows up first, who checks our setups, who stands behind us even when the world’s tearing her down. She’s not perfect. But none of us are. So if this team stands for anything, it’s for having each other’s backs.”

Silence. And then, almost imperceptibly- Your walls cracked. No one expected her to speak, least of all you. The next question came slower. Softer. About engine setups. Natasha took it.

But you barely heard it. Your eyes were still on Willow. She sat tall, hands in her lap, expression unreadable. Not proud. Not performative. Just… solid..loyal.

It hit you like a gut punch. I got her all wrong. You thought you’d been battling some threat. A rival. A replacement. But maybe- Maybe you’d been looking at the only person on this team who never judged you once.

The press was finally over. People scattered. Doors opened and closed. Noise began to fade. You ducked into a side hallway just off the main press room, needing a second to yourself. Your hands still buzzed, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off. You leaned against the wall, eyes closed, trying to slow your breath.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was Willow. But you didn’t move away. She stopped beside you, didn’t lean, didn’t fidget, didn’t speak.

Just stood there, and the silence stretched. “You didn’t had to do that.”

Willow shrugged. “Yeah, I did.”

You turned your head to look at her. Willow was staring at the opposite wall. Voice even, steady. “You were the first driver I ever watched. When I was fifteen, I clipped your post-race interview after the Monza win. Saved it to my phone.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Willow smiled a little. “You didn’t smile in it. You just looked exhausted. And real. I remember thinking, ‘That’s what I want. That kind of focus.’”

You looked down.

“I didn’t come here to replace you.” Willow said quietly. “I came here because I wanted to learn from you.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I thought you hated me by now..” you admitted.

“I thought you didn’t see me at all.”

A pause. Then Willow’s voice dropped, honest and a little raw: “You ever feel like if you mess up once, it’s all gone? Like…the place you earned suddenly slips out from under you?”

You turned to fully face her. “Yeah.”

Willow finally looked at you. “It feels like that all the time.”

You studied her. Saw the sharpness behind her eyes, brave, ambitious, terrified. Just like you once were. You stepped a little closer. “You’re doing good, Willow.”

Willow blinked. It was the first time she’d heard you say her name without tension. You let out a breath. “If anyone gives you shit out there, media, paddock, team, tell them to come through me first.”

Willow’s lip curled into a slow smile. “That includes you, right?”

You smirked. “Especially me.”

You both laughed..light, breathy. For the first time, it felt easy. Not perfect..but safe.

Back at the track, you stood by the window, barefoot, a hoodie slouched off one shoulder, hair damp from a shower you took without even realizing it. Your body ached, not from driving, but from everything else.

Behind you, the door clicked, and Natasha entered. No words. Just the familiar sound of her keys, her quiet footsteps, the small thump of her jacket being laid over the chair.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. Natasha came up behind you slowly and wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her cheek against your shoulder.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy now. You closed your eyes. Let yourself lean back into it.

“Hey.” Natasha said softly. “About the interview.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“She meant it…She looks up to you.” Natasha continued. “And not just for the racing.”

“She doesn’t have to.” you said.

“But she does.”

Another pause. Then, you turned in Natasha’s arms and buried your face in her neck. Not crying, or breaking. Just holding on. “I was scared I wasn’t enough anymore.” you admitted. Your voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared.

Natasha pulled you in tighter. “You were never ‘enough’ to me because of what you did. You’re enough because of who you are.”

Your hands clutched the fabric of Natasha’s shirt. “I’m still figuring that out.”

“I’ll wait with you.” Natasha whispered. “As long as it takes.”

You nodded against her skin. You stood there for a long time. “I don’t want you to cancel her contract.”

Natasha paused. “You sure?”

You looked back over your shoulder. Willow was still in the hallway, arms crossed, now being roped into some joke by one of the engineers.

“She’s good. She’s herself. And that matters.”

A breath. “I want her here. Not just on the team. With us.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. Then she smiled. Something slow, relieved, proud. “She’s lucky.” she murmured. “To have someone like you on her side.”

You met her gaze. “She’s not the only one.”

Natasha leaned in, just enough to brush her hand along your wrist. It was a promise, and you..this time, believed it.

Three Months Later – Monaco GP Weekend – 2 Hours Before Quali

You leaned against the wall of the garage, helmet in hand, hair braided back tight, lips curved into a smirk. Across from you, Willow was pacing. Half-nervous, half-hyped. Her suit hung open at the top, gloves shoved into her back pocket. She turned suddenly and pointed at you.

“If I beat your sector time in turn nine, you’re buying drinks.”

You laughed. “If you beat my sector time in turn nine, I’ll name a cocktail after you.”

Willow grinned. “Deal.”

“Hey.” you added, tone lowering as you pushed off the wall. “You ready?”

Willow’s smile dimmed, replaced by something deeper. “Yeah. I think I am.”

You nodded, then reached out and bumped her shoulder gently, affectionate, solid. “Go make me proud, rookie.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “You literally call me that just to flex that I’m not a world champion.”

“You’ll get there.” you said, softer this time. “And when you do, I’ll still call you that.”

You both laughed. It was easy now. Natural. What once felt like pressure had turned into gravity, holding you together instead of pulling you apart.

“Willow’s been faster in the corners all weekend.” Natasha said, eyes on the map. “But your exit speed is giving her a gap on the straights. We’re debating who gets clean air for the second run.”

The room turned to you. You didn’t hesitate. “Give it to her.”

Everyone blinked. Natasha looked up. “You sure?”

You gave a small smile. “I’ve had the spotlight. Let the kid have a shot.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you being…nice to me?”

“I’ll deny it by dinner..” you said. Natasha’s eyes didn’t leave you. She was smiling, but her chest had tightened slightly. Not with worry, but with pride.

Willow had qualified P3. You, P4.

You were both happy..Genuinely happy. You raised your glass from across the table and yelled over the music, “TO THE ROOKIE!”

Everyone cheered. Willow pretended to bow, grinning like she couldn’t believe her own night. It made something in your chest soften. The kind of soft that used to make you ache. Now, it just felt good.

“You’re not just my teammate anymore, you know.”

Willow looked at you.

“You’re mine now.” you said. “Little sister I never asked for.”

Willow smiled wide, teeth showing. “I’ll take it.”

The party had quieted down. The city sparkled beneath you. Monaco felt like a dream in slow motion. You stepped outside, barefoot, hoodie over your race tee.

Natasha was already there, leaning against the railing, hair loose, a champagne glass resting beside her hand. You came up behind her and slid your arms around her waist, resting your head between her shoulder blades.

“You’re warm..” you mumbled.

“I’ve been standing in the same spot waiting for you to do exactly this.” Natasha replied.

You smiled into her back. “Guess I’m predictable now.”

“No.” Natasha said, turning to face you, eyes soft. “You’re just steady. And that’s everything.”

You stood like that for a moment. No tension, no fear.. Just love, real, grounded, still full of sparks, but quiet now. Like embers. Natasha tucked a hand against your jaw. “You’re not the girl I picked up after a crash anymore.”

“No?”

“You’re stronger. Calmer. Smarter.”

You smirked. “Still hotter, though.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Debatable.”

You laughed, and leaned in. The kiss was soft. Familiar. Slow. When you parted, you whispered, “You know I’d still choose you. Even if I wasn’t your driver.”

Natasha held your gaze. “I chose you long before you ever got in my car.”

The city glowed around you. The sound of the ocean below. The wind in your hair. Everything exactly where it belonged.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded. “I was thinking about where we started,” you said softly. “About how many times I thought I was going to lose all of this.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Me too.”

“And?”

She looked at you. “I didn’t. We didn’t.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder. “I don’t need to be the only star. I just didn’t want to burn out alone.”

“You never were.” Natasha whispered. “Not for one second.”

The city blinked quietly beneath you. And you stayed like that until the moon rose.

Together.

Still here.

Still holding on.

Still hers.

-

-

-

[rik0shii]

lads guys headcanons

(zayne,sylus,xavier,rafayel,caleb)

warnings :fluff

request: yes

thank you for requesting, I'm new to doing those things so pls tell me if it wasn't to your liking or if it wasn't what you imagined so that I can fix it and get better !

Zayne

• Super punctual—if you have a date set for 1 PM, he’s already outside at 12:50, waiting in his car just so he can call you at the exact time.

• Kids adore him. He has that calm, safe aura that makes even the shyest child want to hold his hand.

• ASMR king—his whispery, soft-spoken voice could put anyone to sleep. If he ever recorded voice memos for you, they’d be the most soothing thing ever.

• After a long mission, he welcomes you with quiet reassurances, hugging you from behind and murmuring, “You did great today. I missed you.”

• Loves holding your hand, whether it’s a quick squeeze of reassurance or intertwining fingers while walking.

• Soft, sleepy smiles—the rare moments when he’s tired but still awake enough to look at you and grin lazily.

• Would totally tuck a blanket around you if you fell asleep on the couch.

Xavier

• Definitely the “I know a spot” guy. And when he shows you? It’s breathtaking—some secret rooftop, a hidden garden, a quiet overlook.

• Hand-holding and forehead kisses in those quiet places where it’s just the two of you.

• If you’re on a mission and he’s not with you, he refuses to sleep. He’ll pace, check his phone, stare at the ceiling—anything but rest.

• CLINGS when you return. Arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, and a muffled, “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

• Skilled with his fingers? Definitely means he can play the piano beautifully. Would learn your favorite song just to surprise you.

• Lowkey romantic in an effortless way. Always the guy to drape his jacket over you if you’re cold or tilt your chin up before a kiss.

Sylus

• Loves stargazing. If you ever go on a late-night drive, he’ll pull over just to sit on the hood of the car with you, pointing out constellations.

• Loves rainy days—the sound, the smell, the way it makes everything feel cozy. If it’s storming outside, he’s making hot drinks and pulling you onto the couch for a movie marathon.

• A big fan of sleepy cuddles. He’ll absentmindedly run his fingers through your hair while half-asleep.

• Writes little notes for you and leaves them in random places—inside books, on your mirror, tucked into your jacket pocket.

• Horrible at remembering dates but amazing at remembering tiny details—like the way you take your coffee or the song you hummed once three months ago.

• Unironically loves stuffed animals. If you ever give him one, he’ll pretend it’s no big deal, but you’ll definitely find it on his bed later.

Caleb

• Super protective but in a quiet way—he’ll walk on the side closest to the street, double-check locks before bed, and always notice when you seem off.

• Really good cook—if you’re having a bad day, expect a homemade meal that somehow tastes exactly like comfort.

• Loves fixing things for you. Broken zipper? He’s on it. Squeaky door? Fixed. Car won’t start? He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

• Acts grumpy but is secretly the softest. If you rest your head on his shoulder, he’ll pretend to sigh but won’t move an inch.

• Always warm. If you’re cold, he’ll just pull you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

• Reads a lot. Might not admit it, but he totally has a favorite book and will casually reference it in conversation.

• Loves slow dancing in the kitchen. No music, just the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat.

Rafayel

• Absolute charmer—he can flirt like it’s second nature, but when it comes to real feelings, he gets a little shy.

• Knows how to dress. If you ever need help picking an outfit, he’ll make sure you look stunning.

• Sends voice memos instead of texts. His voice is too smooth not to be used.

