#she deserves to learn and make her choices listen

[savingthrcw]

open for muses traveling/living with poor innocent Terra in any capacity

She wasn't sure, because she had only read about it, and the book did say that 'lips' -plural- 'touched', but no one had ever explained that specific form of affection. So she chose to ask. "... is that 'kissing'? Are they kissing?"

[julietsf1]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

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The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[scrivenger-grimgar]

svsss x tgcf crossover where shen yuan is so dedicated to making sure his blorbos get everything they deserve.

shen yuan dies cursing out pidw as normal but he ends up in tgcf.

the book was his meimei's favorite and they both read each others favorites so they could yell about them together. he did not expect to end up loving this danmei so much, and shi qingxuan was his queer reality check. did he figure out that he was aroace-spec from relating to xie lian? yes. does he want to talk about it? no.

when he dies cursing out pidw he SHOULD have ended up there, but there was a glitch in the system and he ended up in a little village in tgcf. he knows all the plot points and character names, but he doesn't know where or when he is in the plot and he really wants to give his blorbos everything they deserve but he is a toddler.

so he just,,, lives. he knows he wont be able to cultivate, his family can't afford to send him to a sect, and his village doesn't have much outside of the basics. so when his family caught him teaching other kids abd realized that shen yuan could read? AND write?? AND do math!!?? well...

"meng po said i didnt need any soup." becomes the first lie he tells. he is so glad he retained his resting bitch face.

they think he might ascend as some legendary civil god. shen yuan knows he wont. and he doesnt.

his days are spent teaching other children, learning from the village craftsmen, listening to the brothel jiejies play music, panicking about his blorbos, and planning.

in his teens he becomes the village's official teacher, and officially apprentices under a cloth weaver and learns to make paper and ink.

part of him tells himself that he's learning these things ti help his family, another part says its to keep his mind off the plot.

his second death is uneventful, mostly because nobody actually realizes that he's dead. his parents were old, and his elder sister already married out, so he lived alone for 5 years already. dead at 27 due to a house fire, yet his soul is already strong enough to be wrath.

he comes to the very fair assumption that its simply due to his status not as a reincarnator, but as a millenial. the sheer amount of depression and existential dread he faced as a physically disabled terminally ill millenial in the corporate hell that is the post capitalist corporate purgatory primed his being as one that simply cultivated resentment like a finely aged wine.

but he so geniunely enjoyed teaching and learning that he just. never told anyone that he was dead. it completely slipped his mind as unimportant because he knows that ghosts in this world are just humans a bit to the left, and since he is still the same person as before, is just as much of a ghost as he was before, knows that he can still teach and learn the same as before. it doesn't change anything for him.

he just picks up his ashes, apprentices himself to the village potter, makes himself a new tea set, and weaves a beatiful tapestry dedicated to the only god who can truly do no wrong, yushi huang.

he continues teaching and learning, and genuinely caring for his village, carefully, carfully making sure he does not hurt his people, making sure he does not scare them.

the way his people discover he is a ghost is not pretty, but neither is it ugly.

a nobleman was in town to rest the night with his entourage of guards. one young lady working the local brothel is harrassed by the guards, so nervous she trips and spills wine on the young master.

the nobleman, covered in wine, tipsy and enraged, grabs her and throws her to the ground, yelling at her to grovel and apologise; he does not notice the hateful gaze of shen yuan, once playing a delicate tune only moments before.

shen yuan wants to stop this, but that would definitely reveal him as more than human. the choice is taken from him as this stranger has the gall to step on one of his own students, he feels his patience snap in the stunned silence of the entertainment hall.

faster than possible for any mortal, he stands by them, holding the nobleman by the front of his stupid fancy robes, panicked babbling about that bitch having her man-whore friend doom himself to suffer both their fates. one of the guards stabs shen yuan through the chest.

there is screaming as the village's beloved teacher is run through, even as he ignores the wound and drags the nobleman from the building, the guards running after them. shen yuan takes the entire group out to the forest with only the nobleman as bait, and uses the silence if the night as a backdrop for the unrelenting slaughter of 15 people.

when he returns, he is covered in blood, carrying everything they had on them. the word has spread. their teacher is something else. but that wasn't nesicarily bad. the nobleman's rescources are stripped of identity and spread amongst the villagers. shen yuan has not harmed them, only stepping in when one of them was in harm's way. they have known him for 30 years, they know he is nothing if not kind.

so he protects them. because they have always been his family. so for centuries he does. he watches his peers as they grow old and die, caring after their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. he is their teacher. he is their uncle. he is their ---.

there was a period of time where the town thought shen yuan took on a heveanly tribulation only to reject godhood and return to the village. shen yuan tried to tell people that wasn't true, that he never became a god or refused godhood, that he was simply trapped in a mountain for a decade, stewing in a pot of resentment and accidentally becoming a ghost king.

he doesnt even know how he did that, just that apparently yoyos are similar enough to meteorhammers that he could apply the same concepts, and also that he had enough condenced rage and nerdiness to actually figure out anime moves with qi. so what if half of the ghosts in the kiln thought he was some kind of spider demon, he has cool threads that he can use to kill you.

and actually fuck you, spiders are pretty damn cool!

it starts not long after that. the prayers. his people are praying to him, as if he's some kind of god.

thats when he realizes. he can pray to the gods. he can pray to the gods, and they will only ever know the temple it came from. and really he's spent so long worrying over not just his blorbos but also his whole village, and really what is he if not an anonymous millenial internet troll.

and so it begins.

(remember to check reblogs for more!)

[trampleddoves]

bad idea right

Holiday break with your new stepfamily gets more interesting when you catch your stepbrother's lingering glances.

Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother!Spencer Content: angst + slight smut, 2.7k words, DDDNE, no kinks, but Spencer is your stepbrother (set just before-s1), reader is a college graduate and mentioned to wear dresses and makeup, reader gets tipsy, complicated family dynamics and unhealthy coping mechanisms, making out, dry humping.  Notes: MDNI. I do not condone the choices of the characters, this request truthfully just brought to me a fully-fledged idea that I could not ignore. Once again, scroll away if this isn’t your cup of tea. Title is indeed from the Olivia Rodrigo song, which I extensively listened to while I wrote. This isn’t even that smutty, but I really enjoyed exploring ideas of resentment simmering beneath the surface. I suppose this affirms a previous anon who accused me of being a freak—evidently. Of the highest order. Welcome. I bear cookies and milk. They’re poisoned.

Winter break. The chill wraps around the air like an overbearing mother—inescapable, looming in corners you wouldn’t suspect—although Spencer Reid wouldn’t know what having an overbearing mother entails. Diana Reid had never been overbearing even in her lucidity but the comparison seems apt. A certain foreboding attitude hangs over the house. Gathering here, with his father’s new family, a measly, pathetic attempt to be closer. 

He’s never particularly gone through the usual sulking phase of adolescence. Too busy growing up, being good, working hard to hide how he’s splintering at every corner—a young boy burdened by the weight of his genius and a mother absent from reality. A life without the support of a father. 

A father who is now desperately trying to reconnect, accepting him—forcibly, under the guise of love—into the fold of his new family. It’s all so performative, but then again Spencer knows all about performative. Having spent years trying to seem okay, like his mother isn’t rapidly deteriorating, hiding the fact that she’s unfit to be his guardian behind clean, well ironed clothes and his remarkable academic performance. His entire life is a laughable farce, so he sees through everything—the perfect spread of Christmas dinner, being forced to open presents in the morning together—they’re all facades precariously balanced on everyone’s cooperation. 

He'd played the part, baring his teeth as a way of smiling—he's never quite properly learned how to smile, having little cause for the action—posing for pictures, thanking his new stepmother for the new copy of Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. 

It’s a good gift, even though he’s already read the material. Shows that she made an attempt to know about him. Spencer could admit that the woman is kind, thoughtful, stable, he could see how his father would fall in love with her. But there's the underlying implication—she's nothing like Diana Reid. 

He decides he hates her the day after Christmas. He decides William Reid doesn't deserve her either. 

It feels like now he’s getting his life’s worth of teenage angst. After Christmas is over, he locks himself away, talking only when talked to. His father and stepmother are gone today, attending a fancy brunch with their shiny new friends, so Spencer ventures out of his room cautiously. His quiet footsteps are simply manifestations of his unease. Trying to create the least amount of noise, take up the smallest space. He does not feel welcome here, and he doesn’t want to.

Winter break. The chill insists upon invading the house, despite the heater. 

Yet you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of cereal in nothing but a slinky, emerald green slip. 

You. The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

His stepsister. 

He pauses at the doorway, mouth dry, eyes trained on the way the fabric falls over your body, reflective silk casting shadows and highlights and making every single curve seem so supple and soft and oh so tempting.

He clears his throat. “Good morning.”

“Hey,” you look over your shoulder to regard him. He’s found that you’re even more displeased by this arrangement, this quick merging of two families. Traditional holiday festivities ring hollow now, obviously ornamental to make the marriage seem less dismal. Your way of showing your displeasure is the exact opposite of his. Instead of holing up in your room, you’re always outside if you can help it. He’s not sure where, but it’s obvious that neither of you are happy.

He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He’s finally reached a point where college graduates are age appropriate enough to be considered his peers. No longer the youngest person in the room. But at this point, his social grace is completely in reverse to his intellect. That is, nearing zero. He has no idea how to talk to you.

“I’m gonna meet a couple of friends for lunch,” you say, lifting the spoon to your mouth. His gaze follows, before he finds clarity and looks down.

“That’s good,” he mumbles, walking to the fridge and finding the milk carton.

“You wanna come?”

“Not really.”

He sees you shrug from the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to retract his rejection, but you’re already rinsing your bowl. Soon you’ll flounce off, and he’ll be alone. Good, he decides. It’s better off like this, holding you at a distance. He doesn’t need more fuel to add to his inappropriate attraction to you.

Leave it to him to mess this up. He doesn’t even want this new family—he’d much rather spend Christmas in Nevada. A small room he rents near Diana’s sanitarium, so he could spend time with her whenever he can. Still, he can’t believe he’s committing to this cliche. Nerdy step brother ogling his beautiful step sister. It’s as if he carries some permanent malady, inflicting it upon everything he touches.

“I’ll see you later then, Spencer.” your touch on his arm makes him flinch. 

He ducks and nods, hiding away from the odd look he’s sure you’re giving him. A look everyone gives him, even his mentor, the only man who could ever keep up with him. Weakly, he answers, “Yeah. Later.”

Later turns out to be way past dinner; Spencer is alone for far longer than he anticipated. His father and stepmother return around dinnertime, the woman drunk and stumbling about. William Reid pats his son on the shoulder, before quickly retiring to the master’s bedroom, “We’re both exhausted, Spencer. Make sure your sister gets home at a reasonable hour.”

What constitutes reasonable? He’d never gone out and partied when he was studying—or after, if he’s being completely honest. Still, he nods at his father, deciding there’s really no harm waiting up for you. 

It is quiet when you stumble into the house, but there’s a light in the kitchen that makes your heart rate spike. Your mother? William? Are you in trouble for staying out? Can you even get in trouble when you’re an adult? What are the rules for adults still living with their parents? You’re unsure. There’s no curfew, but the presence of the light reminds you all too well of past conversations when your mother had caught you sneaking back in.

It’s easy to regress back into the habits from your earlier years when you’re around her. Locked in this perpetual dynamic of mother and child—mother and daughter, which is arguably even worse—where you’re meant to forever stay young, her baby as she likes to say, with a beaming smile as if that would soothe the sting of having to move back home after college. 

Tail tucked between your legs, accepting defeat. You had plans of making it in a big city—didn’t everyone? But money and luck and a whole other host of factors are not on your side, so you’d begrudgingly accepted her offer. Come live with me until you get your feet solidly planted on the ground, she had said. Conveniently leaving out the part where she remarried. But you didn’t want to be homeless, so you had smiled through gritted teeth and moved back in, accepting William Reid as your new stepfather, as if your old, real father wasn't buried six feet down the ground only eight months ago.

It’s his son now that’s waiting in the kitchen. Spencer. Scrawny, bug eyed. Your mother had gushed about him in the past few weeks—apparently, he’s finished three PhDs., and is being considered for the FBI even though he’s technically too young to even apply. He’d never be like you, struggling to get past the first interview. No, he’s too brilliant for that.

He looks up from his book as you pad through the halls. Dim light softens the gaunt angles of his face, making him almost handsome. He smiles, and the illusion is gone, replaced by the reality of what he is: a boy still fumbling about how to be a man. 

“You’re back,” his voice is soft as he closes the book—some Italian writer you remember reading for a literature class.

You walk past him, grabbing a glass. “Yeah. Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, training his eyes on the floor, but not before you catch his gaze lingering at your bare legs. “It’s so quiet around here.”

Right. He still lives in the city where, even in the dead of night, there’s an undercurrent of sound. Still accustomed to the slight hum, the pulse that lets you know there are other people awake around you, doing night shifts, or partying, or making love. Here in the quiet suburbs, with the strict homeowner’s association, a car revving down the street would be the cause for a noise complaint.

“Hm,” you gulp your water, “Should’ve come with me.”

“I didn’t want to intrude on you and your friends.” he replies, eyes flickering back to you. Clear amber, even in the dim light, “I hope you had fun, though.”

Try as you might, you can’t hate the guy. He’s much too earnest, too bumbling to ever be of any real danger. Besides, he’s stuck here just as much as you are, into this stupid tableau of family values your parents have forced upon you. Your resentment would only be wasted on him, especially since his resentment is just as obvious.

So you flash him a smile, lips reflective and mimicking wetness thanks to the lipgloss, “I did, thanks. How’s your book?”

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes trained on your mouth. 

“Spencer?”

“Oh, it’s good,” he turns his gaze back to his copy, old and worn, with papers sticking out of them, “I’ve read it before, I’m just reading through my annotations.”

“Ah,” you nod. Of course he’s the type to annotate. And reread said annotations. You walk closer, leaning against the table beside him. The way his eyes dart down your bare legs, not in full display, within touching distance, fills your mind with dangerous thoughts. So you steer the conversation that way, pressing his buttons ever so slightly, “Sorry you’re stuck here by the way. Could’ve been out getting laid at D.C.”

He shakes his head, a self deprecating smirk tilting at his lips. “I’m not—that’s not really my thing.”

“No?”

“Girls don’t really find me appealing.” he mumbles, risking another glance at your legs. You wait for the usual self pitying speech, the one with underlying anger and misogyny, but it doesn’t come. He simply looks wistful.

You find yourself filled with genuine intrigue, “No?” 

It’s interesting how the same word could carry such a different meaning with the slightest shift in inflection. Spencer seems to pick up on the softness of your voice.

“No, I don’t really—I spend most of my time reading.” he tells you.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your time holed up in isolation,” your finger touches his chin, tilting it up to meet you. A strange sense of power fills your stomach as you watch his pupils dilate. “You’d find someone.”

You have a plethora of fucked up things upon which you can place the blame for why you do the next thing—your life not going the way you want it, the growing resentment for this entire holiday, your alcohol addled state of mind. That’s a problem you’ll figure out in the morning. Right now, you’re leaning in to kiss him. Your lips are sticky against his dry ones, palms cupping his jaw as you move your lips gently.

For a moment, you’re afraid you’ve misread the signals—he’s rigid, as though frozen by the permeating frigidity of the house. You consider pulling away, but then he is kissing you back. Slowly, at first, matching your pace, but then your tongue darts out to drag across the seam of his lips, mouth parting, and suddenly he’s moving with desperation. Kissing you as if he intends to meld your mouths together, making the prettiest little noises from the back of his throat.

