#stack collision

[just-my-insufferable-existance]

Thinking about making a post, or a series about stuff that I wish I was taught about C in school.

I might just do it regardless of interest, it would be nice to just get my thoughts written down somewhere.

Also feel free to give me some topic suggestions, like bitwise operations, memory management, object oriented-ness, fun with undefined behaviors, advanced(?) topics, etc...

[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to all your silly boys, thank you for reading!

by your belt loops. fluff. suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

where he redirects you by pulling on your belt loops... multiple times.

♡ For all your (super touchy and handsy) favorites.

more of your favorite boys here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

Grocery shopping with him always felt different than doing it alone. 

With him—it wasn’t like you forgot how to function, at least not in that loud ‘oh no, I knocked over a pyramid of cans’ kind of way, but more in that distracted, floaty ‘ooh look, they have fresh milk bread… oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see your cart’ kind of way where you stopped watching where you were going or what you were supposed to be doing.

It wasn’t your fault. 

You were smart, no doubt. You held more degrees than him, multiple certifications and a licensure under your belt. 

You were observant, thoughtful, organized to the point of being endearingly meticulous—he always said so, in that clipped tone of his like he couldn’t understand why it surprised you every time.

But when he was beside you like this—sweatpants slung low on his hips, jacket rolled at the sleeves, hood half up—walking the fluorescent-lit aisles of the local grocery store, your brain just… slowed.

Like your mind had kicked off its shoes and curled up somewhere quiet, trusting him to take care of the rest. 

It was a relief, honestly.

Until it wasn’t.

Like now, for instance.

You’d gotten so distracted by the in-store bakery display that you didn’t notice the towering stack of promotional soy milk crates right in front of you as you walked and stared at the same time.

You were completely absorbed, eyes tracking a particularly fat custard bun that looked like it might collapse under its own delicious weight.

That’s when your foot hit something solid. It wasn’t a forceful hit, not enough to send waves of milk crashing down the aisle, but enough to make one of the bottles at the base wobble, the whole stack teetering ever so slightly.

You blinked.

Oh.

A display. Organic soy milk. Little beige bottles stacked up.

You hadn’t even seen it.

But he had.

Without breaking stride, he reached for you, two fingers sliding smoothly into the belt loop at the back of your jeans. He gave a gentle tug, guiding you out of collision range with practiced ease, pulling you back against him, so your spine slotted into his chest.

Like it belonged there.

His arm wrapped low around your waist, palm pressing against your hip.

Warm. Steady. Deliberate. 

The way only he could be.

Because touching you was his reflex.

“Careful,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low with amusement, breath brushing the side of your face. 

You mumbled a soft apology, cheeks warming.

“Mm,” he hummed lazily. Then, casually, he gave you two small, absent-minded pats on the underside of your ass. 

You whirled around to glare at him playfully.

“Your ass is cute,” he said, entirely unbothered, mouth barely hiding a smirk. “Also, if you’re gonna let me drive you, I gotta make sure the breaks work, yeah?”

You covered your face with your sleeve, half mortified, half giddy—mostly giddy.

Still, he didn’t let go, didn’t even pause—just adjusted slightly, hand tightening at your side as he started pushing the cart forward again with his other.

It was ridiculous how easily you melted into him.

Maybe that's why you let him steer you into the next aisle, turning the corner as his hand curved a little tighter around your waist, keeping you steady against the slight sway of the cart’s wheel. 

Your eyes lit up at the tea, and you tried to reach for a box of your usual black on the shelf, rising on your toes just slightly to grab it.

But before your fingers could even brush the box, his hand moved—sliding from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying there like a quiet, familiar reminder. And then, again, with a tug at your belt loops, he eased you back down, pulling you flush against him.

“No, pretty. We still have more at home.”

“Oh, I forgot.”

“Mhm. Of course you did, baby.”

You flushed deeper and gave up, letting him guide you away without protest to the next aisle.

He let the cart roll to a stop in front of a shelf lined with protein bars—rows and rows of them, all in sleek packaging, looking aggressively ‘healthy.’

He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned in a little, voice a smooth murmur behind your ear.

“Alright. Let’s see if you remember.”

“Remember what?”

He nodded toward the shelf. “The ones I like.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to study the boxes, trying to calm the rapid skipping of your heart. “You’re quizzing me now?”

“No pressure.”

His thumb dragged lightly along the waistband of your jeans. Then, with the same casual ease, he gave your ass an encouraging little pat—fond, gentle, and soft enough to make your stomach flip.

“Go, baby. Impress me.”