• Great dancer—whether it’s a fancy ballroom-style twirl or a goofy little move in the kitchen, he makes everything feel fun.

• Gives the best compliments—not just about looks, but little things like, “I love how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.”

• Cuddling expert. His hugs are always just the right amount of firm, warm, and lingering.

• Loves learning about you. Your favorite color? Noted. The way you like your tea? Memorized. A weird fact about something you love? He’ll bring it up just to see you smile.

[understeeringirl]

The almost

Summary: The night is too sharp, too bright, too full of cameras—and you’ve never looked better. Lando can’t take his eyes off you, but he also can’t seem to say a single honest thing. The pretending is swallowing you both whole. You almost kiss. It doesn’t happen. But the wanting is undeniable now—and for the first time, so is the anger. You confront him, finally, beneath the glow of city lights and champagne haze. He doesn’t tell you how he feels. But he says enough to make you pause. Almost enough. Warnings: mutual pining (or kinda one-sided), silence as a love language (lol), lando being stupid, red carpet tension, jealousy, one (1) almost kiss, girl dinner = champagne and disappointment. Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 2.8k Series: Wrong Side of the Camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

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

You think about deleting the voice note a hundred times.

It’s still there on your screen from two nights ago. "Miss you."

He didn’t answer. Not that night, not the next morning. Just the brutal silence of a message played but never acknowledged.

You didn’t write again. You couldn’t. He left you on read in the worst way possible.

You hovered over his name in your messages, thumb twitching toward the keyboard, then back again. Wrote out a reply. Deleted it. Typed something sarcastic. Deleted that too. Stared at the little "Played" notification like it owed you an explanation.

You thought about texting your best friend, maybe just to vent, to say: It’s not even what he said. It’s what he didn’t. It’s the silence. It’s always the silence.

But even that felt too raw. Too close to something you couldn’t name.

So you closed the app. And told yourself it didn’t matter.

This morning, your phone buzzed.

"sorry i’ve been weird. things have been a lot. hope you’re okay."

No voice memo. No call. Just three sentences, lowercase. Cowardly.

You stared at it for a long time. Didn’t know what to say.

So you didn’t answer either.

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

The Silver & Black Gala invite comes through your manager, but you know it’s not just yours.

It’s a formality. Everyone knows the real pull is the photo op. Lando and you— couple of the year. Strategic arm candy. Headlines wrapped in sequin and black tie.

He doesn’t text you about it.

You cave first.

"you going to that silver & black thing?"

Six hours later:

"yeah. guess we should coordinate"

That’s it.

You want to scream. Instead, you forward the invite to your stylist.

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

The fitting is chaos, in the glamorous kind of way.

You arrive at the studio late in the afternoon, and the team is already buzzing. Racks of gowns spill through the hallway, hangers clashing as assistants hunt for backups, alternates, miracle options. Someone hands you a green juice. Someone else kisses both cheeks.

"We’re doing powerful, not princess," your stylist says, tugging a silver dress from its hanger. "She needs to look like she invented the red carpet."

"I want to look untouchable," you say simply.

That makes her grin. "Oh, you will."

The gown fits like it was sewn onto your soul. Liquid silver, backless, the kind of dress that hushes a room. There are layers to it—sheer panels, sequins stitched like constellations, the suggestion of fragility wrapped around the armor of someone who knows exactly what she's worth.

When you step in front of the mirror, the room falls quiet.

"Jesus Christ," someone murmurs.

One of the assistants drops a pin.

Your stylist walks a slow circle around you. “He’s going to lose his fucking mind.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "He won't even notice."

The team fusses with the hem while you stand perfectly still, trying to ignore the knot in your chest. Your makeup artist applies shimmer across your collarbone, dusts light along your cheekbones. The air smells like hairspray and champagne. Music thrums low from a speaker. It should feel like a triumph.

But all you can think about is the voice note. The silence. The distance that keeps expanding.

You nod through the chaos. Get pinned, powdered, perfected. And somewhere in the mirror, your reflection becomes something sharp.

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

He doesn’t even pick you up.

A sleek black town car slides to a stop at your curb. The driver opens the back door without a word. You step into the backseat alone, gown spilling like smoke over the leather.

Your phone stays silent the whole ride.

You type a dozen unsent messages. "You forgot me." "Don’t worry, I’ll smile for the cameras." "You don’t even care." Delete. Delete. Delete.

Outside, the city sharpens. The closer you get to the gala, the more the skyline gleams.

By the time you arrive, your heart is thudding in your ears.

He’s already there.

You spot him the moment you step out: standing on the edge of the carpet, photographers closing in. He turns like he feels you before he sees you.

And when he does—

It hits him. You see it. You feel it.

His mouth parts. His expression falters. His eyes drag over every inch of you like he's trying to memorize it.

But all he says is, “Hey. Ready?”

You nod, chin high. “Sure.”

The cameras flash. A sea of shutters and noise. You pose like it doesn’t hurt.

The red carpet is a frenzy—paparazzi calling your name, lenses snapping like gunfire. But it’s not just noise. It’s a chant. Your name—over and over, rising above the chaos like a beat. Models, stylists, fashion editors—they’re all watching.

“Look here!, right here!”

“Give us that over-the-shoulder!”

“Hold that pose—yes, that’s money!”

You angle your body instinctively, years of training kicking in. Chin tilted, hands placed just-so on your waist, the train of the dress falling behind you like liquid light. The flashbulbs eat it up. Somewhere, someone on the carpet mutters, “That’s the shot of the night.”

You meet a fashion journalist’s eyes for half a second. They raise their brows. Impressed. You know the look. You’re not just a plus-one here—you’re the moment.

"Who are you wearing?"

You smile, lean slightly into the microphone. “Custom Azzaro.”

Another voice calls out, “Did you two coordinate or did the stars align?”

You glance at Lando without really looking. “Guess we’re both having a silver lining kind of night.”

Laughter. Clicks. Flashes. Someone calls you a vision. Another calls you dangerous.

“Any truth to the rumors about moving in together?”

Your smile turns diamond-hard. “Not yet. But the headlines have great imaginations.”

You turn for one last round of shots, expression unreadable, jaw set in a way that only the cameras will notice when they zoom in tomorrow.

It’s a dance. You’ve memorized every step. Smile. Tilt. Laugh. Deflect. Destroy. Pose like your heart isn’t aching.

They keep clicking.

Lando keeps a perfect distance—close enough to sell it, far enough to feel cold.

No hand on your back. No whispered joke. No warmth.

When someone asks about your relationship, he gives a clipped smile and says, “We work well together.”

You laugh, too sharp. The lights feel hotter than they should.

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

As you step inside, the air shifts. Glittering chandeliers drip light onto black marble floors. A violinist plays somewhere near the bar. It’s the kind of space that makes you feel expensive just by breathing in it.

Almost immediately, someone waves you both down.

“Lando! Y/N!”

It’s Sophia Darnell—editor-in-chief of Mode. Polished to a shine, champagne flute in hand. Her gaze skims you both, then lingers on you.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheeks. “That gown is unforgivable. In the best way.”

“Thank you,” you say smoothly. “You look divine.”

She turns to Lando. “You know, when I heard you two were attending, I thought—finally. They’re giving the people what they want.”

Lando chuckles, polite. “We try to be efficient.”

“Efficient,” she repeats, amused. Then to you: “And you? How’s the runway treating you lately? Still fielding three campaigns at once?”

“Four,” you say. “But who’s counting?”

Sophia gives an approving nod. “I hope you’re planning to come to Milan next month. You’re what Versace keeps trying to bottle.”

Before you can answer, someone calls her from across the room. She kisses the air beside your face. “Don’t disappear before I get a photo. You look mythic.”

She glides away, heels barely touching the floor.

You glance at Lando. “Efficient?”

He shrugs. “It was the first word I could think of.”

“Sure it wasn’t ‘convenient’?”

He doesn’t answer.

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

Inside the venue, it only gets worse.

The ballroom is glitter and money, the kind of elegance that screams curated excess. You’re seated at the same table—names printed in elegant script—but it may as well be different planets.

He checks his phone more than he talks to you.

You make conversation with people he introduces you to—a sponsor, someone from his team, a designer whose name you don’t quite catch. You smile through it, answer questions, hold your glass like it’s armor.

And Lando drifts.

He disappears into the crowd to speak with someone from McLaren. Doesn’t excuse himself. Doesn’t look back.

You sit there. Alone.

Until James drops into the empty seat beside you.

James Hadley—model, frequent campaign co-star, and something of a fashion world fixture. Easygoing, always perfectly unbothered, and devastatingly charming in a way that never quite crossed the line.

He hasn’t changed. Not really.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, smiling wide.

You laugh. It’s strained. "I could say the same."

He gestures to your dress. "That is… weaponized. You realize that, right?"

You glance sideways, then down at your glass. "It had to be."

James leans closer, lowering his voice. "So, what’s the verdict—still playing house with your favorite F1 driver, or is that all just smoke and mirrors?"

You raise a brow, swirling your drink. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

He grins. "I always liked you, you know. Even when we were stuck under studio lights for eight hours with no AC. You kept your sense of humor. That’s rare."

You smile, soft but tired. "Survival tactic."

James’s gaze lingers. “If it ever gets too exhausting… I’m just saying. I make a great escape plan.”

You open your mouth to respond—but that’s when you feel it: Lando returning.

His presence hits before his voice does, like a static charge crawling up your spine. His steps slow as he approaches. You don’t turn to look.

"Hey," Lando says finally, low and tight.

James straightens, casually cool. "Lando, mate. You clean up alright."

Lando extends a hand and James takes it—but there’s a subtle weight behind it, something testing.

"You too," Lando says. His tone is civil, but cold.

James doesn’t seem fazed. He glances at you. "Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to step on any headlines."

"Probably wise," Lando says without smiling.

James chuckles and brushes a hand lightly over your arm as he gets up. "You know where to find me."

Lando watches that hand like it’s a warning.

The moment James disappears into the crowd, Lando slides into the seat beside you. His hand brushes your shoulder—barely there, like a question.

You don’t react.

"Friend of yours?" he asks after a moment.

You look straight ahead. "We met on a shoot in Monaco, two summers ago. Not that you’d remember."

Lando says nothing.

Silence.

He doesn’t say anything. Not about the dress. Not about how he looked at you when you arrived. Not about James.

You sit in that silence like it’s a storm.

He smiles at someone across the table. You watch his profile and wonder how you ended up sitting beside a ghost.

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

You don’t know what finally makes you snap. Maybe it’s the weight of the dress or the silence between you. Maybe it’s the way he laughs too loudly at someone’s joke, then glances at you like he forgot you were even there.

You walk out onto the balcony before you can think better of it.

The cold air feels like clarity. Like something sharp enough to slice through all the glitter and noise.

Then you hear the door open behind you.

“I didn’t know you were leaving,” he says.

You don’t look at him. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

He steps closer. “Of course I care.”

You spin around. “Then where the hell have you been, Lando?”

He flinches.

“No seriously,” you continue, voice rising. “You leave me on read, ignore me for days, show up tonight like we’re strangers instead of—whatever the hell this is—and now you care?”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh, bitter. “You don’t get to look at me like that tonight. Like you haven’t been acting like I don’t exist. Like you didn’t see the voice note. Like I haven’t been trying so hard to keep this thing from unraveling while you disappear.”