There’s little time to think, not when there’s so much resentment and frustrations pouring out of both of you and into the kiss. He’s trying to keep up with your anger, but inexperience makes him uncoordinated. It’s sloppy and just on the edge of painful, clashing teeth and tongues poking harshly into crevices, not with the intention to explore but to take. 

When you tug at his pants, he pulls back, holding onto your hips like you’re some sort of lifeline. “W-we shouldn’t,” he pants.

“No?” you press your palm on his crotch, raising a brow at the obvious erection hiding beneath the fabric. 

He moans, eyes squeezing shut. “This is wrong, you’re drunk and—and my step sister.”

“I’m not drunk,” you mumble, moving to straddle his lap, dress hiking up to your hips and giving him a full view of your legs. Your cunt goes directly over his crotch. Only a few scraps of fabric separate you, and the thought makes you moan, makes you nip at his lower lip. He stiffens in response, face bright red.

“At least deny the step sister part,” he complains, resting his forehead against yours.

You don’t have anything to counter it, at least not with words, so instead you move your hips over the spot where you’ve settled. A moan trembles from his lips as you grind on his crotch, seeking friction from the growing bulge. You swallow the sound with another kiss, and this time he doesn’t fight it. 

“It doesn’t count,” you say in between kisses, hands tangling in his hair, “If we don’t actually fuck.”

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, his breath warm on the skin of your jaw where he’s begun trailing kisses. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Yes, it does.” you insist, grinding your hips on his crotch, moaning as the thin lace of your panties grow soaked with your arousal, making the friction feel that much sweeter. “Makes perfect sense. Perfectly logical. It’s just masturbating then.”

Spencer is whimpering into your neck, large hands holding your waist to keep you balanced on his lap. “That’s still wrong.”

“Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t been jerking off to the thought of me.” That’s a risky sentence; you’re not actually sure. But with the way his hips jerk up into you, you realize he has done it. Lowering your voice, you lean in and bite his ear, rocking your hips into a rhythm that mimics the movements of sex. “You have, haven’t you? That’s why you spend all that time alone in your room?”

“I—fuck,” he groans, nails digging into your hips as he ruts his hips up to match you, “Yes. Yes, yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Spencer.” you moan, arms wrapping around his neck. “God, this feels so good.” Pleasure courses through your veins, heightened by the alcohol and the fact that neither of you shouldn’t be doing this. Beneath you, the chair he’s sitting on scrapes on the kitchen floor, creaking slightly from your rocking bodies.

“Yeah,” he groans, teeth clamping around the sensitive part of your throat. You hiss at the sting, grinding down on his erection harder, an action that sends his body into a fit of tremors, stiffening and then shuddering as he muffles his moans against your skin.

He’s coming, you realize, and the fact makes you go harder, eager to chase your own orgasm. His length is still rock hard, easy to rub your sensitive clit on it to find stimulation, and soon, you’re quivering on top of him as the pleasure finally snaps and overtakes your body.

He holds you tightly to him, arms around your waist as you try to regain your breaths. “W-we can’t do this again.” he whispers, voice hoarse, arms trembling despite their tight grip on you.

“Right,” you murmur, gingerly climbing off his lap, “Just this once, never again.” 

His arms linger, wanting to keep you against him longer despite every brain cell yelling at him about goodness and morality and legal complexities. Reluctantly, he lets go.

You regard him, strangely sober after such a high. Cheeks flushed, a stain at his crotch, the very picture of ruin. With a smile, you bend down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Keep this between us?”

“Of course.”

You make two promises that night. Only one of them is kept.

[deathbxnny]

RAHH YOUR BACKKK

perchance, could you do arcane women reacting to reader in the aftermath of a really toxic relationship like how they would comfort them and stuff?

Arcane women comforting you after a toxic relationship. | Sevika, Vi, Jinx x Gn!Reader

You can't just say perchance!/J

But on a serious note, thanks for the interesting request, I had alot of fun writing this!<3

Content: Angst, past toxic relationships, fluff, can be read as either platonic or romantic? Idk, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》SEVIKA

She hated your ex and never bothered to hide it either. Her passive-aggressive remarks and cold glares got the point across every time, but she never tried to talk you out of your relationship. It wasn't entirely her business anyway, and you'd learn eventually on your own. Trying to intervene would only make things worse unless they were hurting you, to which she'd bury them alive for it.

Either way, it came to no surprise to her when you appeared at her door late into a random night, crying and sobbing incoherently at what had happened. You finally found the strength to break it off with your ex, but that didn't stop the heartbreak from lingering in your heart so horribly. Yes, they were terrible to you, and it was for the best you left, but the self-doubt and conflicting emotions in you were driving you to the point of insanity.

Thankfully, Sevika was quick to get you into her humble home wordlessly, slightly unsure of how to comfort you. But she didn't play her long awaited "I told you so" card. Instead, she got you some tissues, a nice cold drink of your choice, and your favorite food before simply sitting down next to you in silence. She figured that listening to your rant would be better than to say anything, and so she did just that, for how long you needed it.

Deep down, she was brewing with anger, though, yet kept it calm for you. She wanted you to feel comfortable here and even goes as far as to let you cuddle up to her at the end of your vent session. In her mind, many different ways of dealing with your ex's existence came to mind, yet they stilled at the softest "thank you" given by you.

Her heart skipped an embarrassed beat as she waved your gratefulness off with a stubborn shake of her head, claiming it was nothing to worry about.

Your ex, on the other hand, definitely had something to worry about, though, once she gets her hands on them.

》VI

Vi has been itching to fight your ex from day one, yet refrained at your pleas to not hurt them. She always told you that you deserved better. That you deserved someone who actually loved and cared about you, but you couldn't see her way no matter how many times you two talk about it. It's like you couldn't see past the love you had for your ex until the glasses finally did break.

The pink haired woman intervened during a heavy argument between you and your ex, which eventually led you to finally just break it off with them for good. You were so sick of their fighting and finally understood what Vi was seeing from the start... but that didn't stop the guilt and heartbreak from seeping into your heart by the time you made it back to her place.

You felt ashamed for not seeing it sooner, but Vi was quick to wrap you up in warm blankets and reassure you that there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Things like that can happen to anyone, after all. And you learned something from it, so that's a good thing!

She will try and give you a bit of a peptalk that then veers into her, wondering if she should beat your ex up for good measure. Words won't get through to them, but these fists certainly will! Or so she thinks. Thankfully, you eventually fall asleep in her embrace before you can notice her once again reckless scheming.

Vi may let them get away with it for now, but if she ever sees them around, it will be on sight... well, as long as you're not there too. She wants you to feel safe with her and hope's that you do, as she, too, finally falls asleep.

》JINX

I hope your ex is good at dodging bullets because Jinx will shoot them on sight. She has already contemplated this from the start and never thought anything good of them either in all the time you dated them. She'd prank and annoy the hell out of them in the hope of driving them away, especially after you warned her not to hurt them.

But that didn't mean anything to her anymore, after you two finally broke up. Her efforts weren't for nothing after all, and she would've rejoiced at the news if it weren't for your heartbroken expression that greeted her the moment you stepped into her hideout.

Pushing her chaotic and murderous thoughts aside for the moment, she was quick to cuddle you up in her strong arms and let you rant all about your troubles to her. She'll feed you your favorite food and drink whilst you speak, yet doesn't say much herself. She's a good listener when she wants to be and luckily knows when to be serious. At most, she'll join in at the shit talking phase, glad to finally be free to gossip about them in peace with you at last.

Eventually, she'll try and distract you with some new inventions or stories of hers until you fall asleep, at which she takes that as her green light to go on a little hunt. After covering you in all of the blankets she can find and making sure that your resting place is extra comfortable, she casually loads her gun and exits the hide out with a wide grin.

Finally, some revenge for all the tears you've shed.

[qvicksilversass]

Walk with me, Cupid

(John Walker x Thunderbolts!Reader)

When people look at you they see the person they desire most. No one's seen the real you since you were eighteen, until Walker.  words: 8658 warnings: fluff, bit of angst, clueless/mixed up Walker, undercover, self-image issues, violence an: forgot I'd queued this, was still unfinished and I deleted in a panic so sorry if you saw the other version - I'm an idiot 😆spent way too much time researching these places, his smile in this gif 😍

Cupid. You hated the codename, you said it once as a joke, but it stuck. The irony no one except you can even see it, a birthmark over your neck in the shape of the chubby angel. Can you imagine what it was like for an unnoticed, shy teenager to suddenly be everyone's dream girl? For a while you adored the attention, until you realised they weren't seeing you. They called you by different names, you had different faces in pictures.

Every date, every meeting you lost more hope. Knowing your face wasn't desirable to anyone hurt more than you'd admit. Over time, those feelings drained you, made you bitter, made you reckless. Men and women would come and go. You'd take what you needed, using them until they got too close, and things started to get dangerous.

The night Bucky found you, beaten up and bleeding out in a dirty alley in Brooklyn. You'd dragged yourself up to lean against the wall. Ice cold on your back, your chest hurting every time you take a breath. You remember the ashen clouds against the black skies. Remember wishing you could see the stars. You'd been ready to die then, deserved it. You hated who you'd become and there's a second you thought you already were.

The way Bucky stares down at you, a haunted expression on his face. How he tells you he's here to help, you'll be okay. His certainty not reaching his eyes. He never told you who he saw that night, he couldn't and you'd never pushed him.

Bucky's there when you wake, your whole body riddled with pain. A deep ache in your stomach where you still feel the blade. You hardly hear him while he explains they had to operate on you, the knife narrowly missing your liver. You had broken ribs, internal bleeding, a fractured tibia...

He says you're lucky, could have been much worse. You break down then. Yet Bucky stays, he listens, asks if you knew the attacker. You only remember his eyes, cold and dark. You don't expect to see Bucky again, but he visits you every day. Brings you books, sneaks you coffee, tells you of his new team and their crazy missions.

One day he brings you a mask made of a special one-way material. Once you get used to the sensation, when you learn how to breathe, not panic. It's the first time in years you've felt even close to normal, being able to speak to people as yourself.

You've longed for a purpose for years, a way to make up for the things you'd done. So when Bucky offers you a lifeline, a place on his team, you didn't hesitate. Two weeks pass and it's finally the day you're discharged. You've waited all morning, your possessions fitting into a small bag. Your side still aches, the stitches still sore and you can't stand for longer than a minute on your fractured leg. You don't care, though. You're so relieved to be getting out of this room, to breathe fresh air.

Bucky's called away last minute and he brings Walker to drive you to your new apartment. From Bucky's stories, he's still trying to make up for the bad choices he made. That and he irritated the hell out of Bucky. The first time you hear his voice, he's bickering with Bucky in the corridor.

"Why does she get her own apartment?"

"Because I said so."

"I saved a hundred kids the other day Bucky, just sayin'."

"Just be nice."

“I'm always nice.”

You know Bucky's rolling his eyes and you smile when he pokes his head round the door, coming to sit beside you.

"Hey, you ready to go?"

Walker pushes a wheelchair into the room and steps back to lean against the door frame. You weren't sure what to expect, but you weren't expecting him. His lips set in an amused half smile, neatly trimmed beard and styled hair you could run your hands through. Bucky didn't mention Walker was this good-looking. Though it's his eyes that draw you in, a pearlescent blue, they have that shine old movie stars had. 

You're glad he can't see your face heat up when he looks you over. So intense and curious when his gaze lands on your mask. You raise your hand to your face to check it's still on, that he can't actually see through it.

You squeak out a barely audible, "Hi." and Bucky gives an amused huff.

"This is Walker." 

"What's with the mask?" Walker asks and it's the first of a lot of questions that day. 

“I told you about this… I'd better go, you'll be okay?"  Bucky looks pointedly at Walker, he huffs and crosses his arms, annoyed at Bucky doubting him. 

“I'll be fine, I'm in great hands, right Walker?” You’re not sure where that came from, why it sounded so flirty. Neither is Bucky. He stifles a laugh and raises his eyebrows at you.

Walker stands up straight, not sure what to say, “Yes?”

“Okay then, I'll drop by tomorrow.”

After an awkward moment you shuffle to the end of the bed, attempting to drop down into the chair. Walker stops you, lifting you gently, his hair falling into his face as he sets you down. You really want to brush it back into place, feel the soft strands between your fingers. Wait, what the hell is wrong with you? You're glad it’s only a short drive, your apartment a block away from the Avengers Tower. He lifts you back into the chair and you take the elevator to the tenth floor.

“Home sweet home.” He grins and hands you the keys, letting you push open the door, watching for your reaction. 

“Wow.” The place is beautiful. Modern open plan, huge windows and doors to a small balcony overlooking Manhattan.

“Bucky asked me to make you something,” he wheels you into the living room and starts pulling things out of the fridge, "hope you like sandwiches." 

"Sounds great." You haul yourself out of the chair, holding onto the couch to balance yourself. You had to try the balcony out, you'd always wanted one. Clumsily, you make your way across the room. Till you run out of things to hold onto and your damn leg gives way, “Shit.”

“Woah, think you're supposed to use these?” Walker's at your side in an instant, strong arms around your waist, steadying you and you curse at the way your stomach flutters.

“Sorry.” He lets you lean on him while you hook your arms around the crutches.

You hobble out to the balcony while he makes you both coffee. You let yourself relax, taking a breath and listening the city sounds, so different from the bleak hospital you'd been in the last few weeks. 

After a few minutes Walker brings out the coffees and the biggest sandwich you'd ever seen, the smell making your stomach rumble. He sits the other side of the table, sliding the sandwich over to you. Where was this asshole Bucky talked about? He's been more gentle than you expected him to be, more attentive. Maybe that's why you feel like a school girl with a new crush? Had it really been that long? 

You can sense those curious blue eyes on you again, “Can you eat through that?”  he asks, gesturing to your mask.

"It's the only downside, that sandwich looks so good."

"I can..." he holds his hand up blocking his face, then peeks through his fingers at you and you wish he could see your smile.

"Too risky, I'll eat it later."

“This is a great view, hey, you can see the tower from here.” He takes a drink of coffee and you hold yours, letting the cup warm your hands.

“Do you have to wear it all the time?”

“Only around people.”

“How does your thing work?”

“My thing?”

"Yeah, what if you're in a dress? Do girls see a guy in a dress? What if he's got a beard? Are you like, a guy's head with a girl's body?”

You laugh at the image and sharp pain shoots up your side, “Ow, don't make me laugh…” he reaches over, but you wave him off.

“I'm not sure myself, they see the whole person though, it's sort of like I make them hallucinate?” 

“Can I try?” He seems genuinely interested. Yet you hesitate, you liked this normality. Having a conversation without the lovey-dovey eyes, knowing he’s talking to you, not who he wants you to be.

“Is there someone you want to see?” 

He stares down at his wedding ring with a sad smile, turning the band around his finger, “Doesn't matter, she wouldn't take me back, anyway.” 

Great, now you feel bad for asking, “I did some pretty shitty things before Bucky found me…I feel like I don't deserve all this…”

“He must think you're worth a second chance…I mean, he gave me one so…”  he checks his phone, getting up to leave, washing his cup and giving the apartment a last checkover.

“I guess you're all set…” he leans your crutches closer to you, scribbling on a piece of paper, “here's my number, in case you need anything."

“Thanks Walker.”

“And tell Bucky, great hands.”

You crease up laughing, side hurting again and he mouths ‘sorry’, with an apologetic smile. Closing the door quietly behind him. You close your eyes, sighing. Not a good idea y/n. Catching feelings for a man still pining after his ex-wife. A guy you just met. Your messed up heart though, it never listened to reason.