You huffed and scanned the options quickly, actually using your brain, trying to remember the exact brand he always grabbed—the one with dark chocolate and sea salt, not the chalky kind or the one that left crumbs everywhere.

Your fingers closed around a box, and you held it up for him to see, one brow lifted. “These?”

He glanced at it, slow and unreadable.

Then he looked at you.

A twitch of his lips.

He wordlessly took the box from your hands and dropped it into the cart. His voice dropped lower, quiet and almost absently, he added, “Good girl.”

Your stomach dipped.

It was passive, offhand, but smug in a way that made heat flicker behind your ears, especially paired with the faint squeeze of his fingers on your hip—he knew exactly what he was doing to you and didn’t care to hide it.

You opened your mouth, not even sure what to say, but he just brushed his hand over the small of your back before curling his fingers right back into your belt loop like he'd known you’d get it right all along.

Like you were part of his rhythm.

Still touching. Still steering. Still keeping you close. 

Sure, you got a little (a lot) clumsy around him; your brain went a little (a lot) mushy. And grocery shopping took a while.

But that didn’t matter. Not to him. 

In fact, he wanted you to get distracted.

Because underneath all of that soft, quiet chaos, you trusted him to look out for you. 

And he never rushed you. Never pulled away. 

Just waited. Just let you be.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Ren wants her story told, y'all 😂 She keeps feeding me ideas.

previous

The pounding on your door wakes you. "Need to get scran 'fore the mess closes!" Johnny bellows.

You disentangle yourself from the covers and roll out of bed, shaking off the remains of sleep. Captain Price had you training on the rubble last night at 2300 hours. He wanted to be sure things were dark enough. He sent you in alone or with one of the others practicing with the night vision goggles, a first for you, and following directions blind. He also had you with him, being Soap's or Ghost's or Gaz's eyes. "Never know who's gunna be where when shit goes sideways. Need to know you can follow the path even if ya can't see it. An' tha' ya can get the others ta safety."

Well not as physically demanding as the training had been, the night had been grueling nonetheless. The green glare of the night vision goggles through you off more than you expected, and despite listening well, you still ended up covered in bruises from when you accidentally walked into a wall or other debris. By the end of the night though, you were proud to say that you'd gotten a sense of distance without a visual and how it differed man to man so when Ghost told you, "Take 10 steps then turn right," you knew to account for his stride and took 15 to avoid collisions.

Giving directions was the hardest for that same reason. Your stride and your frame so much smaller than that of the men on the team that you were constantly correcting your own calculations. You knew it would take a little bit of time, but you hated the thought that you were holding them up.

"Nae worry," Johnny said when he overshot the opening you were trying to get him through. Thankfully, he knew the terrain well enough not to go galavanting off and was able to backtrack to where he needed to be.

It was on one of the stretches where you were practicing your instructions to better fit the task force that you realized how cold you were despite the jumper you wore. Sometime after half two, Gaz tapped your shoulder and held out a plain grey ASDA fleece blanket.

You'd somehow missed the small stack of them on the back seat of the golf buggy, but you recognized the ASDA tag on the blanket at the bottom and took what was in Gaz's hand gratefully. Though thin, the blanket somehow held all the warmth of home. You wrapped it around your shoulders anytime you we're in the buggy with Price, making a note to yourself about triple checking the weather before your next training and to speak to Adam about top layers in your size.

Now the blanket, along with the borrowed jersey and overly large top layers, lay piled on the top of your bed. Since he'd pulled the jersey from what you assumed was a communal footlocker, you felt you had to bring it back to the barracks once clean. From how Price talked about them, you don't think the top layers need to be returned. The blanket you planned to keep because it was so warm and so easily replaceable.

You crack open the door and see Johnny's smiling face in the hallway. He leans against the jam as you turn to get ready. He looks avidly around your room, but you don't invite him in, and he respects the sanctity of your space. "C'mon, lass, brekkie ends soon. Ye doan wan' tae miss a meal when we'll be trainin' 'gain later."

You refrain from groaning but had hoped Price was only kidding when he said you'd be back out at the training facilities again in the afternoon. Instead you ask, "Do I have time to get cleaned up?"

He makes a big show of looking at the time on his phone. "Aye, Ah guess." You grab clean clothes and hoist your shower tote as he says, "Meet us in the mess in 10, yeah?" He heads off towards the mess as you dart into the bathroom.

As you quickly clean up, Soap heads to the mess to grab a tray of food for you in case the mess lines close before you get there. He quickly piles two plates full. He's watched you at meals and knows how much you gravitate to fruits and vegetables, so he dumps a double portion on your plate. He adds a bowl of yogurt and granola so you have protein for the day. His plate is covered with rashers and eggs.