He closes the distance, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

You scoff. “No. I think you’ve been hiding.”

Silence.

He looks at you, really looks. “You look like a dream,” he says softly.

You recoil like he slapped you. “Don’t you dare.”

“I haven’t—”

“Stop it, Lando.” You turn to face him. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been distant for weeks. And then tonight, you look at me like—”

You cut yourself off, jaw clenched.

He looks like he wants to speak. You don’t let him.

“You don’t get to look at me like that after everything. Like you didn’t leave me on read. Like you didn’t laugh in that interview. Like you didn’t act like this was nothing when it wasn’t even your idea to begin with.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I messed it up.”

“Why?” you ask. It comes out broken. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

You shake your head. “Then why are you treating me like I don’t matter?”

“I didn’t mean to.” He runs a hand over his face. “I thought if I pulled back it’d make it easier.”

“Easier for who?”

“For both of us,” he says. “This whole thing—it stopped feeling fake a long time ago.”

Your breath catches.

“I got scared,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you.”

You’re silent for a long beat.

He steps forward, just once. Close enough that you can hear the way his breath hitches.

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. He hesitates.

And then—finally—he moves.

His hand finds your waist. Yours presses lightly against his chest. There’s a pause, a breath, and then he leans in.

It’s slow. Careful. Terrified.

Your noses brush. Foreheads nearly touch. His lips hover, a heartbeat away from yours.

And then—

A voice cuts through the quiet. “Hi! They need you inside!”

You both jolt.

He pulls back like he’s been yanked out of a dream.

Silence.

The door clicks shut behind whoever called.

You’re still staring at each other, breathless.

He doesn’t say anything else. And neither do you.

You walk back into the ballroom together like strangers. The air feels heavier than before—like the moment changed something that can’t be unnamed. People are still laughing, clinking glasses, dancing beneath crystal lights. But everything feels muffled.

Lando stays close. Not touching. Not speaking. Just near.

You feel it like a weight.

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

When the event winds down, he offers to drive.

You follow him out to the private parking area, still in your heels, still wrapped in silence. His McLaren-issued car waits like a shadow in the dark, polished and impersonal. You slide into the passenger seat without a word.

The engine hums to life. The ride is silent.

The city flickers past the tinted glass. He doesn’t look at his phone this time. Just stares forward, hands clasped tight in his lap. You lean your head against the window, cool glass pressing into your temple.

When the car stops in front of your place, you don’t move at first.

He finally speaks.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you."

You let out a breath. “You didn’t just hurt me. You made me feel small.”

He flinches. Quiet. “I didn’t know what to do. It got too real. I got scared.”

You turn to look at him. “I’m not asking for a fairytale, Lando. I just wanted you to treat me like I mattered.”

“I know.”

You nod once. Then, softly: “Then why did you almost kiss me?”

He swallows. “Because I wanted to. So badly I almost forgot everything else.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been scared. But I swear—I’m going to fix it. I’ll be better. No more games. No more silence. Just… us.”

It should mean something. It almost does.

But he still doesn’t say the one thing that matters.

You open the door. Step out.

He watches you like he wants to chase after something he doesn’t know how to name.

“Don’t,” you say, without turning around. “Just—don’t make it worse.”

Then you disappear inside.

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

Hey!! sorry for taking so long, i honestly just didn't know how to finish this chapter but i figured it out (i think). this'll probably end up having 10 chapters in total, so we're halfway through! let me know what you think about it

see you next lap, -N 🏁

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Six

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A story of almosts, maybes, and finallys. You and Sebastian Sallow have loved each other for years, just never at the right time.

Words: ~5,900

Series Tags: Modern AU, Post-Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian Sallow, Cursebreaker!MC, Modern Magical AU, Female Reader Insert, Mid-Size / Plus-Size Female Protagonist, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Missed Timing, Second Chances, Grief and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Body Image Issues, Fluff, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Trauma, Abortion (Non-Descriptive), Strong Emotional Themes

Chapter Track: All I Wanted, Paramore

Special thanks to @sunnyrealist for beta-ing the plot of this story and @dreamy-gal-30 for beta-ing the chapter drafts! I could not do this without you!

Sebastian, Age 23

The city was in full holiday swing: the streets were strung with lights, gold and silver decorations were suspended above shopfronts, and carolers warbled in every square whether you wanted them to or not.

Sebastian barely noticed any of it. He was exhausted.

Work was relentless this time of year. Crimes spiked around the holidays—something about desperation and opportunity and too many people in too little space. His department was already short-staffed, and with half the Auror corps rotating leave schedules, the rest of them were pulling double shifts.

But then again, it was easier than being home with her.

Sebastian walked the path back to Samantha’s flat after another long shift, coat collar turned up against the wind. His wand arm ached from casting shields all day, and he could still smell the faint scorch of a spell-gone-awry clinging to his sleeves.

The shops were all closed now, but their displays still glowed. He crossed the street and paused for a moment outside a tiny stationery shop. A sign hung in the window: Seasonal Postcards Half-Off. His eyes caught on one in the display—deep blue with a hand-painted constellation chart. He smiled faintly. You would’ve liked that.

Then his smile faded.

You’d been gone five years now, and the pain of it had never gone away. It had shifted, sure—evolved from the sharp, breath-stealing absence of that first year into something quieter, more insidious. Like phantom pain. A limb long gone. But still there. Always there.

He tapped the toe of his boot against the curb, eyes lingering on the postcard a second longer before pushing off again. The wind bit at his ears, but he didn’t hurry to get home. Didn’t see the point.

As he walked, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbing through your thread like he always did when he missed you more than he could stand.

Still no replies.

You and him used to talk more. Not every day, not even every week, but often enough to tether him to wherever in the world you were. He'd saved every postcard, every voice memo. He could quote half of them from memory.

But the thread had frayed.

He wasn't sure exactly when, but sometime last year, something had shifted, and your messages had grown more and more infrequent.

Your last text was over a month old.

Sebastian tried not to let it get to him. Told himself it was work. Travel. Bad signal. All the usual excuses. But this time felt different. Eleven messages from him had gone unanswered. Eleven. And one of them had been a photo of him and Ominis at their usual booth at the pub, mid-toast, looking like they’d stepped right out of seventh year.

You used to love those photos. You told him they made you feel at home.

But this time? Silence.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard, like maybe if he just found the right words, they’d bridge the silence. He even typed something out.

Still alive out there?

Then deleted it.

Had you forgotten about him completely? Found someone new and let your life move forward without a second glance in his direction? He wondered if you'd finally come to the conclusion he’d always secretly dreaded—that he was never really enough for someone like you. Not then, and not now.

The thought twisted in his chest, half-resentful, half-resigned.

He shoved the phone back in his coat pocket with a frustrated exhale and kept walking. Past the shuttered tea shop, past the corner where you once slipped on black ice in seventh year and he caught you by the hood of your coat, laughing so hard the two of you nearly toppled over. The memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

He passed that spot every day. It never stopped hurting.

The building came into view just ahead. Samantha’s flat was perched on the top floor of a converted townhouse, all sharp corners and symmetrical windows. He climbed the steps two at a time, the ache in his legs dull compared to the one behind his ribs.

When he pushed the front door open, warmth hit him immediately. The air smelled faintly of roasted rosemary and something sweet beneath it.

The flat looked like something out of a design magazine. Pristine, ultramodern, curated down to the candle arrangement on the coffee table. Every surface gleamed. Not a single item was out of place.

Sebastian shrugged off his coat and stepped into the kitchen where he could hear Samantha moving around. The tension was immediate. She was standing by the island, arms crossed, wine glass in hand.

The dining table was set immaculately, but only one plate of food remained. In the middle was a bottle of wine, uncorked, sweated onto a coaster.

“You said you’d be back by seven,” she said flatly. "It's Christmas Eve, Sebastian."

“I know. The patrol—”

“Always runs late,” she cut in, voice flat. “I should’ve known.”

He sighed, tugging at his collar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, finally turning to face him. “Just…eat."

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once and sat down.

The food was lukewarm, carefully plated, and almost too pretty to eat. Her meals always were. She liked things neat. Curated. Intentional. He took a bite out of obligation, not hunger. It tasted fine, but felt like chewing glass.

Samantha didn’t sit with him. She stayed leaning against the counter, sipping from her wine glass and scrolling through her phone. Her silence was louder than any outburst.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “The roast is good.”

She didn’t look up. “It was better an hour ago.”

He nodded, chewing again. Every scrape of cutlery against the plate sounded like a reprimand. Eventually, he gave up halfway through and pushed the plate slightly aside. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You always are,” she muttered.

He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, she was already walking toward the tree in the sitting room.

It was one of those gaudy looking white ones with the pale blue decorations and glass icicles instead of ornaments.

“Let’s just do gifts.”

He looked down at the half-eaten plate, the garnish wilted and congealing. It looked as tired as he felt.

He exhaled through his nose and stood, dragging a hand through his hair before following her toward the Christmas tree.

Samantha was already crouched beside it, reaching for the gifts beneath the bottom branches. The lights cast a cold glow over her features, pale and sharp.

“I know we said we wouldn’t spend much,” she began, voice overly light, like she was trying to pivot the night back toward salvageable, “but I couldn't help myself."

She stood and held the box out to him. Perfect corners. Silver foil wrapping. Ribbon tied in a crisp, symmetrical bow.

He accepted it with both hands. “Thanks.”

Samantha folded her arms as he peeled the paper back. The box beneath was ornate, the writing written in Czech, the name of that upscale boutique they'd visited last spring etched in gilded cursive. Sebastian vaguely remembered the place. Remembered standing awkwardly near the front while Samantha combed through displays and chatted in with the shopkeeper.

Inside was an orange scarf, thick and richly textured, the kind of thing that screamed luxury. He ran his fingers over it—soft as sin, probably cost more than a month’s rent in the lower districts.

He didn't hate it, but it felt… excessive. The color was too bold—something he’d never wear, never pair with his uniform. Still, he smiled.

“It’s lovely, Sam,” he said. “Very soft.”

“You always wear that old one from school,” she said, smiling thinly. “Drives me mad.”

He forced a laugh. “Right. Well… this is definitely an upgrade.”

“I just thought you deserved something nice.” Her tone was deceptively casual, but he could hear the undercurrent—the hope, the question beneath the gesture: Did I do good?

He nodded, searching for something else to say. “You remembered the shop.”

“I remember everything,” she said, and for a second it sounded more like an accusation than a fond truth.

He set the scarf back into the box gently, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. She watched him as he did, wine glass in hand, her expression unreadable.

“Your turn,” Sebastian said, reaching behind the tree. His gift for her was smaller, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. He passed it to her carefully.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you wrap this yourself?”

He half-smiled. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

She gave a breath of laughter, short, but genuine, and began to peel the haphazard wrapping away. Inside was a narrow velvet box. She paused before opening it, her thumb grazing the edge.

They’d said they wouldn’t spend much. But Sebastian knew Samantha, so he knew better. Those kinds of promises were just for show, said out of politeness, not intent. He’d known full well she’d get him something expensive, something meant to be photographed and admired and envied. And she had.

So of course, he’d matched it.