Back to the present and you're working your first undercover mission alone with Walker. Intel led you to Nebraska, chasing the hellfire stone. A nasty alien artifact that could cause chaos in the wrong hands.

Bucky's jet comes in to land over the bleak terrain and Walker has you in stitches for the tenth time that day. Complaining he thought it would be the real Crete in Greece when he agreed to come on the mission. Not the tiny airport in Nebraska. 

You hated flying and landing; that terrified you. You grip onto the seats as the plane bumps along the runway, and practically run to open the doors. The warm, humid air greets you as you step off the jet and down the rickety metal steps.

“Bucky said it's CPD 704?”

“You've got to be kidding me.” You glance up from your phone to see the disgusted expression on Walker's face. You follow his gaze to the beaten-up old Ford Bucky rented. Rusted over with faded red, white and blue paint, stars spread over the doors.

“Maybe he wants us to blend in?” Bucky likes winding Walker up almost as much as you do. You silently curse him when you twig the number plate.

“Yeah, you stick up for him.” Walker pulls the keys from under the wheel rim and the doors creak open. Your nose crinkles at the smell of the musty leather seats, full of stains.

“Let's see if this thing even starts.”

Thick black fumes fill the car as the engine stutters into life and you roll open the windows, both of you spluttering and coughing.

“I'm gonna fucking kill him.” Walker hisses behind his sleeve and you burst out laughing, him joining you. After a few minutes, he manages to get the car going. You breathe in the fresh air and send Bucky a text.

“I hope you're telling him he's a dead man “

“Nope, telling him how much you love the car.”

"Urghh."

“Did we have to park so far away?” 

“It's ten minutes, don't you trust me?”

You side-eye him, knowing his ten minutes and yours are vastly different. The air is getting cooler now, clouds forming and you wish you'd brought your jacket. You hug your arms to yourself as you walk.

“Like I did in Rio?”

“That wasn't my fault!” 

"Yeah, yeah."

When he'd had you wandering the streets for hours, exhausted because he wouldn't admit he was lost. You'd never admit that it was one of your favourite memories with him. You ended up on the beach by Copacabana, drinking awful cocktails and talking. About what you can't remember, though you remember his eyes sparkling in the moonlight, his smile easy. Watching the stars and listening to the waves till you fall asleep. An angry Bucky and Ava finding you early the next morning. The four of you watching the sunrise. No missions, no worries, only calm for a few moments.

Finally, you make it to the main road, the red neon lights of the Foxhole Tavern almost welcoming.

"I'm gonna check round back, you wait for him inside. Don't draw any attention, okay?”

"Yes sir."

He walks off, mumbling to himself, and you smile after him a second. Waiting till he's out of sight to drag your mask down, relishing the breeze on your skin. The place is old-fashioned, quiet. Stuffed foxes drink wine over the bar, benches and tables lining one side. You head over to the bar, surveying the room. A few locals and students, no one out of place yet.

“Just a beer, please.”

“It's on me, beautiful.” The barman winks and places your beer down on the bar. You leave money anyway and choose a table near the back, pretending to look at your phone.

“I can see why he chose this place. An actual alien could walk in and no one would bat an eye.”

The doors rattle and your target, Thomas Miller, strolls in. A former shield agent turned black market trader. He's not even trying to be discreet, wearing an expensive suit, ugly sunglasses and loudly ordering the most expensive whisky.

"He's here."

You watch him sit at one of the benches near the windows, another guy dressed more casually sits opposite him.

“Oh, here we go.”

They're not exactly subtle, the most obvious clandestine meeting you've ever observed. He's either stupid or too confident.

“Can you hear them?”

“I'll try to get closer.”

You order another drink and set it down in front of an old bearded guy. He's been staring at you since you walked in, trying to catch your attention. He flashes you a smile, all black and broken teeth as you sit down. He's the only person close enough to hear their conversation, so you fake interest in him. Smile, laugh at the right times, pretending to be his ex-wife, ‘Aileeeen’. He talks away while you listen to Miller and the buyer, giving away every detail of their plans.

“Got the info. The buyers leaving out back, camouflage jacket.” You whisper while the old guy goes to get more drinks, you haven't touched the last one yet.

“I'll tail him, you stay on our guy.”  He's using that serious, spy voice and you love it. The old guy thinks your smile is for him when he slams two beers on the table, sitting even closer to you.

“You wanna go back to my place?” he drawls, voice low, “hey, I'm talking to you.”

"Not tonight." You keep your voice level, conscious of not drawing attention. Specifically, Miller's attention onto you.

"Sure, yeah, we don't need a bed, there's a restroom-”

“I said no, sorry.” Your voice is firmer this time and you move to stand, his hand clamping down on your thigh, forcing you back down, dirty nails digging in.

“Let me go.” You warn him, he doesn't listen. He leans over and tries to kiss you. Acrid sweat and stale alcohol radiates from him and your stomach lurches.

“You know I'll be good to you, just like old times.”

Nope. Fuck this. You pull your arm back, punching him hard in the nose, the crack of bone going through you.

“Fuck!” He falls backwards over his chair and straight into a guy at the bar. Setting off a chain of events even you weren’t prepared for.

Oh Shit, Walker's gonna be mad.

You watch on in shock as the whole tavern dissolves into a bar fight. The stuffed foxes off the bar are being flung around as weapons. Even the barman's swinging on someone's back, punching the man beneath him. Miller slips out in the chaos and you don't follow him, there's no way you'd get to him through this mess.

“I lost him on Elm Street, I'm on my way back to you.” Walker sounds breathless, rushing to get back and you panic.

“What a nightmare? Erm, wait outside for me?”

The old guy charges at you out of the crowd, holding out a broken beer bottle. His face covered in blood and screaming. You grab the nearest heavy object and brace yourself.

“Why? What's that noise?”

“What noise?" You yell, ducking out of the guy's path, he's scarily fast, spinning around to charge at you again.

Walker pulls open the doors at the moment you're smashing a plant pot around the old guy's head. He falls onto the bar, sliding down to the floor with a thud. This didn't look good. How did Walker get here so fast? Oh yeah, damn serum. 

“Y/n, what the fuck?!” 

You pull up your mask before he sees you, turning to shrug at him. Inside you're cringing, “We should probably go.“

He's wide-eyed at the fighting still going on, at the blood and beer everywhere, before his angry eyes fall back onto you. You're never going to hear the end of this.

“You think?!” Walker grabs your arm, pulling you out of the bar.

The sky opens up as you step outside, droplets bouncing off the pavement as you weave through the streets and houses. The wind picks up making the air that much cooler, it doesn't cool Walker down though. He's not stopped scowling at you.

You follow him across train tracks and into the patch of forest that leads to your car. The rain is a little less heavy here, the fresh smell of earth in the air.

“Look, I'm sorry, I asked him to leave me alone." 

The dry soil has turned muddy underfoot, your sneakers slipping trying to keep up with him, walking faster now he's angry.

“That's not, I mean, how did it end up in a bar fight?!”

You take a deep breath before you speak, “Well, I punched the first guy and he fell over a chair into another guy, who fell into another guy, then that guy hit the second guy with a bottle. His buddies took offence to that, the punching started and the first guy decided it was my fault.”

He stops walking as you're talking, staring at you perplexed, “Jesus, y/n.” 

"I should have brought an umbrella." You mutter, trudging through the mud now, the rain starting to soak through your clothes.

“You'd probably knock that guy out with it.” He smirks, squeezing out his sleeve and flicking water at you.

"What's wrong with being resourceful?” 

“It was supposed to be recon tonight."

“Yeah and I reconned that plant pot right up his-”

Oh fuck. Your feet slip from under you, so fast you can't grab onto anything. Your ass splats into the mud and you slide down along the path away from Walker.

He stops dead, looking around for you, confused, "Where'd you go?"

“Down here…” You've managed to stop yourself from sliding, grabbing onto a rock, but you're stuck. The ground too slippery to get a grip.

He burst out laughing then and you throw mud at him, "Shut up, Walker!"

"Oh fuck...are you alright?" He holds his hand out to you in between laughs and your eyes meet Walker's as he pulls you up. Your heart drops, realising your mask must have rolled down when you fell. He pulls you flush against him, reaching up to cup your face, his eyes wandering over your face with that familiar lovesick smile. 

You'd always longed for him to look at you this way and it feels all the more cruel now. You struggle to get a grip in the mud and nearly slip again. He holds your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, and carries you over onto more solid ground. You back away from him, brushing yourself off and waiting for the inevitable.  

“I get it now, the birthmark." 

"Wait, you said birthmark?" You hold your arm out to stop him, the wind whipping his hair and he's staring at your neck.

"Yeah, just there it's erm, cute, sorta like cupid?" He reaches out, fingers brushing over your birthmark, so cold they make you shiver.

“You can see me?" You exclaim, sure he must feel your heart hammering in your chest. 

"Err, yeah?"

"That's impossible..."  You're staring at him in disbelief, your mind not catching up quickly enough. How could he see you? This can't be possible.  You hold his arms, examining him for anything weird, anything different from everyone else who had looked at you.

"Are you high right now?"

"But you had the same reaction as everyone else."

"Yeah, you're pretty, I guess." 

"What the actual fuck, Walker?!" You're so excited, so freaked out, how can he not know how insane this is? Hang on, he called you pretty? You do a little jump and now he definitely looks at you like youre crazy.

"You're really freaking me out y/n."

"I'm freaking you out?" 

"That's what I just said!" 

"Will you calm down?”  You smack his arm, and he shoves your hand away. Such a child.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" 

“What are you two arguing about?!” Bucky mutters in your ear, shit, you'd forgotten you were supposed to check in. 

Both of you speak at the same time, “Bucky he can see me?! How can he see me?!” “Is she insane?!”

You catch up to Walker and you can't contain your excitement, walking backwards in front of him, “What's my hair like? What colour eyes do I have? Can you see this scar on my jaw?”

He just walks faster till he’s in front of you, whispering into his com like it hides his voice from you, “Bucky, you've sent me to the middle of fucking nowhere with a crazy woman!”

“I can hear you, Walker.”  

He stops and turns around, arms raised with that annoying smirk, “Good!”

“Come on, you're both idiots, take a breath for god's sake.”

You're both shivering now, the cold and rain starting to chill your bones. Walker huffs and pushes you forwards “Keep going crazy lady, l don’t want to freeze to death. “

“But-”

“Car. Now.”

A few minutes later you make it to the car, still huffing at each other, both of you soaked through. Walker sticks the heater on shaking his head, water flying everywhere, then smooths his hair back. You wipe stray droplets from your face, glaring at him and he starts the engine.

"You got mud, well...all over there..." he tries to hide his grin, wiping your cheek and smudging the mud, making it worse. You grab a towel out of the glove box, wiping it away yourself.

Rain patters on the roof, running down the windows and the wipers screech into life as Walker drives down the dirt road. Your excitement starts to fade, anxiety at what him seeing you actually means. Either he's immune or... no way, not Walker. Of all the people in the world, the only person you actually like? That would be too good to be true.

"You still cold? Here." You hadn’t realised you were shaking. He passes you his spare hoodie off the back seat, and you pull off your soaked jumper. The soft fabric is so comfy and smells of the aftershave you bought him for his birthday, something earthy and unique to him that you can never quite describe. So warm contrasted to the damp cold of your t-shirt, and you have to resist the urge to snuggle into it.

"So, I'm really the first guy to see your face?”

“Since I was eighteen. Everyone sees their ‘perfect love’, but you can see me, so I guess it doesn't work on you, it's weird.”

“Yeah, weird.”

“Least I don't have to wear this thing around you anymore…it's so damn hot…. “You throw your mask onto the back seat, not catching the change in his voice. How his jaw ticks, hands gripping the steering wheel harder.

"They're meeting tomorrow at the terminal building in Lincoln, using the auction as a cover. I've sent Bucky the details already."

"Okay. Thanks.” His voice flat, too controlled while he pulls onto the highway, only bleak prairies around you, darkness peppered with faint lights.

"Okay? Thanks?" You parrot back to him, why is he talking to you like a stranger? He doesn't answer and you sink back into your seat.

"Okaay then. How far to the motel?"

"Twenty minutes. Place called Beatrice."

Walker concentrates on the road, keeping his eyes anywhere but you. Usually you're never awkward, the quiet always calm. You want to ask him what's wrong, too afraid of what his answer will be. So you spend the time messing with the radio, every bump sending it off station.

The rundown motel is in near darkness when you pull up, and you pass at least two much nicer hotels before arriving at this one. You grab the keys from the front desk, cringing when the lady hands you the keys to room sixty nine. Damnit Bucky. 

Both of you scoff at the decor, the place hadn't been decorated since the seventies. Crazy carpet, pink walls, bright yellow and green bathroom. The only relief there are two queen-sized beds, at least Bucky didn't go that far. You flop down on the nearest one exhausted.

"You shower first, just gonna lie here a thousand years...."

"Such a drama queen. I did all the legwork…" Walker mutters under his breath, shrugging out of his soaked hoodie and t-shirt before he steps into the bathroom.

You want to give him a smart remark back, your words lost in the air. You'd never seen him shirtless before and all you can do is stare. Noticing freckles on his back, the moles on his neck in patterns like constellations, all you can think about is tracing them with your fingers.

The bed vibrates beside you, phone ringing and you smile down at Bucky's forehead, “Hey Buck, tilt the screen...there you are.”

"Heyyy," Bucky frowns and pinches his nose, “damn it.”

"Sorry, want me to put-"

“No it's not your fault." He smiles again, he's one of the only people who could fight off the haze. Well, him and Walker now.

“Where is he?” he asks, and you want to call him out, but you don’t want Walker to hear. They were always telling you there's something there and you're always reminding them he's not interested in you like that. No matter how hard you wished for it.

“Shower.”

“You gonna be okay tomorrow?”

“Yeah, recon went mostly well, just one guy that couldn't keep his hands to himself.” You kept the bar fight to yourself, not technically lying.

"I meant with Walker."

“Sure, I know he'll have my back.” 

There's silence a moment. Alexei, Bob and Yelena appearing behind him, “Sooo...he sees you huh? You know what that means?”

“That he's immune?” 

“Or, you know, you're his dream girl?” he snickered and Yelena cracks up giggling, Bob giving you a thumbs up and Alexei his trademark big grin.

You quickly turn the volume down, "Fuck off Bucky. He might hear you. I'm just glad I don't have to sleep in that damn mask.”

"Whatever you say, let me know when you're ready, I'll set everything up. Sleep well.” He winks as he clicks off the call.

The bathroom door opens, steam billowing around him, water still dripping down his chest, wearing only sweats and drying his hair absentmindedly. Was he actually trying to kill you?

“Bucky just called.”

“I heard.” He snapped and threw his towel on the bed, rummaging around in his bag for a shirt. Huffing and puffing like he hadn't organised everything in there.

Was this grown man sulking? He starts hanging up his wet clothes and your stomach rumbles, reminding you you hadn’t eaten since before the flight.

“Want some food?” 

“Uh huh.“

You order delivery on your phone and meet the guy in the parking lot. Not going back to the room till he's driven away. That and you need air. You're tempted to go for a drink in the sports bar next door, deciding not to push it after earlier.

“Hey got you that pizza you like, you know with extra broccoli?” You smirk as you hand him the box, remembering that time you'd watched Inside Out with him and Hobie. Hoping to get a reaction; a roll of the eyes at least, it doesn't even register.

“Thanks.” He hardly looks up at you, scrolling on his phone while he eats. You click on the old tv to fill the silence.