He finds the team and puts both plates down. At Price's raised eyebrow, Johnny comments, "Ren was still sleepin' when Ah went tae find 'er. Told 'er to be here in ten. Ah think trainin' is wearin' 'er down."

Price hums. "Maybe we can find a way for a break soon."

Ghost hasn't taken his eyes off Soap since the Scot sat down. "What else, mutt?" He leveles a glare at the man. "Ya look like yer schemin'."

Soap smiles wide at his pack, leaning over the table to draw the others close. What he has to share isn't for others to hear. "All yoor things are on 'er bed." He pauses, long and pointed, before delivering the news he is giddiest to share. "Almost looks like she's makin' a nest."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 5/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 5 :

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO COMMENT AND REPOST TO MAKE THIS STORIE LIVE :)

Max’s apartment was glowing with the warmth of soft light and low music. The table was crowded with half-open pizza boxes and Pietra’s expertly-arranged charcuterie board. Someone was already arguing about whether to rewatch The Grand Budapest Hotel for the fourth time. Lando was pacing. 

When the buzzer rang, Pietra swirled her wine and sauntered to the intercom.  

She opened the door and blinked. “Oh my god.” 

Ariana stood in the hallway, the December air still clinging to her cheeks, which were tinged pink with cold. Her long chestnut hair had been swept half-up, tied with a bold red ribbon that fell in elegant tails down her back. She wore a slouchy grey knit sweater that slipped just slightly off one shoulder, paired with a white pleated mini skirt. Tall, deep red leather boots climbed her legs with polished confidence. 

“You again,” Pietra said, smiling wide. 

“Me again,” Ariana echoed, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. 

The two of them laughed, the awkwardness melting before it even formed. 

“You look…” Pietra gestured vaguely. “Like you walked out of a winter-themed fashion editorial.” 

“I wasn’t sure how casual really meant,” Ariana said, stepping inside. 

“It means you win,” Pietra said, already linking arms with her. “God, you know how to dress.” 

Ariana felt a flush of surprise and something else—a sense of ease. She liked Pietra, she realized. The loud, confident girl had a calmness underneath, the kind that drew people in without overwhelming them. 

Then, across the room—he saw her. 

Lando had been leaning against the kitchen counter, half a beer in his hand, when his eyes lifted—and everything else seemed to vanish. 

He looked like someone who’d forgotten how to speak. 

He set the bottle down, a little too fast, and walked over. 

“Ariana,” he said, voice low, a little husky. “Wow.” 

She tilted her head. “Hi.” 

“You look…” His gaze traveled from her ribbon to her boots and back to her eyes. “Very good.” 

She laughed—genuinely. He smiled wider. 

“You clean up well too,” she added, her voice soft. 

He offered her his hand without thinking. “Come meet everyone.” 

Introductions blurred into conversation. She met Max, who had the kind of dry sarcasm that made her laugh within ten seconds. The rest of the crew was warm and welcoming, filling the room with a comfort that was noisy but kind. 

And the questions came quickly. 

About ballet. About her life. About how long she could stand on her toes without crying. 

Ariana fielded them all gracefully. 

“Six days a week, usually,” she said when someone asked about training. “Some days we rehearse until our feet go numb.” 

“Wait, but isn’t that… bad?” Max asked. 

“We’re trained to work through pain. It’s not ideal, but it’s part of the life. You just learn to listen to your body better. I’ve dislocated a toe mid-performance and kept going.” 

The room fell silent for a beat. 

“Okay, that’s badass,” someone said.  

Ariana laughed. 

Lando hadn’t stopped watching her. He hovered nearby, offering her a fresh drink before she could even ask, nudging a pillow closer when she tucked her legs beneath her. His compliments came in casual brushstrokes. 

It wasn’t just flirtation. It was attention. And Ariana noticed. 

She’d never had someone make her feel seen without being put on a pedestal. Not until now. 

When the food was brought out—an unapologetic lineup of pizza boxes stacked in glory—Ariana picked a slice with mozzarella and roasted tomatoes, settling comfortably on the couch again. 

And then came the question. 

“Wait,” one of the guys said, brow raised, “do ballerinas even eat pizza?” 

Ariana blinked, confused. She glanced at Lando. 

“I mean… of course I do,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Another voice chimed in: “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, on a super strict diet? I always heard ballet girls don’t eat carbs.” 

She blinked. Then laughed. Really laughed. 

“Maybe in the nineties,” she said. “But not anymore.” 

Everyone leaned in, suddenly fascinated. 