He always did. Always tried to keep her happy by buying the best, throwing money at things like it might patch over the parts of him that didn’t measure up to her expectations. Like maybe if he gave her enough, one day he’d wake up and actually love her.

Inside the box was a bracelet. A delicate silver chain studded with tiny sapphires, her birthstone. She’d mentioned the jeweler once, in passing, on a warm spring afternoon while they’d been walking through the square. She’d paused at the window, murmured something about how she used to dream of owning one. He’d barely replied at the time, too tired from his shift to do more than grunt.

But he remembered.

And now, nestled in velvet, was a piece from that very shop. The logo glinted in gold on the inside of the lid.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I love it,” she said, voice quiet but sincere. “Thank you.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Happy Christmas.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand before slipping the bracelet onto her wrist.

She turned it this way and that, admiring the sparkle, then pulled her phone from the arm of the couch.

Sebastian watched as she angled her arm, adjusted her hair, shifted positions.

Click. Click.

Samantha beamed at the camera, the same picture-perfect smile she wore at Ministry events, at brunches with her friends, on every single online post.

“This’ll look amazing with my dress for New Year’s,” she said, still snapping photos. “God, I should’ve gotten my nails redone—this color’s all wrong.”

Sebastian hummed a response, eyes drifting to the window. Frost gathered in delicate webs across the glass, white against the dark. Somewhere, far off, he could hear faint carolers—out of tune, slightly drunk, undeniably enjoying themselves.

He looked back at Samantha. She was still smiling at her screen, fingers already typing. Probably tagging the shop. Probably composing the caption.

He cleared his throat. “Want a top up?” he asked, nodding toward her wine.

“Please,” she said, holding out the glass without looking up.

He took it to the kitchen, refilled it slowly. He needed something to do with his hands.

When he returned, she was perched on the edge of the couch, phone abandoned now, bracelet glinting under the white lights of the tree.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the glass. “This night didn’t go how I pictured it, but… I appreciate the gift. Really.”

Sebastian nodded again. Sat down across from her. He was about to reach for his scarf box—just for something to fidget with—when the sharp tap-tap of talons against glass made both of them look toward the window.

An owl.

They both stared for a beat and the owl pecked again, impatient, eyes reflecting the tree lights as it shifted its weight on the sill.

Sebastian stood slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Probably work,” he muttered.

Samantha snorted behind him. “Please. Your supervisor would’ve just texted you. It isn’t 1995, Sebastian.”

He ignored her comment and crossed the room, lifting the sash just enough to let the owl duck inside. It flapped once, shaking off a few snowflakes before offering its cargo.

A small box. It was banged up on the edges, tied with twine, one corner slightly crushed from the owl’s grip. But he’d recognize the writing on it anywhere, even smudged from snow and travel.

His name was written in your hand.

His heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. He stood there for a second too long.

“What is it?” Samantha asked, glancing up.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, I think it's a Christmas gift from CB."

The temperature of the flat dropped 10 degrees though nothing in the room had physically changed.

"How nice of her." Samantha said, her tone frosty enough to rival the snow still clinging to the owl’s feathers.

Sebastian carried the box back into the sitting room, snow still melting in droplets across the paper. Samantha’s eyes flicked to it, unimpressed. She took a slow sip of her wine and gave a thin, mirthless smile.

“Charming presentation,” she muttered.

He didn’t answer. Just sat down and began untying the twine.

Inside, cushioned by soft, wrinkled tissue, was a scarf. Deep green—the exact shade he always gravitated toward. He knew immediately you’d chosen it on purpose.

The wool was slightly coarse to the touch, the kind of yarn sold in bundles at local markets. It wasn’t luxurious, and he could already spot the imperfections; the places where a stitch had clearly been dropped and hastily picked back up, or where the rows weren’t perfectly even.

But it was real. It was yours. And it was long enough to loop around his neck twice, just the way he liked.

He ran his hand along the edge, tracing the subtle shifts in texture.

It was beautiful.

Lying atop the scarf was a postcard. He flipped it over, and his heart skipped. Your handwriting, instantly familiar—blue ink, smeared at the corners.

Happy Christmas, Bas.

I know this isn't the fanciest gift but I spent three months pretending I knew how to knit, so if you hate it, please just lie to me, okay?

I know I’ve been terrible about staying in touch this year... I keep telling myself I’ll send a message, but by the time I think to say something, it feels like too much time has passed. Or maybe I just get scared you won’t want to hear from me anymore.

But I hope you know, truly, that I think about you all the time. Even if I don’t always say it.

I miss you.

Your name was hastily signed, like you'd poured more of your heart out than you expected and needed to sign before you took it all back. In the corner was a doodle of two snowmen, one shorter than the other, their stick arms just barely brushing.

You and him, unmistakably.

Sebastian stared at it for a long moment, throat tightening.

He could picture you hunched over a desk somewhere far away, ink smudged on your fingertips, tongue tucked between your teeth in concentration as you drew them out. You probably had that line between your eyebrows too, the one he always wanted to smooth out with his thumb.

Sebastian didn’t have long to sit in it, though—that ache of relief, of being thought of, remembered, wanted—because then Samantha laughed.

It wasn’t a real laugh. It was that sharp, humorless exhale she did when she was biting something back. His stomach dropped before she even opened her mouth.

“I see she’s taken up crafts,” Samantha said coolly. “How quaint.”

Sebastian blinked. “Sam…”

She stood, slow and deliberate, setting her wine glass down with a quiet clink.

“I mean, look at it,” she said, gesturing toward the box like it had personally offended her. “She couldn’t even bother to wrap it properly. And you—” her voice cracked with disbelief, “you’re just sitting there with that look on your face. Like she just handed you the bloody moon.”

Sebastian set the postcard gently aside, fingers still curled as if reluctant to let it go. “Can we not do this tonight?” he said, voice low. “Please.”

“Why not?” Samantha snapped, stepping closer. “Because it’s Christmas? Because you’re busy being sentimental over someone else’s gift that probably cost five knuts to make?”

He stood then, slowly. “It’s not about what it cost.”

“No,” she scoffed, “it never is with her, is it? She just has to exist and you fold like parchment.”

“Samantha—”

“She ghosts you, sends a pity gift, and suddenly none of this matters?” She threw a hand out toward the tree, toward the scarf she'd bought him, the gleaming bracelet on her wrist catching the light.

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is that I spent weeks planning the perfect dinner, the perfect evening, and you were late. Again. I sat here alone for two hours waiting for you. I even wore the stupid perfume you said you liked, and now you’re clutching her scarf!"

She wasn’t wrong. Sebastian knew she wasn't. But he hated when she did this, when she peeled him back and got too close to the truth.

So he snapped.

"I said I was sorry for being late! Work ran over! I can't just walk out of a patrol mid-shift because you lit candles and opened a bottle of wine.”

"Work always runs over," Samantha said, voice tight, arms crossed beneath her chest. "Every bloody time. And I’m always the one sitting here waiting, telling myself it’s fine. That you’re just busy. That you’ll try harder next time."

Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion clawing behind his eyes. “I am trying.”

“No,” she said sharply. “You’re coasting. You're pretending.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Sam.”

“Do I?” she snapped. “Because it feels a lot like I’ve been dragging this thing uphill by myself for months while you half-heartedly play house.”

“I show up. I come home. I do what I can for you. How can you not see that?”

“You show up physically,” she hissed. “That’s not the same thing and you know it. You’re here, but you’re not here, Sebastian.”

He exhaled, jaw clenched. “And what exactly do you want from me? Some grand gesture to prove I’m invested?”

“No,” she said. “I want the basics. I want to feel like I matter to you. Like I’m not just something you’re settling for while you wait for a postcard from her to land on your doorstep. How can you not jsut see that she’s gone, and I’m the one who stayed?!"

"The basics?! For fuck's sake I got you a bracelet that cost half my bloody paycheck,” he snapped, voice rising. “I went to that stupid jeweler you mentioned once in passing and waited in line for two hours just so I could surprise you. I remembered. I always do.”

Samantha’s mouth opened, but he didn’t stop.

“I show up. I answer your texts. I work double shifts, I come home exhausted, I pay part of your rent just so you can keep up this picture-perfect flat you wanted. But none of it ever seems to be enough, does it?”

“You think throwing money at this makes it real?”

“No,” he growled, “but don’t act like I’m not putting in the effort. I’m doing everything I can to make this work. I try to be the person you want me to be, and maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s not nothing.”

Samantha’s eyes glittered, furious and wet. “Then why does it feel like I’m still losing to someone who hasn’t even been here in years?”

He barked out a laugh—short, humorless, defensive. “Jesus Christ, she’s my best friend, Sam!”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not!” he said, stepping closer, voice rising. “How many times do I need to explain this to you? She was there for me when nobody else was. That doesn’t just disappear.”

She turned from him, biting her lip so hard it went white. “What I want to know is how many times we need to have this argument. How many times we need to break up over the same goddamn things before you admit that I’m right?”

He snorted. “Is that what this is, then? A break up?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me. Because I’m not going to keep dragging myself through this if you’re never going to meet me halfway.”

“Right,” he muttered, voice hardening. “Because I’m the villain here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he spat. “That’s what this always comes down to, isn’t it? I’m selfish. I’m distracted. I’m still hung up on her. And you—you’re just the poor, patient saint putting up with it.”

“Don’t twist this around on me,” Samantha snapped. “I have been patient, for years, because I love you!”

“No,” he said, tone dropping like an axe. “You don’t love me. You love an idea of me. Some version you built in your head and keep trying to force me into, and clearly, I’m not living up to it.”

“Sebastian—”

“You’re right,” he cut in. “We keep having the same fight on different days in different rooms like that’s going to change something. But it never does, does it?”

He turned away before she could answer, still clutching the gift you sent, and pointedly leaving Samantha’s behind.

He shrugged on his coat, wrapping your scarf around his neck with a quiet sort of finality.

Samantha blinked as though she hadn’t actually considered that when he said ‘break up’, he’d meant it.

“Are you seriously leaving right now?”

Sebastian met her eyes. His voice was calm.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Then he walked out the door.

Outside on the street, the wind cut sharper than before.

It howled through narrow alleys, bit at bare skin, and pricked his eyes until they watered. Anger simmered just beneath his ribs—not because he and Samantha had broken up. They’d done that before, too many times to count, and it had always felt like hitting rewind. He was angry because she’d been right. Because the whole goddamn time, she'd been circling something he’d tried to keep buried, and she’d gotten too close.

Halfway down the block, he stopped walking and jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. His fingers brushed the battered cardboard of the cigarette pack he never should’ve bought in the first place. Without thinking, he slid one out, held it between his fingers.

It made him think of Samantha. Of the worst parts of him. The version of himself he hated most: the one who clung to old habits, hid his shame in silence, and lit up just to feel in control.

He stared at the cigarette for a beat too long. Then, with a sharp exhale, he crushed it between his fingers and tossed the whole pack into the nearest trash bin without breaking stride.

When Sebastian finally reached the steps to his building, his hands were raw from the cold, his shoulders tight with guilt. He didn’t hesitate—just keyed the door open and slipped inside, the city’s chill chasing at his heels.

The flat was dim. Quiet.