You're reading too much into it; you have to be. He's probably tired. Yeah, of you. Now there's no mystery anymore, your face as boring as you are. He can't imagine you to be beautiful, to be interesting…and you're a fool for thinking you'd be enough. You should never have come here. Your breath catches and you grab your bag, heading in for a shower before you lose yourself to those thoughts again.

He's already asleep when you're finished, spread-eagled over the bed. He'd not even made it under the covers. You pad around the room, grabbing a blanket to cover him with. He stirs and you think you've woken him, until he wraps himself up in the blanket, mumbling incoherent words and turning over.

You turn off the tv, the lamp and plug in your phone. Finally sitting on your bed, shrugging back into his hoodie. Warm under the thin itchy quilt and try to sleep. Hear the old clock ticking, tap dripping, the buzz of the extractor, but worst of all is the pneumatic drill sleeping next to you. You cover your ears, turn over, stick headphones in - nothing blocks out the noise. Walker turns to face you and the volume is unbearable.

Throw a pillow at him, he doesn't even stir, “Shut up Walker!"

“What?!” He jumps up and you can sense his frown even in the dark.

“The rooms shaking.” You protest and throw another pillow at him, he throws it back, hitting you right in the face.

“Shut up and sleep.” 

“With your snoring?"

“I don't snore.”

“My poor eardrums would disagree.”

He grunts and turns onto his back. You can just make out his face in the dark. Hear his uneven breathing, you know he's not asleep and you start to feel a little bad for waking him.

“Walker, are you okay?” You ask softly, leaning on your arm to face him.

“I'm fine.”

"Just you've been acting weird since, you know…since we got here.”

“I said I'm fine, get some sleep.”

He's so not fine, he's never spoken to you that way before. You're always annoying each other, you loved your teasing. He's never been so dismissive, so cold with you before tonight.

You're sure he's just immune, things shouldn't change between you. If anything, they should be easier. You didn't have to hide. He didn't have to wonder anymore. It's not long before he starts snoring again and you resign yourself to remembering to buy earplugs. 

Lightning flashes through the curtains, a low rumble of thunder in the distance almost discernible from Walker and you giggle to yourself.

You're not sure when you drift off, woken up from a dreamless sleep to the hot sun filling the room. Walker steps inside carrying coffee and bagels. A lovely image until he practically throws them at you, dropping down onto his own bed.

“Thanks, what time is it?” Despite his mood, he still remembered your favourite and you smile to yourself, sipping the hot latte.

“Gone ten.”

“Shit, you should have woken me up."

“Looked like you needed it.”

“Yeah, well…you sounded like you were drilling a hole to the centre of the earth.” You grin and he doesn't return it, back on his phone again.

“Whatever.” You mutter to yourself, taking a bite of the bagel. Warm egg and bacon, and it's the best thing you've tasted since yesterday.

The rest of the morning you go over files, read fics on tumblr, watch him check your equipment. Both of you in near silence, and it's not comfortable. Your mind gets away from you, going over and over what he said last night. ’Pretty I guess,’ if he thinks you're his perfect girl, how disappointed he must be, and you get it. He was probably hoping to see Olivia, not you. The annoying girl who loved to get under his skin.

Another cruel irony in your life, that he'd grown on you. That he's the only man in years that made you feel anything at all. Making him laugh was the highlight of your day, the way he'd fight it, eyes crinkling and then he'd pull that face, breaking into an adorable grin, though he'd hate it if you called him that. 

The way you helped each other through bad days, after missions go wrong, you try to keep each other from spiralling. You spent so many evenings on your balcony, sometimes you'd talk until the sun rose, other times you listened to the city below. Both of you glad for the quiet, a little time to breathe.

Yelena always says 'he's better with you around. Why is he never an asshole with you?' and there's moments you think you see a flicker of something.

The first time you see him in the suit and you think you'll combust. An “Oh, hello” escaping your lips before your brain can engage. Much louder than you'd intended. Everyone hears and you're so embarrassed, you run the other way, not even sure where you're going. Bucky still teases you about that one, tells you how much Walker was blushing.

You're all in the jet, heading back to the tower and they're teasing Walker about the suits, Steve Rogers filling them out more than he did...you roll your eyes at them and whisper in Walker's ear, “ignore them, it looks better on you.” That same flush spreads over his cheeks and he swallows hard, shifting away from you a little. The moments always passed though, you always thought you'd imagined them.

He was so excited the first time Olivia let Hobie stay over at the tower. Dragging you around all day, helping him attempt to toddler-proof the tower. The kid must have thought it was his birthday. He's three now and curious about what his daddy does. Always asking so many questions and he's so funny, he charmed all of you. Made everyone see Walker that bit less annoying.

You liked that playful side to him, building forts, play fighting, you loved seeing him happy. The day he'd been running around after Hobie all day, begging you to read a bedtime story. This supersoldier that could spend days on missions exhausted by a three year old. They're both passed out before you read the third page and your heart aches at the sight of them, wishing for something you could never have.

If all it took for him to pull away would be to show him your face? You'd have done it that first day in your apartment, saved yourself from this dread you were feeling now. You always refused though, him complaining you'd let everyone else see behind your mask, why not him? You couldn't tell him the real reason. You were selfish, you didn't want to lose him, your friendship.

Red fabric flows to the ground as you pull out the dress Yelena gave you. Way more fitted than you're used to, way too fancy. It will be hard to hide a bullet vest under this thing, never mind weapons, you hated going undercover.

"I'll go get changed."

All you get in reply is a grunt. When he's fighting you loved those noises, now he was just annoying you. He's itching to get this done, to be away from you. You can take disappointment, it's not his fault he doesn't feel the same. It’s the way he’s rejecting you that hurts the most. Before anything, you thought you were friends. 

You go through the motions, strap a handgun to your thigh, knife in your bra, com in your ear…put on your lipstick, not knowing why you bothered. People just see who they want anyway.

You walk out of the bathroom to him sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning his dress shirt. Those butterflies plaguing you again. Your eyes follow the curve of his waist and down to the black suit trousers fitted tight on his thighs, before snapping them back up to his face, clearing your throat. Get a grip, y/n.

“You scrub up well, Walker.” You offer and he almost smiles, his eyes wandering over your face again. Then he remembers himself and looks away, putting on his suit jacket and taking his wedding ring out of the pocket.

He'd not worn it since the day Olivia told him she was seeing someone. He'd tried to hide how devastated he was, but Olivia was his first love and you felt so bad for him. 

He notices you watching him and he can read your thoughts before you say anything, "It's just a ring."

“Do I look okay?” You smooth down your dress, conscious of the way it hugs your figure, he doesn't answer, grabbing the car keys and heading out the door.

“Sure, let's go.”

Deflated, you send Bucky a text. He's hacked into the cctv, sent you access codes, got you on the guest list and he'll be there on comms. Walker, even though he's disappointed, he’ll keep you safe. Yet you're still nervous, you always are. 

The city's so different from the vast empty prairies you've been driving through. He parks a few blocks away from the imposing terminal building, similar to the old buildings in Manhattan.

“Remember our story?”

“Yeah, you're my annoying husband, Daniel Morgan, big time IT guy in New York. I'm your doting wife Maya, or whatever they want to call me.” 

“I'm not that annoying. Plan?” He questions you like you hadn’t been through it a thousand times today. The only time he'd even acknowledged you were there.

“Follow them, knock them out, take the artifact, get the hell out. Easy.”

You slip the cheap wedding band over your finger, knowing nothing about this would be easy, especially now, “Is this about the mask? I can put it back on when this is done, you know you're just immune right?”

“Sure I do.” He dismisses you again, and you both walk the short distance along the busy street.

“Time to put on a smile, honey.” You tease him, and he rolls his eyes, though you feel how tense he is when you take his arm.

You get past door security easily, Walker introducing you as Mr and Mrs Morgan. You walk up the stone steps and into the main hall, filled with businessmen and their wives. 

"Wow, those are ugly," Walker motions to the huge chandeliers, "you'd think they could afford the nice ones."

"Money doesn't buy you taste I guess, there's so many people here." You expected it to be busy, but not so packed you could hardly move, so much inane chatter and false adulation.

"Drink darling?" he's kidding, putting on the smarm yet your stomach does flips when he calls you darling. You just nod, and he grabs two champagne glasses from a passing waitress, thanking her.

“Wow, this is strong stuff.” The taste is akin to acid, fizzing on your tongue and you fight the urge to spit it back into the glass.

“Do these people actually like this?” Walker does spit his out, his disgust plain on his face.

“It's an acquired taste.”  A silver-haired man with sharp features approaches you, followed by his immaculately dressed wife. He takes your hand giving it a wet kiss and you step away from him, wiping your hand on your dress.

"I'm the mayor here, good to meet you, dear."  

"Mrs Morgan, and it's our pleasure." You flash him a sweet smile, and he finally takes his eyes away from you to Walker.  

"Mr Morgan." Walker shakes the mayor's hand, gently moving you, putting a barrier between you and the lecherous mayor. You could get used to the way he's holding you to him protectively.

“She looks just like my wife at that age, so beautiful." He glances back at his wife, the insinuation clear in his voice and you feel for her.

"And she's stunning now, I love your dress. It's beautiful."

"You're too sweet." She flashes you a surprised smile and brushes it off. Though you knew that look, as though it's the first time in an age anyone has complimented her.

"Sweet as sugar." Walker gushes and you have to cover your splutter while taking a drink.

"Hmm, if only I was a few years younger." The mayor carries on ignoring his wife, and Walker's struggling to hide his annoyance.

“I'm afraid she's all mine, aren't you darling?"Walker drawls and hugs you to him.

"All yours, honey." You put on your sweetest voice, leaning up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek. His grip on your waist tightening.

There's static in your ears before Bucky speaks, “He's here, you never mentioned he had that many bodyguards.”

"Excuse us?" Walker pulls you towards the target, and you're thankful to get away. Miller's surrounded by about ten bodyguards escorting him through the crowd. Suspicious-looking briefcase in his hands, everyone's eyes on them.

“Wow, they're as bad as you at keeping a low profile.”  Walker jokes and you elbow him.

“New plan?”

You wait for Walker to think, weighing up your odds, “No, we’ll just have to be stealthy, think you can do that?”

”It's my middle name.” You grin and Bucky laughs in your ear, Walker huffs.

“Just follow me.” He guides you through the crowd, hand at the small of your back. Making it appear you're just another couple, slipping away somewhere quiet. You head through the doors that lead down to the basement.

As soon as you're out of sight, he moves away from you. He's not looking at you, keeping his distance again now he doesn't have to pretend. You know this isn't the time. Yet you can't keep going on this way, you need to know, even if it's what you're afraid of.

“You're disappointed, aren't you? If you're not immune, your perfect girl is me?” There's more sadness in your voice than you intended, making him stop and turn to you.

 “I'm not disappointed, come on.” He carries on down the stairs, checking the dark corridor, pulling you back when he hears the group of guards.

You take them down, almost too easily, "Then why are you being so weird?"  

He's standing over the last unconscious guard, breathing heavy and hair in his face, “I'm not being weird.”

He sneaks up behind the guard stationed at the door to the basement stairwell. Covering his mouth and choking him until he's unconscious, lowering him to the floor, "I'm not disappointed. You are."

You input the access code and follow him through the door, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw your face, once it sunk in. You wish it was anyone else and I can't blame you. Let's just get this over with."

That's what all the sulking has been about?  He thought you were rejecting him? He couldn't have got everything more wrong.

“No, John, you don't get it.” You call after him but he's already taking out the last bodyguard stationed as lookout.

You both hide just outside the door, watching the trade-off. Twenty million for a device that can burn you to ash from the inside. Seemed almost cheap for the Hellfire stone. That thing could burn through cities in the wrong hands.

Miller puts it back into the briefcase, holding it out to hand over and you walk over to them, catching their eyes. Distracting them long enough for Walker to knock the buyer out and grab the case full of money. 

You hold your gun out, “Can we take that?”

“I knew it was you.”

That voice, so familiar. Your skin crawls at the sound of it. Miller takes the stone out of the case, turning it over in his hands. 

“You don't steal my things, y/n, especially my wife.”

You falter at his words, fear rushing through you as it dawns on you who he was. His eyes that cold, dark shade of brown that haunted your dreams.

“I'd do it again, you were hurting her.” Your hands shake and you want to shoot him, more than anything.

The only good deed you'd done in years and it nearly got you killed. You'd met his wife in a cafe, her seeing her lover. She begged you to help her get away from her abusive husband. You agreed, pretended to be her while she escaped, leaving the country. All you had to do was keep him on the phone. You never asked his name, not wanting to be tied to them, you should have been more careful. Should have known it was a trick when you got her text asking to meet weeks later.

“How did it feel bleeding out in that alley like the dog you are?” 

He'd grabbed you from behind, hand over your mouth, driving the knife into you. The pain not registering until he slowly drags out the knife, twisting, torturing. He kicks your leg, forcing you to your knees, and drags your head back, hissing in your ear. Those eyes void of any emotion and he punches you on the side of your head with such force that your vision's black. Your body becoming numb to the kicks and punches, waiting for him to stop, if he'll ever be done with you.

You try to clear your head from the memory, Walker moving in front of you, holding your arms, “That's the guy that hurt you?”

You don't have to answer, he rolls his shoulders, face set in anger and storms straight for him. Roaring as he goes to punch him, using all his strength. Miller presses a symbol on the stone just before his punch lands. Walker screams in pain, clutching his abdomen. 

“John?!” 

”I'm, fuck, not fine, very not fine!” He drops to his knees, groaning in agony. You want to run to him, but you're scared of Miller increasing his pain, causing more damage.

“Turn it off!” Panic laces your voice and Miller's enjoying every moment. You fire at the wall behind him, his bitter laugh echoing around the room.

“How about I make you watch him die in agony? Then I burn you, slowly? No?”

You fire at him again, the bullet grazes his arm and he touches the wound, examining the blood on his fingers, "You'd kill me for John Walker?"

“In a heartbeat.” You throw your gun aiming for his head, it lands with so much force he staggers back in shock, falling over the briefcase.

Before he can react, you kick the artifact out of his hand. The stone smacks against the wall, clattering across the floor. Miller scrambles for the stone and you grab for the empty case. Running back to stamp on his wrist. You twist your heel as you put pressure down and the bone starts to crack. Miller screams, dropping the artifact long enough for you to grab it. You lock it back in the case, hoping that would stop it. 

"Give me that you fucking bitch!” Miller yells, clawing at your leg, trying to pull you over.

“Okay.” You crack the case round his head knocking him out cold, kicking off his hands.

“Asshole.” You spit, then run to Walker, relieved when he gawps up at you with a sort of admiration, "See? Resourceful.“

“Wow, what even was that?”  

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, leaning back to hold his face, wiping hair out of his eyes, “Are you okay?”

His eyes are still dazed and you check his abdomen for a wound, relieved there's no blood, no burning.

“Did you mean that?” 

“I should have killed him. Come on, let's get out of here ”

You grab the cases, pulling his arm over your shoulder and letting him put his weight on you, “Have you always been this heavy?”

You take the stairwell up to ground level and out the back fire exit. The passageway is only lit by the street, cars go past and people walk by. You lean him against a wall to catch his breath, your hand staying on his shoulder. 

"You're exactly how I pictured you, okay?” His voice is breathy, quiet, and you're not sure you've heard him right. 

"What?"

“Cute, fucking annoying, but perfect.”  He's staring at you with that half smile, he stands up straight still using the wall for support.   

“I thought you wanted to see Olivia?” your heart not catching up, not quite believing him.

“What? No. I thought you wanted someone else, better than me.”