Books cluttered the coffee table, shoes were piled haphazardly near the wall, a half-folded Auror report drooped over the arm of the couch like it had given up waiting to be read. This place—the one he used to share with Ominis—was meant to be yours, too. At eighteen, he’d hoped you’d join them here. That you'd take the third room. That you’d all stay together, the way you’d always promised.

But that room stayed empty. You never came. And still, somehow, it felt like the place was waiting for you.

He kicked off his boots and dropped his keys into the dish with more force than necessary. The scarf was still wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like the warmth of your hands.

Sebastian sat down hard on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his temples.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Because the truth, the unavoidable truth, was that he’d been a complete and utter asshole. Still was. That argument with Samantha hadn’t been a fight, it was deflection. A well-practiced playbook of half-truths and circular logic and gaslighting. A hundred little performances designed to avoid admitting the one thing he didn’t want to say out loud.

He was still hung up on you. He was in love with you. And he never should’ve dragged Samantha through the mess of pretending otherwise.

They kept breaking up and getting back together like repetition could overwrite the truth. Like if Sebastian tried hard enough, if he was kind enough, generous enough, present enough, then eventually something would spark. Eventually he’d stop feeling empty.

But it never worked. The love never came.

And that moment with the scarf… He hadn’t even tried to hide it. Couldn’t. His chest cracked wide open the second he saw your handwriting. It had felt like breathing for the first time in months.

He let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes closing. His fingers curled in the yarn at his collar and he pulled it to his nose.

It smelled like wool, of course—coarse and earthy, faintly scratchy. A bit like cardboard, too, from being shipped across god knew how many borders. But beneath that, subtle and stubborn, was you.

Your perfume.

The muggle one you used to swear by, the one he never learned the name of because he didn’t need to. He’d know it anywhere. The one that always lingered on your scarf, on your pillow, on the inside of his collar when you hugged him or fell asleep against his shoulder.

Floral, but not cloying—clean, like sun-dried sheets or the first breeze of spring. Lily of the valley, soft and cool, threaded through with something warmer—ripe strawberries kissed by summer sun. And beneath it all, that low, musky undertone—earthy and rich, like the heat of your skin after a long day.

The scent unfurled in his chest like a slow ache until it was curling beneath his ribs and dragging him straight back to the Undercroft when you sat at his side, soft and sleepy, leaning on him like you’d always belonged there. Straight back to the library where you sprawled across from him with ink on your fingers and a quill behind your ear.

He let his head fall back against the cushion, fingers tightening in the yarn as he pressed it to his face.

His eyes slipped shut.

The flat around him faded—no more clutter, no more cold boots by the door or half-sorted case files on the coffee table. All there there was, was you.

You beside him.

He could see it with aching clarity, the dip of the cushion beneath your weight, the way your legs folded beneath you, always with your knees knocking into his. Your hair was still damp from a shower, clinging to your temples and curling at the ends, leaving wet spots on the shoulder of your sweatshirt, probably one of his, sleeves rolled up to your elbows.

You’d glance over with that half-smile, eyes crinkling in that way that made his stomach twist. "Still cold?" you’d ask, voice warm, teasing as you poked at the scarf.

He’d shrug. Maybe nod. Pretend to play it off, even as his toes were half-frozen in his socks. And you’d laugh under your breath. That quiet, unbothered sound.

“Want me to warm you up?”

He imagined the look you’d give him then, mischievous, a little smug, but mostly tender. Like you knew you had him and always would.

And then you’d kiss him.  Not like Samantha kissed him. Not laced with old cigarette smoke and overpriced lipstick but something real.

You’d taste like home. Like the tea you were always making and never quite finishing. Your lips would be slightly chapped, but he wouldn’t care. You’d kiss him like you meant it. Like you’d been waiting to. Like you knew every inch of him already but still wanted to relearn it all from scratch.

You’d sigh against him, and it would drive him mad. He could almost feel the brush of your breath, the faint pressure of your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt.

He’d reach up without thinking, cradling your jaw like it was instinct, thumb dragging over the slope of your cheek, fingers threading into the still-damp strands at the nape of your neck.

Sebastian sunk into the fantasy, his hand moving over his stomach, down to the waistband of his trousers, unbuttoning them to free the ache that had begun to pool there.

He exhaled, low and shuddering, your name echoing somewhere between his ribs as he wrapped a hand around himself.

He could almost feel the weight of you in his lap, soft and plush in all the ways that drove him insane. Your sweatshirt would ride up just a little as you shifted over him, revealing the curve of your waist. He’d trace that skin with shaking, calloused hands, and god, he had imagined this so many times. Over the years, the image of you had sharpened and blurred and sharpened again, until he wasn’t even sure what was memory and what was longing.

But that didn’t stop him from trying to stitch you together from scraps like a madman.

That blurry photo you sent from Crete two summers ago, half cropped because you hated how your legs looked. The tug of your smile in a selfie. A dimly lit image from a pub, your arm looped around a friend, eyes crinkled, shoulders bare, a braid slipping loose over your chest. He’d stared at that one for hours. Zoomed in until the pixels blurred, just trying to imagine what you might feel like under his palms.

He'd studied the curve of your hips beneath soft fabric. The way your thighs pressed the sheets when you sat cross-legged on some hotel bed. The slope of your collarbone, the arch of your brow, the freckle near your shoulder.

He imagined your legs around his waist, soft and strong. The way you'd would give under his palms. How your stomach would brush his as you leaned in, your breath warm against his lips, your hair falling like a curtain. Your chest against his—soft, generous, rising and falling with every quiet gasp.

You’d feel so fucking good. The kind of full-body warmth that’d make him forget the world. He’d kiss your stomach, your thighs, your chest—anything he could reach. Leave marks if you let him. Worship you the way he’d only ever dreamed of doing.

His hand began to move faster at the thought, thumb flicking over the weeping tip as his hips bucked into the touch.

He imagined your cunt wrapped around him, wet and tight. The stretch of it. The way your voice would tremble when you told him how good it felt.

He pictured how you’d ride him, how you’d roll your hips just right, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like you’d dreamed about it just as often. His hands would grip your waist, fingers digging into the softness there, and he could almost hear it—the faint slap of skin, the slick slide of your bodies moving together, the breathless little gasp you’d let out when he thrust up into you. Your name would tumble from his lips, broken and breathless.

“Just like that,” he whispered to no one. To you. To the memory of a body he’d never even touched.

Sebastian rutted up into his fist, chasing that imagined rhythm.

He could see it so clearly: the way your face would twist in pleasure, head tipping back, mouth parted just enough to let out those soft, ruined sounds he’d burn the world to hear. Your hands would be on his chest, bracing, nails dragging across his skin when the pressure built too high to contain. And then you'd looked down at him—eyes half-lidded, mouth wet and kiss-bruised—and you’d moan as you came around him—he knew you would. Loud. Unbothered. You’d cry out his name, hips twitching as you sank down and ground against him just to drag it out, just to feel him.

And he’d be gone, too. Completely gone. Undone by the image of your face, your body, your voice whispering his name like it belonged to you. Then you’d lean in close, lips at his ear, voice a ragged whisper, “I’ve got you.”

Sebastian came with a choked gasp. Your name shattered in the back of his throat as his release spilled hot over his knuckles, hips twitching, breath catching on every exhale like it hurt to come back down.

The silence after was crushing.

No weight in his lap. No breath on his skin. Just the ache of his hand and the scarf still bunched against his chest, damp from where he’d gripped it too tight.

He swallowed hard, throat thick with the taste of longing, and he stayed like that for a long moment—still, wrecked, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him some kind of answer.

This wasn’t new. Sebastian had done this a hundred times. A thousand. Ever since the day he met you, it had only ever been you.

He let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, the mess between his fingers was starting to cool, but he didn’t move to clean it yet. Didn’t move at all. Just laid there in the quiet ruin of it.

And Merlin help him, it was a good thing Samantha didn’t know.

Didn’t know that even when he had her beneath him, sighing his name, dragging her nails across his shoulders, he was picturing you. Always you. The slope of your back, the shape of your thighs, the exact way you’d look at him when you came.

He couldn’t fuck her without seeing your face in the dark. He couldn't fuck anyone without seeing you.

It didn’t matter how many nights he spent trying to outrun it—how many bodies he took to bed, how many lies he told himself to justify the ache. None of them were you.

And he thought, in passing, that maybe this wasn't just love. Maybe it was obsession. Devotion. Madness, even. But Sebastian didn't care. He knew tonight when he went to bed, he'd dream of you all over again.

In fact, he counted on it.

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Banner Credit

[nonbinarycollector]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65601133/chapters/168898975

Malin 1 - One of the largest known spiral galaxies, located 1.19 billion light-years away in the constellation Coma Berenices. Or: Mal du Pays is not a person. Mal du Pays is a concept, a reflection, control so tight you break whats in your hands. But apparently Siffrin didn’t get the memo. featuring: system siffrin and mdp, and mdp learning how to be a person

[therpistlr]

🌌 OSDD Systems: Where Many Souls Share One Sky (And You Belong Here) 🌌

Hey constellations, starlights, and brave keepers of inner worlds ✨ Let’s talk OSDD (Other Specified Dissociative Disorder) and the beautiful, complex reality of living as a system:

Feeling like a "we" in a world built for "I".

Alters (parts, selves, headmates) who hold different memories, skills, or emotions.

Amnesia gaps, blurred switches, or moments where "who’s fronting?" feels confusing.

The ache to be seen as whole and honored as many.

You’re not "broken." You’re a landscape of survival. And your multiplicity deserves compassion, not cure. 💫

🌈 Navigating System Life: Gentle Healing Paths

1️⃣ Internal Communication (Building Bridges, Not Walls)

→ Journaling Together: Try color-coded pens 📝 or a shared notes app for alters to share feelings. → Co-Consciousness Practice: "Blending" music playlists → Co-writing a story → Gentle meditation inviting parts to listen. → Goal: "We don’t have to agree, but we deserve to understand each other."

2️⃣ Safety & Grounding (For When the World Feels Too Sharp)

→ Create System Anchors: A shared scent (lavender?), a grounding stone, a "safe word" alter for panic. → Body Check-Ins: "Who’s holding tension? Can we stretch together?" → Amnesia Coping: Shared calendars 📅, photo logs, or voice memos after big events.

3️⃣ Trauma Integration (Not Fusion!)

→ Honor Protectors: Thank the part who holds anger. Listen to the one who hides. → Process Pain Slowly: Let exiled parts share memories only when ready. → Unity ≠ Uniformity: "We heal by connecting, not collapsing."

📘 Your Compassionate Guide: The DID/OSDD Workbook

✨ Dissociative Identity Disorder Workbook: Worksheets for System Harmony & Trauma Recovery

Why systems love this workbook:

System Mapping Tools: Internal landscapes, alter profiles, role exploration 🌍

Communication Prompts: Conflict resolution scripts & gratitude exercises between parts

Trauma-Sensitive Grounding: For littles, protectors, and overwhelmed fronts

Amnesia Management: Daily logs & memory bridging techniques

ND-Affirming: No pressure toward fusion—focuses on functional multiplicity!

Soft reminders for your system:

Your structure makes sense. Every alter exists for a reason.

Conflict inside doesn’t mean failure—it means different needs asking for attention.

You deserve care as you are now. Not "after" healing.

The world may not see your constellations, but your sky is vast, valid, and full of courage.

~ with awe for your inner universe ✨ [doodle of puzzle pieces forming a tree under stars]

[sorakazeno]

Sailor Moon Museum Part 10

Continuation of the Nakayoshi covers.

I really underestimated how many there were.

One with Sailor V!

Lots of Chibi Usa

More Chibi Usa

Group pictures and Pegasus

Stars arc on the bottom

Black Lady, Usagi and Mamoru, Three Lights

Sailor Moon Super

Original concept drawing of Sailor Moon with a cape

First story arc

Final ones.

Girls in Sailor Outfits.

Stationary and calendar

Notebooks, stickers, more stationary

Memo pads and postcards

Straw, puzzle, stickers

Unfolded notebook

Usagi mermaid bag

New Years Stamp, postcards

Stickers, diary, tissues, straw

Constellation Chart,

Stickers, VHS label stickers

Gift bag, postcard, diary, membership card

1997 Calendar

[yourstrulynameless]

A Four Star Visit to Edinburgh // AO3

Cypher x Omen

5,032 words // Hurt/Comfort // Fluff // Wine // Don’t worry, no one gets drunk // Constellations // Omen Needs A Hug // Calm Conversations

Omen had gone missing. His agent tracker had been removed and tampered with, his traces were hidden, and for all Protocol knew, he could have been on the other side of the world by now. Maybe worse.

Cypher saw this as a problem. He decided he was going to fix it.

//or//

Amir "I can fix him" El Amari hunts down a not-so-local ghost in Scotland.

Cypher was always the first to know things, even if it wasn't his discovery. He read reports that were sent to Brimstone far before the man could read them himself. He saw private emails, read texts in group chats he wasn't in, and listened to voice memos the moment they would be recorded. Not a single thing was kept secret from him, not even people's communication with their own families. It was his job, after all, to keep online security to a maximum. Though he couldn't deny he also just enjoyed snooping around. He was Protocol's somewhat beloved weirdo.

It was no surprise when he was the first to hear Omen's last message before going missing. No one had even realised he had managed to leave, not even Cypher before he listened to the memo. Yet, this didn't come as a surprise to him. He expected it ever since the last mission at a Scion base. It wasn't long before Cypher began to track him down, especially when word got to Viper, who commanded him to get to work.

At his desk, when he began to track down Omen, there was a subtle pride he took while searching. He realised Omen was covering up his tracks and with the methods he taught him, no less. He smirked under his mask, his lenses glued to his screen. While his tea was getting colder and colder, he was too entranced to take a moment to drink. He leaned back on his chair and stared at the display. Omen had done particularly well disappearing as Cypher had done many times before, but he lacked the most valuable part of it all. Experience.

Cypher leaned back towards his computer and continued his search. He was specifically looking for any 'ghost sightings' or reports of any strange radiants on the news. Omen was certainly a strange-looking figure that the public's eyes would be on. Perhaps in the Omega Earth he could move around just fine, but here? Omen had to stay a boogie man unless he wanted to be looked at with strange glares, or worse, a camera lens.

"Bingo."

A post from a random social media account contained a somewhat blurry photo of his missing friend. He managed to track down the location from there with a mix of scraping the data off the image itself and stalking the account owner. There was his start, and the account's end. Such a shame there was an error and the account had to be terminated. There were such beautiful pictures of Edinburgh there.

/ / /

The door dragged open, and as Cypher stepped out and onto the roof of a luxurious hotel in Scotland, he looked upon the golden sky. A breeze carried with it a sense of knowing. Cypher left the door to close on its own with the sounds of a light thud and mechanisms clicking in place behind him. His footsteps were light but only due to muscle memory and practice. He had nothing to hide from up here. Not from the sky, the sun, or the ground. Not from the breeze or the soon-to-be moon. Not from Omen.

A few steps closer had his eyes caught on the runaway with the tail of his purple hood swaying in the wind. He was looking towards the sun, arms crossed and rested on the railings. How beautiful he must have seemed, outlined in golden rays that contrasted his dark figure. Cypher breathed in the scene, then forced his gaze to part.

He looked down at the table he stood next to. It was made from a polished metal and was circular in shape. Its legs were decorative and curled out from the center. Two matching white padded chairs accompanied it, and placed on top was a bottle of wine, a journal, and an empty, unused wine glass. He picked up the journal, which was kindly left open on a page that explained Omen's solitude, and began to walk next to him. He skimmed the words "Target annihilated," "Paid generously by Hourglass," "New kill contract," "The usual scientist," "Target's name is Sabine Callas." Neither broke the silence.

He rested his elbows on the railing, leaning down just as Omen had been the whole time. He flipped through a few more pages, catching himself up to date on the findings of his colleague's past. Most of what was written down was concerning assassination work funded by the Scions of Hourglass, but there were pieces of the mundane mixed between target descriptions and mission notes. Book lists, grocery lists, movie lists, to-do lists, and many more. Recipes written down with steps, park names with small written reviews, and even a few coupons pinched in between a few pages and clipped on others. Yet, despite everything in its thickness, there was a distinct lack of information about personal matters such as friends or families. There wasn't even much information about the author. Not even a name. Cypher's lip twitched at that. He masked the disappointment with an easy-going voice.

"This must have been an interesting read for you."

He continued to flip through the pages, making sure not to miss anything important. It was only after Omen's lack of a response did he continue.

"Though, it shouldn't have been too shocking."

He glanced at how Omen's hands gripped the rails, or rather, the lack of aggression and tension in them. Omen sighed.

"I asked not to be followed, Cypher."

Cypher chuckled.

"Oh? Really? Then why bother buying some expensive Moroccan wine, hm? The last I recall, you don't have the ability to consume things."

Omen's gaze never left the bright sun. The streaks on his face glistened.

"I said I asked not to be followed, not that I didn't expect you to meddle with my plans."

Cypher huffed through his nose and shut the book with one hand. He brought it to his side and turned towards the table, placing the book back and grabbing the bottle. He recognised the brand as soon as he stepped close enough the first time. It was an expensive red wine, but one he was certain this hotel did not sell. The thought Omen went out of his way to find it for this moment warmed his heart.

"My thanks."

He carefully tore off the seal and popped the cork before pouring it into the glass. When he swirled the wine, he raised it against the sun and watched the deep red practically glow in its light. He hummed, satisfied with the authenticity of its quality, and once again faced the table. With his back towards Omen, half his mask was peeled above his nose, and unfiltered air filled his lungs. He brought the glass to his face, taking in the scent, allowing just for a moment to be brought back home.

Then he laughs at that idea. He was always too poor back then to afford such pleasures and too focused on not leaving a trace when he did. It was only after leaving could he experience the treasures of his homeland. Only when imported to him, only when he was no longer capable of being welcomed back with an unveiled face, only when he was a stranger to his nation, could he enjoy it. It went down his throat sweet, then left it dry.

"مزيان, Omen. It's good." I just wish I could have shared it with a few others.

Still, Omen faced the sky. Again and again, he failed to come up with what he wanted to say. Cypher did not try to push him to talk. The glass was eventually empty once more, and he pulled down his mask. His gaze again landed on the journal and its leather cover. He chuckled to himself.

"You know, if there's one thing that stayed consistent between your current and past life, well, besides working a killing job, it is that your handwriting is just as terrible."

Omen scoffed at this, but Cypher knew it was just his way of making a laugh. He felt rewarded, as if Omen making a noise was a prize. It made his shoulders raise childishly.

He turned to look at him. The sun had set at this point, and the stars were out just in time. The moon had yet to fully rise, but Cypher didn't need its light to see. What good were his lenses if not to aid his vision? And in his vision, Omen's figure took it up as if it were the only thing he could see. Again, he approached, held onto the railings, and leaned. He looked out at the stars, then pointed.

"Do you know what that constellation is?"

Omen tilted his head up to see where exactly Cypher had been pointing. He stared, slits squinting just to attempt to make out any shapes, but ultimately lowered his head and shook it.

"I'm afraid I don't know star patterns well."

Cypher hummed and lowered his arm.

"Well, don't worry. It's a lesser-known constellation to begin with. Most people are unfamiliar with it."

He rested his cheek on one hand, his elbow still on the rails.

"It has four main stars that make a 'Y' shape. 'Sagitta,' not to be confused with Sagittarius, a much more popular one."

Zodiac signs were a whole other topic Cypher had many feelings about, but he would not complain about them yet.

"It's meant to be an arrow. According to the ancient Greeks, it was the arrow that Heracles used to kill the eagle tormenting Prometheus."

Omen looked up again in another attempt to spot it, but he couldn't make it out in the vastness of the sky. It didn't help that the constellation was one of the smallest, and it wasn't very bright. Though, he was far more caught up in the story about it.

"You called yourself Prometheus… once."

Cypher was honoured he remembered, but was equally as embarrassed.

"I did, yes. A moment of weakness and self-indulgence."

He scratched the back of his neck over his mask.

"Why?"

His hand froze. Then it dropped to the rails.

"It's simply a joke to myself, and myself alone.”

Omen stiffened, and Cypher mouthed a swear under his mask. A trip up. He wasn't meant to make him shrink. Not now.

"You could say I look up to him in a way."

At this, Omen seemed to relax slightly. Cypher seemed to breathe easier because of it.

"He suffered greatly, didn't he?"

Cypher nodded.

"Yes, he did, but it was out of love."

Omen looked down at his hands and bandaged arms.

Do you do the same, Cypher? Do we do the same? "Do you think we'll be saved just as he was?"

Cypher turned his head to look at Omen. He watched as Omen finally returned his gaze, and all his words caught in his throat. The bright blue slits on his face looked at Cypher, and he felt as if it was trying to grab hold of his soul. They burned like fire.

He stumbled out a response after realising he had gone quiet for a bit too long, and it was about the most pathetic he'd felt in a while.

"Well- I… I think—"

Cypher looked forward and forced his hands still against the railings. He had to fight against the natural reaction to bury his face into his palms. His lenses were wide open, staring out at the sky in front of him.

Deep breaths, Amir. "I think perhaps that's what this is."

He blinked slowly and dragged his gaze back at Omen, only to see, without mistake, his body language hinting disbelief. Cypher felt like Raze painted a mustache on his mask.

"What?"

Omen looked like he was about to speak, but paused and took a deep breath. He tried again.

"It's just… I never expected to see you look so caught off guard."

Cypher's grip on the railings tightened a little. He prayed Omen didn’t notice, and forced his embarassed ass to respond with a chuckle.

"Well, my friend, you're filled with surprises. How could I ever be prepared for all of them?"

He tilted his head innocently. Omen shook his and traced back.

"What do you mean you think that's what this is?"

Slowly, Cypher rebuilt himself.

"You've just gotten yourself confirmation you were hired to kill our dear friend Viper, am I not wrong?"

Omen made a low snarl.

"You… are correct."

Cypher stood a bit straighter.

"And you clearly wanted to be left alone, far away from everyone."

"Yes…"

"Everyone, besides little old me."

Omen didn't respond. Cypher hummed, delighted knowing he was correct.

"You trust me, for better or for worse. So, my friend, what is it you need from me?"

Omen continued to stare at Cypher blankly before he tilted his head downward in thought. It wasn't long before he pushed himself away from the railings. Cypher watched as he sat down at the table, and he joined him not too long after. He sat down, hands clasped and fingers interwining atop the polished metal.