“Shit, we are idiots.” You share a smile and he rests his forehead to yours, your heart skipping a beat when his hands sweep around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Holding you there, gripping onto you, his breathing shallow as though he's expecting you to push him away, to reject him.

“I've wanted to be Mr Cupid for a long time.”

“Mr Cupid?” you tilt your head, biting your lip, stopping the giggle forming in your throat. 

“Hey, that's a great line.”

“It is.” You smooth your hand over his chest, slipping under his collar feeling over his collar bone and up to his neck. His soft skin flushed under your touch, heartbeat fast under your fingers. Your thumb traces his parted lips and his eyes flutter closed, letting out a soft moan.

You tilt his head to you, "Can I kiss you?" your voice husky, full of need. Your breath caught as he opens his eyes, glazed over like he can't believe you're asking him, that you want him so badly.

"Jesus, y/n." He gives in first, slow and deliberate, savouring you, like he's waited too long and you melt into him. Until your fingers card through his hair and your tongue traces his lips and he gives in, kissing you hungrily. Hands gripping onto you, pulling you as close as he can, and he's the only thing keeping you upright.

Hear the shouts and commotion heading your way and reluctantly, you pull away from him, catching your breath, “I've wanted to do that forever.” 

"Walk with me, cupid?" He holds hand out to you with a grin and you take it, your fingers wrapping around his. walking close back to the car. You feel his eyes on you, and you can't stop smiling. You throw the cases onto the back seat and he pulls you in for another kiss, pressing you against the car. 

“We should get those back." Walker grumbles, opening the passenger door for you. 

“Can we stop by the store first? I need earplugs.” You tease him.

“For the last time, I don't fucking snore.”

“You keep telling yourself that, honey.”

"You need to stop calling me that.” his voice low and wanting, eyes dark. His hand resting on your thigh squeezing and you lean closer, whispering in his ear.

“Only if you call me darling again.”

▪ Masterlist ▪

@starktonyx

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Scripted Undefeated Bracket — Round 5

Propaganda

Renée Minkowski (Wolf 359):

Please. I beg of you. Read all the propaganda I wrote, and then vote Minkowski. If you're still not convinced:

She's a first-generation Polish immigrant, and a huge part of her arc is about feeling like she had to hide her identity and prove herself to make it in the US. When she lets her accent slip out in episode 52, it's the sexiest thing to ever happen.

She has the entire rule book for her space mission memorized so she can better take care of her ship.

She talks to ghosts on multiple occasions.

She has a gay little dynamic with the 2024 sexiest podcast character, Isabel Lovelace.

She expertly navigates multiple hostage situations.

Along with musicals, she's ALSO really into Sylvia Plath.

She lives under a rock and does not know anything about pop culture, which is adorable.

She writes show tunes!

vote for the commander you fools, vote like the wind!!!!!!!!!

John Doe (Malevolent):

VOTE JOHN DOE EVERYONE!!!! LOOK AT HIM!!!!! MY BELOVED YELLOW GLOWING EYE CREATURE!!! HE CERTAINLY DESERVES YOUR VOTE !

PLEASEEEE VOTE FOR JOHN😭😭😭 he’s so GODDDD HES AN ELDRITCH GOD THAT JUST WANTS LOVE😭😭 (if you know me PLEASE VOTE FOR JOHN I KNOW YOU DONT KNOW HIM BUT PLEASEEEE HES PERFECTTTT!!! And also listen to Malevolent 🤩)

(vote John tho, he's such a baby, you wouldn't hurt a baby!)

i wasnt gonna say anything and just see how it turns out but PLEASEEEE VOTE FOR JOHN PLEASE MY POOKIE💔💔💔💔💔FAVOURITEST GUY EVER HIS VOICE IS SO NICE PLEASE PLEASE💔💔

Let’s not let this trans icon down guys. He didn’t fight to be who he decides for nothing. And that is the sexiest thing imaginable.

John was absolutely an eldritch nightmare BUT is literally getting better and learning empathy and consent which is very sexy

Hello my friends and random people in my phone. Please consider voting John Doe for Sexiest Podcast Character. He is barely beating Helen Distortion and eyes are so much cooler than spirals. John deserves one (1) nice thing and if that nice thing is being voted the Sexiest Podcast Character of 2024, who am I to deny that to him? Who are we to deny that to him? Use your voice, tumblr. Vote for John.

The one who’s changing and growing, powerful and terrifying but can be tender and good, capable of mind-fuckery but instead trying to be a better being and make up for thousands of years of terrible choices

John's entire identity is about defying the rules you were forced into at birth, and deciding you can be whoever you decide. And nothing is sexier than that.

Hello, we the good people at John's campaign headquarters, come to you with a very special message about our candidate and why he deserves your vote with a compilation of his best hits.

A vote for John is a vote for justice. And being your true self. And choosing your own name. And being really really cool.

John Propaganda video by @lunaescribe and @rotflea.

JOHNDOE2025 video by @curbledmiilk.

John Doe Acceptance speech by @malevolentcast.

Additional propaganda below the cut:

Renée Minkowski (Wolf 359):

the most badass commander there is. she spent a week hunting a plant monster living on the air ducts of her station with a goddamn harpoon. she managed to keep her people alive and get them home. she managed to keep Eiffel alive for like five years and for that alone she deserves a fucking medal

She did not just spend one week hunting the plant monster, she spent TWO WEEKS hunting the plant monster. Later on, she used the very same harpoon to murder an evil capitalist WHILE SHE HAD A BULLET IN HER CHEST.

She's haunted by the memory of the first time she took a life, and what's sexier than a character with regrets?

She works out. Muscle women. Enough said.

She's devoted to protecting her crew above all else, and despite her self-doubt, she's REALLY damn good at it.

She's a theater kid! She loves musicals! She writes showtunes! Sondheim is her favorite composer!

She Russian-Roulettes a guy into not blowing up her ship, and does such a good job of it that he never even realizes there aren't any bullets in her gun.

She's been trapped in a time loop, possibly multiple times.

She's the best character in all of audio drama, I love her, she's beautiful, she's sexy, and she deserves every vote.

#minkowski my beloved. love of my life. other half of my heart. sexiest woman in podcast ever. i love her

#MINKOWSKI!!!!!! #i love her sooo much fun fact

#my girl! my favorite girl! she won! #let's keep this energy going everyone!

I don't really remember anything about Wolf 359 since I only listened to a few episodes so I'm throwing my lot in with whoever has the most compelling/funniest propaganda. I think this would be funny and I commit to nothing if not the bit

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

But. MINKOWSKI. Please read all that Minkowski propaganda I wrote and then consider voting for her. She's the love of my life and THE sexiest podcast woman, bar none.

MINKOWSKI

John Doe (Malevolent):

A fragment of the Eldritch Deity that has gained independence, attached to possibly the world's most pathetic man. Also have you heard his voice

JOHNNN, JOHN I BELIEVE IN YOU

Gonna need everyone to vote for John plz

Don't let John down, he needs a win, he's had a miserable time lately : (

his voice is jsut. really good

sorry but queer rumbling voice John Doe is too powerful to not vote for here. Also no one in canon will tell him this and he deserves to know.

ok but the way John Doe said labrynthine

If John wins I'll write him kissing Noel

Trans Icon

LISTEN TO HIS VOICE

Threatens to disembowl anyone who hurts the person he loves

Once tried to kill a priest for making goo goo eyes at his man

Was an evil warlord turned soft poetry lover

Can still throw hands when needed

Clever as fuck

Wants to see a movie SO BAD

Memorizes poems just for his wet cat -V protective of his wet cat partner

VOTE JOHN

Crew we can't let trans icon movie lover, most jealous husband in the universe John Doe lose...

If John wins I'll cosplay him again

Vote John!! he's everything. eldritch god, in a codependent relationship with a feral cat of a man, nice voice, he even likes poetry

I've actually nutted to John's voice before. /hj

like this isn't even his full power s2 voice but mannnnn he sounds so hungry and feral for Arthur all the time...

ASSEMBLING THE MALEVOLENT CROWD. POOKIES FOLLOW YOUR DUTY AND HELP THIS MISERABLE MAN OUT!!!!

do NOT let my glorious goat LOSE!!!!

JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN J

Vote John Doe!!!

MOOTS PLEASE VOTE JOHN 💔💔💔💔

VITE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN

LETS GO JOHN DOE

malevolent fans RISE

JOHN LETS GOOOOOOOO

hey all my mutuals, do some work for your favorite yellow boy

Vote for John!! Joohn!!!!

IM SORRY BUT PLEASE VOTE JOHN HES AWESOME I PROMISE

VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN COME ON GUYS

Guys vote John Doe as sexiest podcast character please he deserves this 🙏

CMON FOLKS, JOHN DOE JOHN DOE JOHN DOE

JOHN SWEEP!

IM SORRY JOHN!!!! (I’m really not)

VOTE FOR JOHN!!!

PLEASE VOTE JOHN PLEASE

[ponderingmoonlight]

JJK men with a big-chested reader

Pairings: Nanami x reader; Geto x reader (nsfw); Yuji/Sukuna x reader; Gojo x reader

Word Count: 4,4k (she's big)

Warnings: THIS IS A FIC WITH A BIG-CHESTED READER! so if this triggers you, don't read it (especially in Sukuna's part, you might get triggered when having smaller boobs so just do me a favor and don't read it instead of leaving a sassy comment), boob play in Geto's part so nsfw, in general harassment but big old fluff from your faves, not proofread bc I have my final exam tomorrow - hope you enjoy! 🤍

Special thanks to one of my moots for letting me turn her cleavage into a cover for this fic - you look STUNNING + thank you to everyone who sent me their experiences for this!

Since I'm not big-chested myself, I'm calling all my big boobie girlies to leave me a lil review about this fic - it would literally help me so much 😭

Click here to get to the small-chested version

Nanami Kento

You sigh to yourself, too exhausted to even stand up straight anymore. Today was like a trip to hell and back. All those fucking curses, the death, the horror. You rub your tired eyes, the stinging pain in your back reminding you more than urgently that you have been up for way too long.

“You look tired, darling. Go change and get into bed with me.”

Oh, that deep voice behind you, the voice you learned to love to the moon and back. How did it even happen that a man like Nanami Kento was seeking interest in you? What was it that made a man like him even look your way? You’ve known each other for quite some time, seeing each other on missions from time to time. But when you began to work at Jujutsu High, everything changed so fast that you couldn’t keep up. And now you’re sitting here in his bedroom, watching in awe as he crawls into bed with nothing but his boxer shorts on.

You would love to get out of your uniform right now, But most importantly, you urge to take off that soaking wet bra that has been bugging you since afternoon. You have no choice, though. With a large chest like yours, it simply isn’t possible to leave the house for missions without extra support. You glance at him while he reads in his book, your gaze falling to your chest.

This isn’t exclusively about missions and you know it. Even though you’ve been together for a few months now, you were never brave enough to show Kento your breasts. Not without a bra, let alone completely naked. Just the thought of him seeing how your big breasts fall down when they slip out of their bra shells, the look on his face when he realizes that you don’t look like those large-chested models with their boobs standing like mountains. Yours definitely don’t. And you fucking hate it.

“I know that look on your face. You are uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

His soft voice rips you out of your pondering immediately. Fuck, he caught you again.

“No…I mean…Yes, kinda…”

You can’t lie into his gorgeous face, not even when the truth makes you feel so uncomfortable. Oh, how much you wished you look the way he deserves it with delicious female curves that suit his flawless appearance. But as soon as you look down, you just know how awful your boobs will look when set free. So you’ll do what you do every night: wait until Kento is asleep to finally take off your bra only to set an alarm in the morning to get up before him and put it back on.

“I always wondered why you are waiting until I sleep to take off your bra and put it back on before my alarm goes off.”

You can’t help but stare at him, mind racing while your palms start to get sweaty. Fuck, how did he even notice? No, why did you ever think he wouldn’t? Kento cares about you like none other, never pushed you to take off your shirt, never failed to ask you how you’re feeling.

“Listen, darling.”

He gets off the bed and kneels down in front of the chair you are sitting on, gently taking your hand into his.

“I just want to make sure you feel comfortable around me. Am I the reason that you don’t want to take your bra off? I can see clearly how uncomfortable it makes you feel.”

“No!”, you blurt out immediately.

Calm down your tingling nerves, this is ridiculous. You stare blankly at your hands intertwined with his.

“I mean…It has nothing to do with you, it’s me.”

“How is this about you, love? There is no reason for you to feel uncomfort-“

“I’m afraid.”

You swallow hard. Are you oversharing? Will he laugh at you for something so ridiculous? But what if he sees you naked at some point, his gaze dropping to your chest only to be greeted by your large hanging chest? You can imagine the look of disgust on his face, how he turns away from you, how-

“Hey, look at me darling. Look at me and tell me what’s wrong”

He cups your cheek gently, forces your haunted eyes to look at him, to stare into his orbs filled with sincerity. There is no way out of this, you can’t lie into his gorgeous face.

“When I take my bra of my breasts just…hang. It’s even visible through my t-shirt…”, you mumble, cheeks redder than the devil.

Thick silence hangs between both of you, his gaze still as soft as before. What is going on inside his head? Is he secretly laughing at you, does he even care about what you have to say?

“Let me make a few things clear.”

He lifts himself off the ground and pulls you up. You squint your eyes, mind racing over why on earth he made you stand up. Is he going to leave, to laugh?

“First of all: I love you just the way you are. I love your gorgeous smile, the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you carry yourself. And I love your breasts-“

“You didn’t even see them yet.”

“I don’t have to in order to know that”, he continues.

“Nothing makes me sadder than seeing you uncomfortable each and every night before going to bed. Of course, I don’t know for sure, but I imagine it to be really painful after some time. Isn’t it digging into your skin?”

Oh, you think about the countless times the sweat underneath your bra made you almost go insane, the red streaks that visibly show where the wire cut into your skin all day.

“It kinda is…”, you confirm with low voice.

“Don’t do this to yourself. I adore you just the way you are and I am dying to see you laying comfortably in your t-shirt next to me. So please, would you allow me to take it off for you?”

Your eyes widen in pure shock. Is this a bad joke, is he just teasing you? No, this is Nanami Kento. And the way he gazes at you with nothing but affection gleaming in his eyes tells you that he’s telling the true, that this is what he wants right now. But are you ready to expose yourself like this? What if he’s still disgusted after saying all those nice words?

You let your head fall against his chest, breathe in his delicious scent. A voice deep inside you tells you to stop, to just relax inside his arms. This is the man who chose you out of all people, who stood by your side no matter what. Kento proved more than once that he loves you dearly, never made you feel the slightest bit bad about yourself.

“Go ahead…”, you mutter against his chest.

His hands wander up your back gently, make shivers run down your spine until he reaches the clasp of your bra. Your heart simply stops when he unclips it through the fabric of your shirt. You fade into darkness as soon as his hands wander up to your shoulders, slide down the thick straps and pull down your bra until he finally lands on the floor.

Slowly, he takes a step back and picks it off the ground.

“You will never have to wear this again when you are home with me, okay? Not when it makes you feel so uncomfortable”, he gently speaks out.

You stare in awe while he carefully places your big bra over the chair and returns in an instant to pull you close against his chest.

“Come on, let’s go to sleep.”

“Yeah”, you mumble, body slowly but surely getting flooded by warmth.

“Going to bed sounds good…”

Geto Suguru

You feel hot but at the same time cold, turned on but at the same time scared. This is it, the moment you’ve been waiting for. At this very moment, none other than Suguru Geto is laying on top of you, kissing you so passionately that you forget how to breathe.