Omen took the glass and bottle. He removed the cork once more before pouring. He held the glass's thin stem between his thumb and index finger, carefully rolling it back and forth between them. He took in the scent, then placed it down on the table. Using two fingers against its base, he slid it slowly towards Cypher.

"I want you to drink."

Cypher laughed.

"Till I get drunk?"

Omen grew impatient.

"I want you to drink."

It clicked.

Cypher stared impassively at the liquor. Omen couldn't tell if he was breathing, given how still he was. The moon was rising behind its prince.

"You ask of me a lot."

He spoke slowly and his voice missed that cheeriness he always placed in it.

"You asked me what I wanted."

Cypher looked back up to meet his gaze.

"Omen, I…"

How many years had it been? How much effort did he put into concealing his identity? How hard did he fight tooth and nail to erase himself from this world? How long had his fears and paranoia crawled under his skin and forged him into the man he had become? How hard did he try to forget himself, only to snap back to Amir in this moment?

He pinched the stem of the glass near the base and took it. He stared down at the deep dark red. His mask did not betray him, impassive still.

It felt almost like waking up from a long slumber. As if all his life between the loss till now had been just a blur, everything suddenly felt too tight around his body. Too well fitted, too expensive, too much. Where had the simplicity of his days gone? The freedom to live as a poor man was exchanged for the duty of a cruel one. Even his name had almost completely disappeared from the world. He had been responsible for that, and now he wondered, was it worth it?

His free hand came over the bottom of his mask, his gloved fingers hovering mere centimeters above. His vision was no longer focused.

No one knew Cypher. No one managed to pry their way deep enough. Not even Fade, who scraped off the information of his real name and the locations of his safe houses, truly knew him. She knew Amir, but she didn't know Cypher.

Then, he looked back once more at Omen and realised. He knew him. He knew the sort of teas he liked, even if he couldn't make or drink them. He knew the type of instant noodles he liked to eat when he was sick. He knew his favourite colour. It was gold, not blue like many assumed.

He realised three more things. He wanted to know Omen more, but that would require his trust. He wanted to know himself more, but that would require healing. He wanted to know what vulnerability was like, but that would require risk. Lucky for him, he always played high stakes.

"Well, بالصحة."

His free hand came off his mask and firmly threw his hat at Omen's face. It was with enough force that it knocked him partially back and covered the gap in his hood completely. Omen grabbed it quickly, growling. He had been mocked and he was infuriated. He yelled out Cypher's name as his claws dug into the brim of his hat, pulling it away from his face to see—

As Cypher toasted, his mask rested on the table. The moon shined behind him, and the wind carried his curls unevenly. The corners of his brown eyes creased, his pale lips curled into a smile, and immediately Omen seemed lost in the patterns of his vitiligo. He drank, just as requested, and the wine stained his top lip. When he was done, the glass came down to the table empty. How beautiful he must have been, illuminated with a silver rim that complemented his tan figure. It was more than what Omen asked for.

Cypher scratched his beard. It was a goatee that only covered his chin and was paired with a moustache. Both seemed equally well kept, though a scar that spanned below his eye diagonally across his mouth kept hair from growing over those spots.

"I suppose I have been rude keeping you from this secret for all these years. After all, there are more important things than a pretty face, hm?"

Omen only continued to stare in dumbfounded disbelief.

"You…"

He started but then stopped. He didn’t want to point out the obvious of Cypher actually showing him his face, the entirety of it no less.

"Thank you."

Cypher's hand almost raised in muscle memory of tipping his hat, but his eyes fell on Omen's hands around it. He hummed instead and nodded.

"Of course."

Omen looked down at Cypher's hat, realising in his small fit of rage that there were now claw marks. Sheepishly, he returned it to Cypher, muttering an apology. Cypher assured him nothing was wrong, and he placed it back over his head. Omen liked the look of it on him rather than on his mask.

"So, Omen, what more do you need from me?"

Omen sighed. They were going back on topic. He wasn't the vocally emotional type usually, but there was something that had been bugging him ever since he learned more about his past.

"I need to know, Cypher, be honest. All these years, did you know just like Sabine what I was? The crimes I committed?—"

"No."

The answer was immediate.

"I kept looking in the wrong place. I was never going to find the truth."

Omen tilted his head in silence. Cypher continued.

"I thought you were a Kingdom experiment, or an old employee of theirs. Perhaps you worked alongside Vi…"

Cypher's eyes darted away from Omen for a moment.

"…Doctor Sabine. I thought you were their best-kept secret. I was wrong. You weren't theirs to begin with. You were part of the Scions."

Omen crossed his arms and looked down at the table. On one hand, it was nice seeing Cypher. It made connecting what he was seeing, what he was hearing, and what emotions he sensed off Cypher, easier. On the other hand, it felt weird. A face to an anonymous man. He focused and realised how little Cypher actually knew.

"You’re right and wrong."

"Hm?"

Cypher raised a brow. Omen noted he was even more expressive than his mask.

"I worked for Kingdom, partially. That was part of the plan to kill her. I… was her friend. For a short while, we did work together. She knew me as John. Then my deadline came closer. I didn’t hesitate. Not even a bit."

Cypher watched as Omen's grip around his bandaged arms grew tighter, nails digging into its fibers. He frowned. Omen looked up to see it. He loosened his grip and glanced away.

"She acted in self-defence. She threw a prototype of her snakebite at me, and I came stumbling backwards into a testing chamber. She activated it while I banged on the glass, trying to escape. It tore me apart, then half-hazardly put me back together."

He trailed off. The memories were foggy. Distant. Almost felt like they were not his own.

"I think. I don’t remember much from my 'rebirth' despite my best efforts and my memory being jogged."

He traced his bandages.

"She made me the monster I am, and I understand why. She had every right to, especially after all I’ve done."

He felt hollow in this ghostly body of his.

"Omen,"

Cypher started. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and pushing the wine glasses aside.

"You aren’t John."

Omen looked back.

"You aren’t Fred, or Marcus, or Yohan, or Dimitri."

Omen's shoulders fell as he listened.

"You read Fade's dossier on me?"

Cypher scoffed.

"Are you surprised? Come now."

"Hmph."

Omen couldn't stay upset. Not when looking at the sincere smile on his face.

"But, you aren’t who Fade tried to find. You aren’t some hitman for the Scions. You aren't some cruel monster. You aren't just a John Doe. You are still Doctor Sabine's ally, and most of all, you're Omen."

Cypher rested his palm open to the sky. An offering. Omen stared down at it.

"What if I’m still the same man?"

He began to reach for it, but he hovered. Hesitant.

"What if you've changed?"

With courage, the hands meet. The touch is light. The touch is forgiving.

"What if it's not enough?"

They shift to meet straight against each other in the air, elbows rested on the table. Their fingers aligned with their respective partners. Cypher's hand was smaller, just by a joint.

"Then I’ll help."

Slowly, they intertwine. The hold isn't too tight, but enough to say I’ve got you. Both stare where they conjoin. Even with both hands gloved, Omen can feel Cypher's warmth. In turn, Cypher can feel his cold. It was the most intimate either had been in recent memory.

"If you want, I’ll even help you pick out a new name. I’ve made many for myself before."

Cypher's thumb stroked the side of Omen's. He seems fully entangled in the moment if his silence tells Cypher anything.

"I’ll… think about it."

Omen found himself longing for more than holding hands, but he did not act on it. He was already being given more than what he felt like he deserved. He couldn't allow himself to be selfish, not when he had already asked for and received too much. He wasn't even sure if he was ready for whatever more meant. He was sure even a hug might be enough to put him into shambles. Be still, Omen. His heart pounds against his chest. For once, he is reminded it exists at all.

"Whatever you'd like, my dear. I'm excited to watch you weave yourself into the person you wish to be."

Cypher smiled and tilted his head as he watched Omen. The man sure made it obvious when he was bashful.

"Thank you, Cypher."

Cypher tsked and shook his head.

"Ahh, don’t call me that when we're alone. You know my real name. I know you overheard Sova calling me it during an argument."

Omen froze. He did know. It was a piece of information he quite frankly tried to forget out of respect. Sadly, it seemed only when he tried to forget things did he remember them. Well, he doesn't think remembering it is as unfortunate anymore.

"Thank you, Amir."

Amir tried not to melt then and there, but the look in his eyes gave it away entirely. He was usually wonderful at hiding his emotions even without his mask, but he doesn't need to hide anything up here. Not from the sky, the stars, or the moon. Not from the wind or the sleeping sun. Not from Omen. Never again from Omen.

"You're welcome."

As all good things, the moment had to end. Slowly, their hands slipped away from one another, and that was that.

"I’ll teach you how to hide your tracks even better. The first thing you of all people will need is a disguise."

Omen kept his hands together and nodded.

"I suppose that’s how you found me then? On a camera?"

Cypher raised his hand and tilted it back and forth.

"More or less."

Omen sat up quickly, alerted.

"Wait. Cameras. Cypher your face!"

Cypher patted the air, trying to calm Omen down.

"The security cameras have been hacked into for a while, Omen. I took care of them. My tech hasn't alerted me that I’ve been kicked out of them yet. I’ll be fine."

Omen shrank back in his chair slowly.

"Good… I’m glad you’re safe."

Cypher set his hands down on his lap. He sighed, calming down from the small rush. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. Here he was, alive and known. Nothing could make him happier. Well, nothing besides…

"Take me around Edinburgh, yes?"

He opened his eyes to see Omen's confused look.

"You went around there for this journal, didn't you?"

He leaned over the table and placed a finger over its leather cover. He tapped twice.

"Yes, I did."

"Then you must have seen some pretty sights. Take me to them."

He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on top of them.

"Wouldn't Brimstone be upset you're gone for longer without bringing me back?"

Cypher laughed.

"Fuck Brimstone."

Omen was visibly caught off guard.

"I would have come here regardless and without anyone's orders. They don’t know I’ve found you yet, so let's spend some time together, okay?"

Cypher smiled widely, eyes partially squinted. It was exactly how his mask's lenses looked when they were smiling, but infinitely warmer. Without his mask, Omen could see his story on his face. The skin that healed over stitchmarks from events previous to Protocol, the crows feet and other such wrinkles that proved he was a man who emoted, and his eyes. They didn't seem out of the ordinary at all. They weren't blue as Omen imagined. They looked like a dozen people's brown eyes he'd seen before, and yet, they were Cypher's eyes. That was enough to make them special.

Omen looked down, stripping himself away from the sight. He was given a request that he could never say no to. He could not disappoint. His hand came over one of the pouches attached to a belt and opened it. Digging around, he pulled out a small journal, similar in nature to the one on the table, and shut the pouch. It took a while for him to flip through, skimming and scanning for the things he wanted to remember.

"I think I know a few good places."

Cypher seemed intrigued.

"Oh?"

Omen placed a finger under something he wrote, then read it out loud.

"55° 55′ 6.27″ North, 3° 14′ 9.59″ West."

Silence. Cypher stared and blinked at Omen, lips slightly parted and brows lightly furrowed.

"…Did you write down coordinates instead of an address?"

Omen felt his shame welling up.

"…It's easier for me."

"Right. Well. That’s another thing for me to teach you, then. How to ask for and find out addresses."