What an overwhelming feeling it is to call him your boyfriend for a few months now. Such a kind and loving man, always looking out for you, giving you the time you needed for this to finally happen. You couldn’t believe your own ears when whimpering that you want him, that you are ready.

But are you really ready for showing him that part of your body? The part that began too grow way too early in your life, the part you’ve always got picked on by all the other girls.

“Look, there she is! She looks like a cow ready to milk!”

“That cleavage…She’s literally begging for it, what a bitch.”

“Ew, are those pimples on your tits?”

You know you are better than that, that your big breasts just belong to you and that you should love yourself just the way you are. But with none other than Suguru laying on top of you, his hands slowly but surely coming dangerously close to your breasts…

“Wait”, you breathe out, haunted eyes making Suguru stop in his tracks in an instant.

“Did I do something wrong? If you don’t want to, we don’t-“

“No, this is great. I- … I waited so long for this. But I just wanted to let you know that…”

You swallow hard. Are you acting ridiculous, destroying the moment with your behaviour? Suguru’s chocolate brown orbs don’t show a hint of annoyance. Instead, he gently strokes your hair while waiting for you to move on.

He deserves to know it

“I might not have the nicest boobs. They are big, but not well formed like the ones of those models. I tend to sweat a lot underneath them, my skin breaks out from time to time and my nipples might be-“

“Stop that right now, (y/n).”, Suguru gently interrupts you with a grin.

But it doesn’t look like the grin of the girls who picked on you for years. No, this grin is filled with warmth and loves, fills you with what feels like confidence. After all, he said that he loves you just the way you are over and over, right? Still, he didn’t even see your boobs. What if he changes his mind?

“There is absolutely nothing, and I mean NOTHING about you that isn’t ‘nice’. I don’t care about what the chest of random models looks like, to be honest I don’t care about anyone but you. And you are everything I want, you are everything I see, you are everything I love.”

His words make you tear up in an instant, send your whole body into space. As long as you can remember, no one ever said really nice things about your breasts and therefore you. You were either insulted or sexualized. But that force of a man on top of you…He just looks into your eyes that are filled with nothing but warmth. This man means every word he says.

“Well, that’s cool”, you mutter without even thinking about your words, lost in the sheer sight of his sincere eyes.

There is no one in the world you want to show your boobs more. Like in trance, you pull up the hem of your shirt and let it fall to the floor mindlessly.

“Are you okay with me touching them?”, he purrs against your ear.

A silent whimper escapes your lips while you simply nod, whole body on fire where it touches his. Painfully slow, he lets his hands wander down your hair onto your shoulders, trace the line of your collarbones until he reaches…

Your breasts.

What an unknown feeling. But oh, what a sensation as well. You arch your back out of instinct while he massages your breasts, the feeling of his fingertips against your still skin alone simply driving you insane.

God, who would have thought you’d ever hear Geto Suguru moan against your ear by just looking, touching, squeezing your boobs? His eyes are darkened by lust, the way his heart pounds against his ribcage echoes through your very own body.

“You look absolutely gorgeous. I can’t stop looking at you, (y/n).”

You feel like flying, fainting, losing your balance. There is no doubt in the fact that this man adores you the way you are, that your constant fear of him not liking your large chest was more than unfounded.

“So…you don’t mind the way my breasts look?”, you whimper underneath his bittersweet touch.

“More than that, I adore you”, he replies in an instant. “And now, let me see you in your full glory.”

Yuji/Sukuna

You’re back feels like it might break every minute, shirt dripping in sweat in the sheer heat of the summer sun. You just want to get out of here, away from those disgusting people, back into your dorm. How stupid it was to leave Jujutsu High on your own for a little stroll through the city. Without the protection of Maki or Nobara, without any good friend who shields you from all the unwanted looks your large chest attracts. While most people think it must be a blessing, it definitely is a curse to you 80% of the time.

Just like right now.

“Come on, I just asked for one grab!”, a guy shouts after you.

Out of instinct, you pick up your pace, not even daring to turn around. What did you even do to catch his attention? You gaze down at your breasts that uncomfortably bounce up and down in the way too tight bra you are wearing today. No, you did absolutely nothing wrong. It’s just these disgusting people who seem to see nothing but the size of your chest.

“Why would you want to touch her? She looks like a cow”, the girl next to him comments along with an ugly laugh, making your heart sting in an instant.

“What a slut”, another voice mutters.

“Oh, I didn’t know you are out today! How are you, (y/n)?”

Your heart almost stops inside of your chest, hands beginning to tremble in an instant. No, not him. Not right here when these people are chasing you. If there’s someone you don’t want to hear those things about you, it’s Yuji Itadori.

“J-just…l-leave”, you stutter.

“Huh? But I just met you! Would you like to watch a movie with me?”

“Look, the cow brought her friends!”

“Do you think he’ll get in her pants today?”

“What a lucky bastard, I’d love to touch them just once…”

Yuji’s face drops in an instant when realizing their words are directed towards you.

“Hey, there’s no need to be rude”, he begins but gets stopped by uncontrollable laughter immediately.

You want to die right here on the spot, disappear from the surface of earth. As if being treated like this wasn’t enough, why does it have to be Yuji who witnesses it all?

“Step aside, loser. Let me handle that.”

Sukuna leans forward in his throne, thick anger rising inside of his chest. You, the one who caught his eye when he first saw you. You, with the immense powers. You, with a dangerous mind that could end wars. Who are these people to talk to you in this manner?

“Are you crazy? I definitely won’t let you out right now”, Yuji replies in an instant.

“You aren’t able to help her brat, now get lost!”

“I won’t let you-“

Enough.

“Now who exactly do you losers think you are, huh?”

That voice, that aura? Your mouth feels dry like the desert in an instant, eyes widen in pure shock. No, this is impossible, Yuji is in control over his body, this can’t be-

“With tits like yours, I would be jealous of someone gorgeous like her as well”, he spits at one of the girls following you.

“And you.”

With a swift motion, he grabs on of the guy’s wrists roughly. Just a little more pressure and it will snap.

“P-please. Don’t!”, you shout after him.

Urgh, why does your begging voice make his grip loosen in an instant, what is it about you that made him switch with this brat anyway?

“Were you really just trying to touch her chest? Thinking just because she has a big chest, you are allowed to touch her, to sexualize her, huh? You humans disgust me with your simple desires”, Sukuna continues.

“If it wasn’t for her unshakable character, I would kill every single one of you right on the spot. But for now-“

In the matter of seconds, all their arms hang in unhealthy directions, visibly broken by the sheer force of none other than Ryomen Sukuna.

You want to scream at him, want to run away, want to get away from this place. But on the other hand, a warmth fills your chest. Did the king of curses just stand up for you, protect you from their rude comments?

“Get going”, he barks at you.

“This was unnecessary”, you mumble.

“And give Yuji back.”

“You should be thankful, (y/n). They will worship you for the rest of your life.”

“No, they will be scared of you for the rest of their lives”, you clarify, hands still trembling.

“So what? Nobody gets away with insulting you over your perfect body. Especially not over the size of your chest. How ridiculous…”

You can’t believe your ears, eyes darting towards him in an instant while you turn redder than a tomato. Did he just say that you are…perfect?

“You didn’t mean that”, you breathe out.

“Oh god I’m so sorry (y/n). Did he hurt you?”, the familiar voice of Yuji cries out.

Calm down your tingling nerves, your pounding heart. Sukuna’s gone. Sukuna…stood up for you. Sukuna said you have a perfect body.

What?

“N-No”, you stumble.

How are you supposed to get over this?

Gojo Satoru

Finally. You sit in front of the bar, excited by the smell of alcohol and cheap perfume that hangs in the air. After working your ass off for what felt like an eternity, you decided to use your day off right. You put on the dress that fits you best, packed your purse and went into the first bar you’ve seen.

Damn, when was the last time you were out on your own? With all your friends being out of town for vacation, this definitely is new.

“Not bad”, you mutter to yourself, eyes roaming around people making out, heartfelt laughter and a group of women sipping on their cocktails.

A cocktail, exactly what you need today.

“Hey, I’d love to order something”, you speak out when the waiter finally comes cross you.

What a lucky day, they even have your favourite cocktail in store. You’re usually not the type of girl to go out on yourself, but these last months, you truly learnt how enjoyable time can be with yourself as your only company. You smile to yourself. Yeah, this is definitely something you could get used to.

“There you go”, the friendly male announces and places the glass filled with joy in front of your hungry eyes.

You gift him the sweetest smile you have before taking a sip. Oh, this tastes absolutely amazing.

“I’ve never seen a woman like you alone in a place like this.”

Your heart drops to the floor in an instant, hands holding onto your glass tightly. Ew, a man is certainly the last thing you want to hear right now with the bartender being the only exception. Instead of even looking his way, you just take another sip of your well-mixed cocktail, the music blasting out of the boxes might make him think you can’t hear him and leave.

Honestly, there aren’t many things that creep you out more than men approaching you. Since you’ve reached puberty and your breasts starting to grow bigger and bigger, it almost felt as if you weren’t a person anymore. With rare exceptions here and there, most of them only talked to you because of one thing:

Your boobs.

Is the man sitting next to you one of them?

“Hey, I’m talking to you, gorgeous.”

Your whole body tenses up in an instant, eyes darting towards him by the sound of his harsh voice.

“Excuse me, I’m not up for a talk”, you bite back.

While you did meet genuinely nice men and have some male friends, the one sitting next to you certainly is one of the other categories. God, how much you hate it, being looked down at and reduced to the size of your breasts. You can’t even count how many times you’ve got commented on them, how many men and women just shamelessly stared at your bust instead of your face while talking to you. It’s safe to say you have enough of all of this.

“A woman who presents what she has like that is up for a talk and far more than that. Why would you come here dressed like a slut if you don’t want me to talk to you?”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, all thoughts vanish into thick air. This disgusting guy with his beard filled with crumbs and breath stinking like the cheapest beer is definitely up for no good. You, dressed like a slut? You wear a basic black dress, the only one your boobs didn’t fall out when trying it on. What the hell is this creep talking about?

“Just because my boobs are big doesn’t mean I’m a slut. Watch how you talk to me”, you bite back.

“I talk however I want to a bitch like you. Are you up to go somewhere more…private?”

The scene that lays itself out in front of Gojo’s eyes is hard to bear. He doesn’t even know the woman in the black dress sitting in front of the bar, let alone the guy sitting next to her. But just one look into your disgusted face is enough to know that something isn’t right. How you cross your arms in front of your chest, your eyes filled with horror, the way you scoop backwards with every word this man says. Are you okay? He shouldn’t let other people’s business bother him. Fuck, wasn’t he here to get his mind off saving everyone all the time? Nah, he should enjoy his evening, drink that new whiskey they offer, just relax and-

You aren’t even able to comprehend what is happening next to you. He stretches out his hand, ready to touch your breasts without consent when another pair of hands stops him mid-air.

“I think the lady said no. Don’t ya think it’s a little over the top to go into a bar and touch a woman’s boobs?”

His voice might sound playful, but your blood freezes inside of your veins by the power he radiates. Just one glance into his face tells you he is like no men you’ve ever met.

“I…She…She said she wanted it to!”, the crumble beard tries to defend himself.

“I said what? Are you out of your fucking mind!? I told you to leave me alone and you harassed me!”, you clarify in harsh tone.

Oh, how much you’d love to break his nose right now, to give him a taste of his own medicine. But the white-haired man seems to have the same plans.

“A guy like you wouldn’t end up with her anyway. That lady has class. And you, my friend, are just a disgusting pervert. Are you touching other women too without consent? Isn’t your first time, huh?”

With a swift motion, he begins to twist the man’s hand around itself. He whines out in pain in an instant, face twisted just like yours before when he talked you down.

“Let me go!”, he cries out in visible discomfort.

“This is what you get for treating a lady so badly. You can be glad she even looked your way.”

When he gifts you a sly grin, you can’t help but blush. What is it about this man that feels so different, so damn inviting? He seems like no other men you’ve met before. And the fact that he just called you lady…Why do your knees suddenly feel weak?

“Now repeat after me: I.am.sorry.for.disrespecting.you.”

“I will not apologize to a girl who’s dressed like a slut!”

A loud crack makes the already muted room go completely silent, the violent scream coming out of this man’s mouth when his wrist breaks like spaghetti echoing through the room.

“Wrong answer”, the white-haired man purrs.

“Hey, would you mind just taking the trash out?”, the barkeeper questions.

“Did you hear that, dirty boy? Let me show you the way!”

“Are you alright? I didn’t even notice he was harassing you. I’m so sorry”, the bartender speaks out towards you.

“Oh, it’s okay.”

You aren’t even able to give him a real answer, eyes glued on the white-haired man who carries your harasser out like trash.

Like in trance you get back on your feet and follow him out into the cool air of the night.

“Have a nice evening!”, he friendly shouts after the man who sprints down the streets like a coward, as fast away as possible.

“You definitely scared the shit out of him”, you comment.

“He definitely deserved it. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m used to shit like that”, you reply with a huff.

“But normally, they aren’t this disgusting.”

“I hate to hear that. You seem like a genuinely badass and nice person. You didn’t deserve his words.”

“Not as nice as my knight in shining armour who stopped him from touching my boobs.”

He lets out a heartfelt laughter, bright blue orbs set on you.

“Hey, what about me escorting you back home? I’m totally in the mood to beat up any other men who gets in your way.”

“Only if you let me join, though”, you challenge him.

“Definitely a deal. Hey, what’s your name?”

“(y/n)”

“(y/n), huh? Cool name, suits you right? My name’s Gojo Satoru. Nice to meet you.”

He stretches out his hand in front of you, inviting you to take it. You can’t help but smile at his sheer excitement. No, you just have to take his warm hand into yours and shake it.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

Tags: @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee @lovelyluna1 @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr @kayleegomez @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world @oikawarz@darkstarlight82 @satoreo @luwumii @kentocalls @cheesemachine44 @maya-maya-56 @jinririz @getou0309 @ieathairs

Dividers by @saradika 🤍

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Quick

(Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary Sometimes, you just need a couple of minutes with Sam to make it all better. CWs Quickies. Sweetheart Sam who also fucks. Sam in a suit. Rated 18+. 1.4k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Sam’s pushing you into the cubicle with the Out of order sign on it after you’ve made sure it’s not horribly disgusting in there. He crowds you until your back hits the partition wall, your head bent as far back as possible so that your lips can meet his even from this close. His hand is already pushing between your legs, your skirt bunched up as Sam runs his fingers over the fabric of your panties, the fabric that has picked up your wetness already.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, as he begins rubbing you through the fabric, your intense arousal immediately making the touch a relief, something you crave and need and want more of even though it’s already happening.

“Yes, baby,” you breathe and Sam grins as he watches your face while his fingers work away at you. He’s figured out exactly the pressure, exactly the speed at which you need him, because Sam likes learning, likes understanding.

You’re different, not as methodological, but then that’s exactly what Sam needs. Someone who wants him so badly that there’s no time for thinking, no time for being reasonable or practical. Someone who can make him shut off that big brain of his, at least for a little while.

Someone who’ll drag him into the bathroom of a police station in the middle of a case because she’s so desperate to feel him inside her that there’s simply no other choice.

Your fingers are clawing into Sam’s shoulders, while under your breath you encourage him to keep going, to keep touching you. Another thing Sam needs – reassurance. He might have intellectualized the majority of his pain and trauma, but being wanted like this, being needed like this, shoots right into that part of his brain (and as a result, his pants) that’s convinced of his own wrongness.

Making Sam feel desired makes him eager to show that he deserves your affection – which is what he’s doing right now, with that perfect practiced pressure building inside you, ignited by him. Your head is all the way back, because that way Sam can dip his own head down and kiss you where he wants to, but also he can watch every miniscule movement on your features, every twitch, every slight furrowing of your brows, every opening of your mouth to let out another sound, another praise.

You’re flying high so fast it threatens to make you dizzy, but Sam’s big body so close to you makes it feel like he’s there to catch you. When you feel that familiar twist in you begin, the one that radiates outwards and makes it feel like you have electricity running through your veins, you open your eyes.

“Wait,” you pant and Sam, sweet Sam, immediately stops, listens, wants to make sure nothing’s wrong. You feel sorry for getting him worried but that look on his face melts your heart like an active volcano would melt a popsicle. To make up for it you grab him by the tie, pull him closer to you until you know he can feel the movement of your lips on his.

“I want you inside me when I come,” you say, and the change on Sam’s face from worried to a mix of horny, happy and loved is everything you live for.

His hands leave you to go to unbutton the fly of his pants, but his mouth stays on you, his eyes looking deep into yours, as you tug down your panties, let them fall to the floor. When he’s taken himself out, while you keep looking into his eyes because right then his pupils are black holes pulling you in, he stoops down a little, and that’s your cue to wrap your arms around his shoulders. His hands go around your waist, he hoists you up and when you sling your legs around him too, his hands wander lower to hold you up.

To make things easier, and also because if you don’t get to see, you want to at least touch, you reach between your two bodies, find him, and guide him to your entrance. Then Sam helps you sink down on him, and on that first stroke you always make sure to watch his face. Because he looks like someone who, after an arduous and long journey, has finally come home.

Sam leans in and kisses you again, and then slowly holds your body so that he’s dragging out again and then pushing back in, all the while rubbing his face against yours, staying in contact. He never lets you go far.

Sam fucks you slowly and gently – he always does at the beginning. He’s pulling out of and pushing into you so slowly that you can feel every inch of him, every vein.

It’s not the easiest position, but Sam’s got the bulk to make it work. One of your arms goes up, grabbing the top of the partition, to help hold yourself up. Sam hooks your legs over his arms, and it allows him easier movement. It also allows him to go faster.

Which he does, while his nose is pressed against your temple, his hot breath fanning over your face. He makes those little grunts, sounds that coming from someone with the self-control of Sam, are all the more erotic.

“You feel so fucking good,” he says, deep voice so close to your ear that you’d think he’s inside your head. All you can do in response is moan. You’re close, and every second Sam is bringing you closer with that perfect twist of his hips.

When you come, Sam presses his face against your neck, stops moving so you can grind yourself against him the way you want to. You pull him close with your legs and the arm still around him as you moan your way through the intense relief, Sam bringing you back to earth by sucking and licking at the sensitive spot under your jaw.

He waits until you’ve come down, blinked your eyes open, look deep into his. It’s not until he sees the bliss and relaxation in your face, knows that you’re taken care of, that Sam begins again.

For his own end, Sam doesn’t just thrust into you – no, he manipulates your entire body. There’s something animalistic and needy about it, the way he lifts his arms and your bent legs along with them, then lets you sink down again on his cock. You know Sam is intensely tuned into your pleasure, on if he’s doing everything right, but there’s something about being handled like that that makes you feel like you’re losing your mind.

Sam’s jaw is tensed and his upper lip pulls up a little as you moan for him, squeeze him inside of you, lean your head back.

“Oh God, Sam,” you press out as your sensitive pussy keeps taking him. Seeing you turned on like this, enjoying him, makes Sam pant as he fucks you quicker, moving his hips along to meet your body.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—Fuck!” he grunts, his face looking pained, and when his orgasm starts, Sam quickly slings one arm around your ass, pulls you as close to him as possible. You know to hold on to him as you feel his warmth spreads into you, as the other hand holding you up shoots up to the partition wall because Sam needs to steady himself. He keeps grinding into you, face pressed against your neck, deep moans that make you shudder leaving him.

Sam eventually stops moving, shoulders rising and falling. You stroke his head and neck and shoulders, coo to him, tell him how hard he made you come, how you love feeling him inside you, all hot and strong. Sam allows your words to wash over him, hums contently. Soon he’ll raise his head, lids low and blink at you, bangs hanging into his eyes. Best bed head in the business, you once told him, making him laugh. He’ll kiss you, so deeply and gently that it makes you want to cry from love.

Ten minutes later you’re both stumbling out of the bathroom, you still tugging at your skirt and Sam smoothing down a crease on the back of your jacket, before he grabs his own collar and readjusts it. You know you’ll get an epic eyeroll from Dean, but you don’t care.

You hold Sam’s hand just for a second before you walk back into the sheriff’s office, and the look he gives you makes you want to cry from happiness. Because in these moments he looks sure. Sure that he is loved, that he is safe, that he is right. That everything will be okay.

[passionfruitchris]

introducing... guarded-heart!chris

⤷ 21. loud. once scared of commitment, but something about her stopped him cold. talks with his hands. pepsi. plays music loud. sensitive under all that noise. laughs with his whole body. talks too fast when excited. fidgets with his rings or her hair. energetic. family oriented. not scared of feelings, just scared of losing people. won’t let her apologize for needing affection. can’t sit still unless he’s holding her. smiles so wide his eyes squint into crescents. tries to pull her out of her shell but never forces it. always asks before touching. doesn’t understand how someone so beautiful can shrink so small. proves, over and over, that love can be gentle. shows her, little by little, that love doesn’t need to be earned.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ ❝ SOFT HANDS, STARVED SKIN ❞

paired with... touch-starved!reader ༉‧₊

⤷ 20. quiet. doe eyes. long hair. soft heart. sleeps too much but never feels rested. impending doom. cries at kindness more than cruelty. cherry cola. says “you don’t have to” more than her own name. music. keeps earbuds in even when the music’s off. cries after sex sometimes. not used to being listened to — so she listens deeply in return. flinches at soft touches. always cold. doesn’t believe people mean it when they’re nice. deep-feeler. artistic. keeps her phone on silent. pulls her knees up to her chest when sitting. whispers when she’s nervous. black cat energy. wants to be chosen without having to ask.

PREMISE:

He used to run from anything that felt like forever. Commitment made his chest tighten — too many people, too many promises that never lasted. But then he met you.

You never asked him to stay — and maybe that’s exactly why he did.

No expectations. No pleading. Just you, quietly bracing for goodbye.

And him, suddenly realizing he didn’t want to go.

Because you expected nothing — and somehow, he wanted to give you everything.

The boy who once ran from anything that felt like forever fell in love with the girl who never believed she was worth even a moment.

You, who flinched at affection. Who whispered “you don’t have to” like a warning. Who thought love was something you had to earn just to keep breathing.

But he stayed. Not because you begged. Not because you proved anything. But because you didn’t ask him to — and he wanted to anyway.

And maybe you’re still learning how to be held. Still learning that love doesn’t have to be painful to be real. That being chosen without having to earn it doesn’t mean the choice means less.

He was scared of commitment until he saw someone who didn’t think she deserved it.

And now? You’re starting to believe that maybe you’re worth holding onto. Because he’s still here. And this time, he’s not looking for the exit.

a/n: thank you so, so much for reading this au. your support truly means the world to me. every interaction whether it’s a like, a comment, or just quietly reading along, makes me so happy and grateful.🫶

This is actually my first au, and I’m so excited to keep building on this dynamic and seeing where it goes.

Also, a tiny heads up: the character intros ended up a little out of order (oops!) reader was actually supposed to be introduced before chris. but if you’ve read both and connected the dots, you’re totally good to go

tags- @zenithsturniolo @sturnsblogs @sirensdollesque @adoremattsturns @espressqe @matts-wife @adorechris @seaouidbabyx

[punkinspice]

(progress so far. At least its colored now hehe)

BUT!!!! HEADCANON TIME!!! (under the cut)

What if!!! GUN caught Rouge trying to steal something valuable of theirs, and as punishment, put a permanent, tracker, bracelet on her that also zaps her (like a shock collar) to make sure they keep an eye on her and make her do their dirty work for them.

Meanwhile Shadow is out hunting for his other inhibitor and GUN is trying to get to it before he does, so they send in Rouge to go after it first, all the while telling her how dangerous he is and to be so careful, and it feels like they're sending her out like fodder.

Just as Rouge finds the ring, she gets stopped by a very desperate and mad looking Shadow and tells her to give him the ring to her, that he doesn't want to hurt her, but he'll do what he has to. Meanwhile GUN is screaming in Rouge's ear to return back to them asap. So Rouge has to make a choice, and she chooses to give the ring to Shadow.

The two decide to team team up because they both have beef with GUN. Rouge to get this stupid tracker off of her and get her freedom back, and Shadow to get the answers that he needs and deserves.

Rouge asks Shadow how he intends to get these answers, other than with violence, and tells him that she can help him hack into whatever system he needs. So they infiltrate GUN, teleporting and hijacking their way into everything. Rouge finally gets the key for her tracker from Rockwell, after a little fight, and is free!

Shadow then teleports the both of them into the deepest parts of GUN and Rouge is hacking and bypassing firewalls and codes like its nothing, until they find what Shadow is looking for, and that's when Shadow starts to learn what he might be and where he's from.

They also learn that there are more answers at a secondary more secret GUN base, and Rouge at this point is way to invested in this guy, so she also chooses to go with him there and help him.

After sneaking into the second GUN base, they go deeeeeeep underground, and discover that they're keeping the remnants of the meteorite that had encased Shadow all those years ago. It's also being guarded by a viscous tank of a robot that tries to take them out but Rouge manages to get an override on him and shut him down.

That robot of course being Omega, a robot GUN made using some of the blueprints they took from Robotnik after shutting him down. Omega listens to Rouge and Shadow planning and discussing things, and realizes he also wants to join them.

Besides, Shadow seems to be apart of the same biomaterial of the thing he was programmed to guard so he would still be technically be following out orders. (he's also bored as heck and feels like wasted potential)

so they all 3 team up and maybe end up going to space and fighting aliens, or the aliens come to them WHO KNOWS WHAT COULD HAPPEN NEXT, BUT JUST THINK OF THE POSSIBILITIES

[motherofpirates]

“Dustin called he wants to have a movie night round my place. So, here I am looking for movies, because I am now apparently one his father figures.” Eddie gave a put-upon sigh that Steve recognised.

“Sucks to be you man.” Steve commiserated. “Did you walk here? You didn’t pull any stitches, did you? That must have taken you forever.”

“No, sweetheart, I did not pull any stitches. I took my time and waited for my meds to kick in before I left. I can’t get anywhere any other way, not got the all clear to drive until next week. Besides my van is still on your drive, Harrington, I hope you’re taking good care of her.”

“The best, man, she’s chilling on a big ole drive in the shade up in Loch Nora. I can take you to see her after work so you can check up on her if you like.”

Robin punched him on the arm, “Aren’t you supposed to be taking me home, dingus?”

The store’s phone began to ring, as Robin was closest to it, she picked up.

“Hello, Family Video, Robin speaking how may I help?” She made a face and shoved the phone into Steve’s hand. “It’s one of your children.”

“Yello?”

“Steve? Thank god, I need a ride to Eddie’s-“ Dustin started.

“We all need a ride to Eddie’s!” Lucas interrupted.

“I can’t believe you made Eddie walk here when he just got out of hospital last week, do you have any idea how inconsiderate that is?”

“He didn’t get hurt, did he?” Asked Dustin.

“Well, no… But that’s not the point.” Blustered Steve.

“Everything is fine then. No need to worry, wind in the need to mother-hen, Steve, he’s a big boy.” Steve rested his head on the counter and groaned. Eddie and Robin rubbed his back in commiseration.

“Exactly how many of you need a ride to Eddie’s?” There was some muttering as someone executed a head count.

“…Six…” Said Lucas.

“Can’t Nance take you in her Station Wagon?”

“She’s out somewhere with Jonathon and Argyle.” Shouted Mike.

It was Steve’s turn to give a put-upon sigh, to which Eddie and Robin laughed. Eddie began to look for movies that he thought the younger members of the Party would like. “I can’t wait for one of you little shits to learn to drive because you will be chauffeuring my ass around Hawkins.”

“You know, you love it, dumbass.” Max informed him.

“You’re not all gonna fit in my car, some of you are going to have to bike there.”

This statement caused uproar at the other end of the phone; Steve pulled the handset away from his ear as a squabble ensued.

“They have zero fucking chill.” He complained to Robin and Eddie. “I’m going to go prematurely grey.”

“We could take my van,” Suggested Eddie.

“I’ll drive.”

Eddie harrumphed.

“Hey, dingus, I still need to get home.” Robin reminded him.

“Why are you so desperate to get home, Birdie, you got a hot date?” Eddie asked from the horror section he had drifted over to; Robin threw an empty video case at his head.

“Rude.” He retorted as it narrowly missed him, he didn’t look up from his browsing.

“For your information I need to tell my parents I got into college.”

Steve was trying to get the kids over the phone to listen because they were still arguing.

“Can you guys shut up and listen for once in your lives!” He yelled trying to get them to notice him. “We’re coming to get you in Eddie’s van, you can all chill the fuck out!”

“Language, Steve, there’s children present.” Replied Dustin sarcastically, followed by laughter from the younger members of the Party in the background.

“Carry on and you’ll be the only one walking there, Henderson.” Steve threatened.

“As if you’d do that to me.”

“Want to try me, it might help with your attitude. Now where do I need to get you from?”

“Mike’s please.”

“That’s better, we’ll see you in-.” Dustin had got what he wanted and had put the phone down.

Steve groaned in frustration. “I’ll drop you off before we go to my house to get the van, Rob.”

“Make sure to make them wait, they deserve it for being obnoxious little shits anyway.” Eddie said as he brought his video choices up to the counter. “You dropped this.” He handed the empty case back to Robin.

“They get their obnoxiousness off you, you know.” She accused Eddie pointing the video case at him for emphasis as she rang up his videos.

“What can I say it’s a talent.” He shrugged.

____________________________________

If you enjoyed this snippet please head on over to AO3, my fic is entitled I Want You to Want Me.

[novasillies]

okay. wifi sorted. squid game i hate you i will try and keep this organised. spoilers upon spoilers beneath the cut, this might be a long one. i had an 8 hour journey to watch the whole show in one go and then ruminate on it for two hours of driving. so. yeah.

As many issues as I have with this season, I will say some things were pretty interesting. So let's start with the few positives I have.

One, the commentary on democracy and the idea of a democratic vote. The fact that the players were forced into making this choice, either threatened or manipulated into voting one way or the other, and treated differently by the group depending on which way they voted was very interesting and something I am not at all smart enough to dissect beyond surface level. the whole "through your democratic vote, you have all chosen to continue the games" thing made me go hrrhrhrhrr every time because, yeah, democracy is far from fair and two-party systems with one final choice cannot accurately represent the wants of an entire group. love it speak on it.

Two, I didn't mind In-ho's story this season (or, what little story he had). The fact that he's tried to save Gi-hun's life at every turn, and the man has been too stubborn to listen, rightfully so, if the writers had decided that optimism was something we deserved in this day and age. He begged him to get on that plane, to stop looking for the games, to kill the other players and just take the money. In-ho wanted Gi-hun to live. And he didn't. And In-ho delivered, in person, his jacket and money to his daughter. He never called him a friend. He blew up the island. I'm assuming he left it all behind now that the coast guard got involved. God knows. Actually, never mind, his story was lazy and nonexistent. The contrast between him and Gi-hun when given that chance to kill them all and take the win was interesting, though.