Omen shut the small journal and placed it back in his pocket, refusing to look at Cypher in his embarrassment.

"I don't like talking to people."

"Alright, you antisocial butterfly,"

Cypher took off his hat and grabbed his mask.

"I'll help with that too. But for now, we can’t both stay up all night."

He bore the mask once more, concealing his curls and his eyes, vitiligo and scars, cheeks and smiles. No longer could Omen see his wine-stained lips. Cypher donned his hat and stood, pushing the chair back.

"Let's get to bed, shall we? I did notice you booked two rooms after all."

Omen followed suit and stood, pushing his chair back towards the table after. He looked at Cypher.

"That's not for you…"

Cypher kept his hands behind his back and tilted his head.

"Wait, then why did you book a second one?"

Omen took the journal from the table and grabbed the wine bottle by its neck.

"It's for someone new. Someone I'd like you to meet."

Cypher felt excited. Something had slipped past him and now there was a surprise waiting for him in the building. He couldn't remember the last time something like this had happened.

"Oh?"

Omen walked till he stood next to him.

"Their name is Clove. I'm sure Protocol would love to have them."

"What happened to you not enjoying talking to people?"

Omen looked to the side. He stared at the stars and began to recall the little adventures he had been on with Clove. The shenanigans they'd reel him into, the 'assistance' at the library, the jokes they'd make. He remembered how they first met. He looked back at Cypher.

"They approached me first. It just so happened our goals aligned."

The two began to walk towards the doors to the stairs.

"Well, now I'm excited to know more."

Cypher rested his fingers on the door handle.

"Soon, Amir."

He felt warmed once more. Amir basked in the moment, seeing the stars, the moon, and Omen one last time. He knew whatever this would lead to wouldn't be easy. He knew the pain that getting closer and closer to someone would bring. Yet, he found himself alright with that. He would love again. He would fall again. And when he would lose it all again? He would mourn. He would wait. Then he'd do it yet again. He pushed the door open.

"Say, you wouldn't have happened to book a room with only one bed, did you?"

Omen grumbled.

"Clove warned me about that…"

Cypher did a double-take.

"What?"

Omen looked just as surprised.

"What?"

Cypher went quiet. He was already piecing together the type of person Clove was. He closed his lenses and shook his head in disbelief. He huffed.

"Never mind. I'll just book myself a room."

Omen nodded.

"That would be for the best."

[captn3]

end the genocide. ceasefire now and forever. end the occupation. support palestinians even after they're free. do everything you can, even if the strike is over. FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE.

free palestine. wanted to do this for a while, but drawing your favorite characters calling to free palestine started spreading a bunch on twitter, so it made me even more motivated to make this.

[mattlvr03]

Something, Somehow, Someday

Matt Sturniolo

Genre: Soft angst / slow-burn romance

Chapter 2: The Way You Looked at Me

The night after the roof of the car, Matt couldn’t sleep.

He lay in his bed, hoodie still smelling like your perfume — faint but maddening — and stared at the cracks in his ceiling like they were constellations he couldn’t decode.

You had said, “Then be scared with me.”

And he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But fear had a funny way of sounding louder than feelings. It always had.

Matt had never been good at this — not the romance part, but the letting himself be seen part. He was the type to laugh through the pain, to make a joke before letting a thought sit too long. Vulnerability was something he’d only ever shown to his brothers, and even then, only in pieces.

You saw through that.

He hated how easily you read him. How one look from you — that tilted-head, soft-eyed kind of look — made him feel like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he believed he was.

But he also hated how good he was at messing things up.

The night you met, he thought you were just another cool person he'd talk to for an hour and forget by morning. But something about the way you carried yourself — effortlessly detached, but still deeply present — stuck with him. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just were.

And that terrified him.

So he did what he always did: played it safe. Kept the lines blurry. Gave you just enough to stay, but never enough to really fall.

Until the night on the roof.

You sat beside him, knees tucked close, like you were trying to hold yourself together. And when you said “Then be scared with me,” it was the first time someone gave him permission to not have it all figured out.

He wanted to kiss you then. He almost did. He would’ve — if his fear hadn’t choked him out right when you looked up at him with those goddamn eyes.

Instead, he just held your pinky with his.

Tiny gesture. Huge moment.

And now here he was, hours later, wide awake, with your words echoing louder than any song on his playlist.

He grabbed his phone. Opened your messages.

Typed: “You still up?”

Deleted it.

Typed again: “Thinking about tonight.”

Deleted that too.

Finally, he sent a voice memo.

His voice cracked a little. “Hey. I don’t know if you’re awake, but… thanks. For saying what you did. For not running when I suck at being clear. I wanna try. I’m just slow. But I wanna try — with you.”

He hit send, tossed the phone to the side, and stared at the ceiling again.

Because trying was the scariest thing he’d ever done.

But for you?

Maybe, somehow, someday…

It’d be worth it.

A/N: holy chalupas I got 15 notes and counting. What the frick (Ik it’s not alot but BOY AM I PROUD FOR MY FIRST FIC)

@mattspillowprincess 🤓

[quiminus]

My piece for the mecha pilot au enjoy `⎚⩊⎚´ -✧

Pov shockwave

The tea tasted of nothing, the words in the book were all blurry, since one cannot read in a dream the book was the picture of dorian gray

- i hope you like what i made, you know im not the best cook but i tried - said orion his dear orion

Orions face was a bit blurry, his memory of him had faded over the years and only now he was noticing this

- it tastes wonderful, you really outdid yourself this time - shockwave said his voice lighter than it had been in years

Shockwave entertained orion, this version of orion at least, while he tried to jog his memory and remember what happened before this

- you know, the upgrades you intstalled in our mech really helped with withdrawal symptons after the conection ends - said orion grateful to not feel like recovering addict every time he stepped out of their combined mech

Ah, yes now i remember- thought shockwave finaly realizing what happened

The mental space he had created for the pilots and their friends while he finalized his experiment, his orion, something had gone wrong and he had to step into the simulation, it seems not even he was able to resist its pull

- im glad they work, if it wasnt for me we would be wearing normal pilot suits - shockwave smiled a real smile something he hadnt done in years

- why not listen to some music, you always liked classical right? - orion reached for a radio that definetly wasnt there and turned it on

"Baby we built this house on memo.." "what if happened to you on..." and finally the sound of an orchestra it was the requiem of wolfgang from mozart

- no, you liked classical and roped me into this - mock accused shockwave with no real bite

The "evening" progressed much like this shockwave trying to regain his memory and find the exit while entertaing this "orion"

When it finally hit him

- you know, jazz i have been getting really into jazz recently i dont know why but it has made me really relax whenever i listen to it- orion said  after taking a sip of his tea

That pilot jazz and his alien mech, what was his name growl or something? They teamed up to fuck with progress with his orion and now it was time to fix this

He got up went to the door a few feet behind their table and went to grab the doorknob when

- where are you going? - asked orion confused

- i forgot something in my lab, ill go grab it and then we can continue - said shockwave giving one last glance at orion before he left the void where their table was

Walking between the simulations was something, first aid, what was his real name flex or something, was dissecting an alien with vortex, the real human version of vortex at his side, by the heated look on vortexes face it seems like the activity was about to change

The combaticons or rather onslaught, blast off and brawl were all getting drunk reminiscing about the good old days back when they were simple mercenaries brawl was trying to see how many cigaretes he could fit into his mouth

Deadlock ratchet and hot rod were all at ratchets home deadlock was in his vehicle mode drifting while hot rod was inside having the time of his life and ratchet supervised

Swindle was awed at swerve while blurr was laughing his ass off at swindles expression swerve flipped into alt mode and somehow swindle got even more bewildered with blurrs laughter geting even bigger

[Ignore this paragraph]

Dawnbreaker her human version Daniela brooks was ice skating she was in a competicion and was giving her all the music she chose for this one was funeral by neoni

[Now continue]

And finally his targets growl and jazz they somehow got out of the simulation and were trying to wake up everyone it was an easy fix just tweak a few things in the code and ban they were back where they belonged they were in a spaceship prowl was teling jazz about the stars and the constelations they formed he was talking about the constelation of orion and jazz was listening very closely not missing one detail

Before departing he took one last glance to it all orion waiting for him at a table in the void the pilots the setient mechs sighed and went back to the real world back to his orion to finalize his experiment it was worth it it will be worth it everything he told himself and opened his eyes and went back to real life

Now this has a continuatuon ->

[yuzu8studio]

STRETCH GOAL UNLOCKED #2 🔓

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[regheart]

Do you have personal headcanons on Callidora, Cedrella, and Charis?

hello! thank you so much for the ask

i don't have many specific headcanons, just more general ideas

i think the black family has lived exclusively in the london area for centuries and the house they lived in is from the tudor era and survived the great fire of 1666 through magic, becoming unplottable and invisible to muggles since then

the three were very close while growing up and got along with dorea the most out of their cousins because of the age proximity

theirs was probably the poorest branch of the family

being so distant from the heir line, the only expectation they had was to marry pure-blood wizards (or not marry at all)

callidora married a longbottom (i personally don't think she's directly related to frank and neville because i headcanon frank to be older than sirius iii and i always thought of augusta as being very old so the two of them would be closer in age), moved to lancanshire and had her three kids in the 40s

she spends many of her days at blackpool pier chatting with enid and augusta

cedrella followed the memo and married pure-blood septimus weasley, but her family was not pleased because the weasleys have gotten a worse fame of blood traitors after objecting to the pure-blood directory

she had four kids, all boys, and the youngest, whom she favors, is named castor (a star in the gemini constellation, twin to pollux). both castor and arthur got her blue eyes

charis married a crouch and i can't decide if she's the mother of barty sr. or not because to me he looks like the type to only have kids in their mid 30s after his carrier is solid and that doesn't align with her age

callidora and charis never stopped talking to their sister, but they can't pretend to like her children. callidora tolerates castor, and that's it

lysandra moved out of the house after arcturus died and cygnus and druella moved in with their daughters (they used to live with pollux in hampstead, in a house that would have been alphard's inheritance the way grimmauld place was passed down to walburga)

bellatrix, andromeda and narcissa got compared to them all the time because of the way they were always together

callidora cut ties with her family after the first war. not in a dramatic way, most of them were either dead or imprisoned, but she never went after arcturus, or pollux, or cassiopeia, anyone, she only spoke to cedrella

[bungou-stray-dogs-archive]

Atsushi Nakajima card - Star Gazer

Leader skill - Swaying of the stars Increases Team hp 20% Active skill - Ah, a shooting star! Reduces enemy dmg 20% for 1 turn Sub-skill - I wonder what constellation that is Activates when an ADA character is in the team Reduces enemy dmg by 25 for 1 turn (50 at lv.5) Memo Nakajima Atsushi going stargazing. His eyes sparkled at the thought of a starry sky, and he now stares intently as shooting stars cross the night sky. Quotes "Whoa... It's like the stars are falling down... This is totally different from watching it through the orphanage's small windows..." "The stars look so pretty from this area. Is it because the air is so clean?" Affiliation: Armed Detective Agency Dark affinity Atk: 1206 (Max) | 144 (Base) Hp: 4130 (Max) | 649 (Base) Offensive type

He's available from the Winter Sky Star Gazing event (EN & JP)