Three, i cant think of another thing i liked. which is troubling. Oh, I do love a tragedy done right, so Gi-hun's death did satisfy me in the way that it was horrible. I still think he should not have died. But the fact that it was like that. I don't despise it. Not happy about it. but it could be worse.

I'm gonna just get right into my main issue with this season (and season 2 now that it's over and I can be sure of it), which is: THIS WAS NOT NECESSARY.

The entire two-part story (ridiculous) of seasons 2&3 was literally, in the end, for nothing.

Nobody's characters developed and they all died. Jun-ho didn't get anything out of finding the island because they blew it up and he was only there for 25 minutes. He saw In-ho again, said like 8 words to him, got nothing back, and then left again. Pointless. So many hours of television that were for nothing. He didn't grow as a person, he didn't learn anything new, he didn't even realise Gi-hun (WHO HE WAS MEANT TO BE LOOKING FOR) was dead however many feet below him. All he got was that fuckass CGI baby and 45.6 billion won of blood money.

Gi-hun went back just to stop the games, then killed himself to let a two-day-old newborn become a multi-billionaire for the hope of that innocent little FUGLY FREAK being a better person than him. He said maybe 20 lines the entire season. He spent the whole time silently plotting dae-ho's death, then killing dae-ho, then trying to kill himself until he finally did. His entire story was just a playbook on how to give up.

They watered Jun-hee and Geum-ja and No-eul down to just Mothers with nothing else to show for themselves. Two out of three of them killed themselves for their children and one of them tried. No-euls entire storyline felt just as pointless as the rest of them, with its weird maybe-your-daughter's-alive-maybe-she's-not open ending of her flying to China. It didn't help that we've spent this whole two-season storyline waiting for Gi-hun to have some magical moment where he figures out how to save them, only for all of them to die slowly and pointlessly one by one. Geum-ja's suicide was the only death this season that upset me, purely because I only realised what had happened just as the coffin got carried in, and her big monologue to Gi-hun finally made sense and became far more sad. It was really only thanks to her actress' performance that Yong-sik's death made me feel anything, too. Everyone else had nothing. Just cheap SFX and two seconds of shock value.

What the fuck was Hyun-ju's death. Like. Excuse me?? Myung-gi had no reason to still be killing people, let alone hunting them like animals. Why the FUCK did he kill her??? And why did Jun-hee's water break and her baby was born within five minutes???? I don't think there was a single woman in the writer's room for season 3 honest to god. I wasn't even sad about Hyun-ju's death I was just so so sooo confused. It made no sense. And then I was like uhgggh she shouldve gone through the door but no she was right to go back but wtf myung-gi why did you do that you useless piece of human garbage. and maybe it was a little bit poignant because they were so close to all surviving together. but they could've. very easily. Hyun-ju's death was just as unneccessary as the rest of this story.

Don't even get me started on myung-gi. I didn't like him last season on the principle of what he did to Jun-hee, but there was always the justification of him trying to protect her from the people who were after him but. god. I was so right to hate him. Even then, he was somewhat likeable. He did nice things sometimes. He acted like a normal human being. Who the HELL was that this season?? trying to throw his own newborn daughter off that tower for THE MONEY??????????? I thought Gi-hun would hand over the kid, myung-gi would be all sweet and sad and sorry and kiss his daughter on the head (WHICH GI-HUN THEN DID AND MADE ME GO !!!!!) before he pressed the start button and threw himself off. A nobel sacrifice for the kid, just like her mother had done, or whatever the fuck. but no. nooooo nonono of COURSE not. that wouldve been HEARTFELT and SWEET and would've let OUR HERO survive. can't have that can we?!?!?!?!??!?!?!? i need to calm down.

Side note, what the hell was kate blanchett doing there?? we do NOT need an american squid game spinoff with kate fucking blanchett as the recruiter and in-ho going full gi-hun and trying to infiltrate it and take it down in his memory or some bullshit STOP IT.

Another side note, why did they spend more time on min-su's grief over se-mi than like... any other character feeling anything?? i didn't give a shit about those two personally so every drawn-out drug-induced hallucination about it just felt like watching paint dry.

Also the games sucked. Sorry. They were all dissorientating in the most midly inconvenient way and the direction of this season was all over the place. whoever was director of photography for s3 needs to have a long think about things. And the sound design??? was it always that weird?? no, right? there wasn't always the freakish distorted music and stuff? and that weird prowler sound whenever gi-hun was staring at dae-ho and wanting to kill him?? I felt like i was going crazy it was either too silent or too loud but whatever.

And the CGI baby. Come on now. Terrible!!! There was an egregious amount of CGI in this season and it was very clearly rushed. you're on a Netflix budget with one of its most popular titles and you still managed to come out with cheap, uncanny special effects??? I would be happy about the use of CGI because yeah newborn babies look like that not like 4-month-olds and yeah that's a big rope swing u cant be throwing those at real people in real life without some serious waivers signed and some serious injuries nonetheless but you had the money to make it good. you should've taken the time, too. I have an inkling that the six-month gap between seasons instead of a few years had a small role to play in that, even if it was all shot at once. Maybe if you hadn't stretched out your nothing burger of a second season into two of them, we wouldn't be having these problems. It's just so confusing how season 3 felt so much lazier and just worse than season 2 when they should've been written, filmed, and begun post-production right alongside each other. so so sooo weird. The subpar performances of the actors i think didn't help. i just felt like i was watching actors act instead of watching people exist within a story and that always irks me. to be fair, with a cast that big, you really can't expect the greatest performances from all the nameless side characters. but like. still. lock in for me guys plz. and maybe stop throwing babies from extreme heights (Gi-hun is just a man)

The thing is, season 1 was neat and tidy and concise and heartwrenching and purposeful. It had a true meaning. A moral. It was a representation of the horrors of capitalism. The characters changed - gi-hun became an entirely new person due to the trauma of it all, sang-woo became colder and so desperate he was unrecognisable, sae-byeok's end was so tragic but before it happened, she learned to trust, jun-ho actually learned new things about his brother and the games and uncovered secrets as the viewers did and it was interesting - and the story was written with clear intention. This storyline, stretched over two seasons to get more fucking money from continuous streaming and renewal of interest, shocker, anti-capitalist my ass, was literally nothing more than a cash-grab. It was heartless. They somehow brought back queerbaiting for a second there. Nobody (at least I hope) believed it, but they tried. And that is just so so disappointing. Because they knew this story wouldn't stand on its own. They knew they had not written it for any real reason. It was all for the money. And how ironic is that?

This story could have been so good. All of the pieces were in place for them to craft something insanely relevant, a story about goodness, community, honesty, and hope beating the 1%. A story about redemption. A story about equality.

Instead, Squid Game season 3, and the overarching story of season 2, teach nothing more than there being only one thing we all can have and deserve to have: death.

Sacrifice yourself, give up, because the rich are just gonna keep getting richer. And you will never win. But, hey. There's always the next generation. Here's to hoping.

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Scripted Redemption Bracket — Round 4.5

Propaganda

Buddy Aurinko (The Penumbra Podcast: Juno Steel) (Boba Count: 3):

Buddy is a queer woman who dedicated half her life waiting for her GIRLFRIEND who is now her WIFE. She's headstrong and valiant and dedicated to her craft (space piracy). She's literally so cool and deserves to win. Thank u

Antigone Funn (Wooden Overcoats) (Boba Count: 1):

EVERYONE VOTE ANTIGONE FUNN PLS

I'm voting for Antigone not because she's sexier (she is) but because she needs at least One Win in her life. #girl failure solidarity

1. she is very sexy. We know she's deathly pale, she's described as transparent more than once as well as green and blue-skinned, she's 35~38 depending on what season you're listening to. She's allergic to like everything.

Her hair is canonically always a mess and she uses it to hold on to bones and things she's gonna need later. She wears the same dress every day (it has a hole in it)

She's one with the shadows and can blend in with her surroundings to a supernatural degree.

2. She is rough and socially inept and artistic and the most passionate person you can imagine. She puts her heart and soul into her work as a mortician, SHE CREATES PERSONALIZED EMBALMING FLUIDS TO MAKE THE CORPSES SMELL NICE and she WILL tell you about it.

She is somehow always angry or flustered about something and she will pull victorian era phrases you cannot imagine. She's been saying Christ Alive since before it was cool.

3. SHE LOVES SEXY THINGS!! she is the most fitting for this tournament cause she's the queen of learning to accept her desires!! She loves old french films and their weirdly shot sex scenes, she's canonically really good at writing erotica and likes to read it too. There's a whole episode dedicated to her conquering her fears and appearing on a naked calendar. Also we hear glimpses of her fantasies and she wants to tie up and dom the guy she likes so there's that too I guess.

She spent 17 years locked in her mortuary cause she was sad. SHE WANTED TO BECOME A CLOWN AS A KID. She is everything to me and I love juno very much but she is sexier and deserves to be known that way. VOTE ANTIGONE

Art of Buddy Aurinko courtesy of @junonomenon.

Art of Antigone Funn with thanks to @acornzest.

Additional propaganda below the cut:

Buddy Aurinko (The Penumbra Podcast: Juno Steel):

Space pirate MILF with flowy red hair and charm for days

#Buddy it's half of one of my favorite lesbian couples

#buddy buddy buddy

#BUDDY

#milfcity population HER

#miss buddy aurinko please take me out for ice cream please ma'am

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

BUDDY, MY SPACE PIRATE QUEEN

YEAHHHHHHH BUDDY!!!!!

Antigone Funn (Wooden Overcoats):

Amazing character arc/growth; shadows follow her around; afraid of the sun; methanol is her drink of choice; is often told “I thought you were dead” despite a complete lack of evidence other than her deathly paleness; the morgue is her personal sanctuary; absolutely hilarious character; demanded to be co-owner of Funn Funerals with her brother rather than allowing him to continue running the business alone;(spoiler) decided NOT to get with her frenemy who she had been doing a will-they-won’t-they thing with the entire series!; writes smut in her free time

#antigone!!!!!!!!! #i just need one chance with her #she's perfect

#antigone!!!!!

*Cracks knuckles* Team Antigone is back and ready to do some damage. #antigone sweep year 2

#YEAR TWOOO

#Antigone sweep #!!!!

#thrilled to participate as always

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

VOTE FOR ANTIGONE!!!

What on earth could possibly be sexier than being presumed dead by the village she lives in at large. She genuinely cares about funerals as an art form, she puts so much care into her work. Possibly bisexual if that helps. Ghost wrote a wildly popular erotic novel with the help of village’s reverend. Come on just please vote for Antigone I’m so very sleepy and I can’t think of more reasons but I promise they’re there

[dippedinmelancholy]

Nesta’s been on my mind a lot lately, which is unsurprising. But specifically the train of thought that sexual assault is a theme so deeply tied to her character, to her life, and even to her “connection” with Cassian.

I’ve reread the scene where the IC and Elain are gossiping about Nesta, about what she’s doing in the HoW and how she used to dance about three times this week. Read and listened to the audio of Amren being impressed at a child seducing a man two times her age. Read how Cassian makes it about him, and not a single person at the table recognizes she’s been abused and everything that brought her joy stripped away from her. How even Feyre makes some weird comment about how “Nesta has made her own choices, but mother shaped her”

Nesta hasn’t made a single choice of her own that had anything to do with her own happiness or selfishness. No one in this scene, or in the fandom honestly, is looking at what isn’t being directly spelled out for you.

By a VERY young teenager, Nesta had enough skill to perfectly seduce full grown men who would give anything for the permission to fuck her. Let’s say what it is. In an aristocratic society where women trade themselves in marriage, men are trading for the promise of a virgin to defile, women are trading for security and power for their family.

It would have taken years to train that amount of skill into Nesta. Nesta learned about seduction at such a young age, more than likely starting when she was pre-pubescent. Her father LET her mother do this to her, not a single adult in her life protected her. This is themed in SA and if you don’t think so, you don’t understand SA. She was the only Archeron who was still a virgin when she entered Prythian, because sex was always something to be wielded as a weapon, a shield, the only power someone like her had. Love was not for Nesta, her mother repeatedly tells her this from a very young age. She has been SA’d all of her life in some capacity, and not a single person who claims to care about her recognizes it. Nesta herself doesn’t recognize it, because for her, that’s what women do, what they are expected to do. Feel nothing, manipulate those around them for a better future for your family - or starve.

Nesta deserves better. She still doesn’t recognize the things of her childhood as abuse, she doesn’t even speak them to a single person because everyone has made it clear how privileged she was to have her mother’s attention - and no one wants the complaints or tears of such a privileged person. She can’t even recognize that she’s been abused.

[overnighttosunflowers]

Once again I essayed in the tags of something a few weeks ago and have been meaning to pull it out into its own post, and I guess there's no better time than twelve hours before we see Bell's Hells again:

It absolutely breaks my heart that after Imogen has spent all this time agonizing over whether to trust her mother, it's come to this. Because I can so easily imagine that guilt is going to tear Imogen apart. She's the one who didn't tell her mom to come with them to Exandria, worried about endangering herself and the Hells and the world by doing so, and instead she abandoned Liliana to this fate. In the weeks since, you can see her agonizing over that choice. She's been moving in the direction of the one she didn't make then: to trust her mother. She told Liliana she loved her. She let herself get Power Word Stunned by the Matron's facsimile. She stood in the top of Caleb's tower wondering if that trust was dangerous, if she would ultimately doom the world by wanting a mother. And then none of it mattered. She didn't doom the world. She doomed her mother instead.

That's not what happened. But it's how she's going to blame herself, I think.

And it kills me, because like so many of the things Imogen destroys herself with guilt about, it wasn't her responsibility. Liliana chose to leave. Liliana chose to stay gone. Liliana has been dwelling on a version of her child that doesn't exist anymore, and she fell so deep into a cult to protect that long-ago child that it took her months of Imogen begging and begging and begging to realize that her daughter was a person and not just an idea. That she was hurting that daughter more than she was protecting her. And that the way to save her was to listen to her. And she was so unmoored and lost by then that she looked to Imogen to make her choices for her—looking to her daughter the way a child looks to their mother.

None of that is Imogen's fault. None of it.

I have a deep well of empathy for Liliana—who has not been a good mother, but whose daughter wants more than anything to let her relearn it now—but Liliana is where she is because of herself. And I know that even if Imogen is somehow able see that, if she's able to feel at all angry at or betrayed by Liliana alongside the guilt and grief, she'll feel even more confused and guilty and agonized for it.

But, god. All Imogen has ever wanted was a mother. And she deserved to have a mother who stayed, who loved her plain and simple in that quiet-life way she wants to be loved. She deserved to have a mother who prioritized the daughter in front of her in over the abstraction in her memory. And she deserves to have a mother who will come out the other side of this, not because Liliana intrinsically deserves that, because Imogen wants to give her a second chance.

How devastating, then, to get this different version of a mother she deserves: one who will, for her, face and maybe fall to the danger she's created.

Because ultimately, that's the reason the Hells had her stay on Ruidus: it wasn't just about trust, it was about where she could help. And she has. And now her story might be bookended by doing things for Imogen that break Imogen's heart.

Anyway, what I want more than anything for Imogen to get to save Liliana, and hold her close, and cry on her, and yell at her. I want her to get to have a mother who's in a position to do small things for her, not just awful sweeping ones. And I want Liliana to have the opportunity to struggle with how she can earn the second chance her daughter has given her. To learn how to be a mother to a real live daughter and not a memory.

I don't know if Liliana deserves that. But Imogen does.

Liliana left Gelvaan for Imogen, and in doing so helped doom the world. Liliana stayed on Ruidus for Imogen, and in doing so she might've helped save it.

Maybe one of these echoes has a mother who dies for her. And maybe one has a mother who lives.