“Being a ballerina is being an athlete. A professional one. We train nonstop, and we burn thousands of calories. If we didn’t eat, we’d collapse.” 

“Wait, thousands?” someone asked. 

“Yes,” she said with a grin. “And no, I don’t live off lettuce and lemon water. I love food. I need food. I try to eat healthy, yes, because I care about my body—but salad three times a day is not healthy. I eat protein. Good carbs. Chocolate when I want it.” 

Lando, beside her, smiled. Proud. 

“There are dancers who still have toxic relationships with food,” she added, quieter now. “Because the pressure’s real. The ‘stay small’ stigma still exists. But it’s changing. We’re stronger now. We’re allowed to be strong.” 

Then everyone toasted. 

Ariana caught Lando’s eye. He raised his glass softly in her direction, that signature grin melting into something gentler. 

And she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back. 

Later, as the lights dimmed and the movie flickered across the TV, Ariana curled deeper into the couch cushions. Lando was next to her now, their shoulders just barely touching. 

Ariana had always been good at reading rooms. 

The longer she stayed in one, the more she could feel it—when it pulsed with too much laughter, or when it begged for a lull. She loved people. Loved stories. But there came a point where the noise curled in around her too tightly, and she needed to step back, to breathe again in her own rhythm. 

Tonight, in Max’s flat, that moment came just after the movie ended. 

The screen faded to black. Someone turned the lights back up. Jokes were traded over dessert and drinks, louder again now, but Ariana’s smile had softened into something quieter. Her energy was fading gently. Not in a bad way—just in the way things always faded with her: delicately, without complaint. 

Lando noticed it right away. 

She’d tucked herself further into the armrest, her hand holding the edge of her empty glass, legs crossed neatly beneath her. Her eyes still followed the conversation, but less actively now, like someone sitting at the edge of a waltz, watching instead of dancing. 

She looked at him, and there was a subtle flick of her eyes toward the hallway. 

He understood instantly. 

The balcony was cold. 

But the kind of cold that sharpened the air and quieted the noise. 

It stretched just outside the kitchen window, wrapped in a string of forgotten fairy lights from someone’s old birthday. Two metal chairs. A weathered table. A view of the neighboring rooftops, lit by the city’s amber glow. Not glamorous—but honest. A pocket of peace above the world. 

Ariana stepped outside first; arms folded lightly over herself. Lando followed behind, closing the door with the softest click. 

He didn’t say anything. 

He just stood beside her, close but not touching, leaning his forearms on the rail. She was in profile beside him, face turned to the sky, breath blooming faintly in the cold air. Her red ribbon fluttered once in the breeze, delicate against the oversized grey knit that swallowed her shoulders. 

They stood in silence. 

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty. 

It was gentle. 

Like two people breathing in the same rhythm without needing to prove they were there. 

After a long stretch of quiet, she finally spoke. 

“You’re very good at that.” 

“At what?” 

“Letting silence be what it is.” 

He smiled. “Not scared of quiet?” 

“I prefer it,” she said. “Sometimes, I think silence says the things I don’t know how to say.” 

He nodded. “Same.” 

They were quiet again after that. 

He looked at her when she wasn’t looking—admired her, really. Not just her face, which caught the soft city light like something out of a dream, but the calm she carried. The restraint. The kind of poise he’d never had in his life, and yet… he felt safe around it. 

Like maybe he didn’t have to fill every space with jokes or movement. 

He could just be. 

“You always sneak away like this?” he asked eventually, voice low. 

A small smile touched her lips. “When I can.” 

“Because of people?” 

“Because of noise. Expectations. I love people, I do… but after a while, it gets heavy.” 

He nodded. “I get that.” 

“Do you?” she asked softly, almost like a challenge. 

He looked down at the streetlights below. “My life’s never quiet. Track days. Interviews. Fans. Press. Team meetings. Flights. Even when I’m alone, I’m on. It’s like the noise keeps following me around.” 

“And yet here you are,” she said, turning toward him now, her face close. “With me. Quiet.” 

“I like it better like this.” 

She smiled again, slower this time. More real. 

Their eyes met—and stayed. 

The moment stretched. 

She was looking at him with that wide, curious gaze again, like she was figuring something out she hadn’t expected to discover. The wind picked up slightly, brushing her hair into her face, and Lando, without thinking, reached up and gently tucked it behind her ear. 

Her breath caught—just enough for him to hear it. 

His hand lingered. Not on her skin. Just near. 

The tension changed. 

It wasn’t quiet anymore. Not really. It buzzed. It ached. 

Ariana’s eyes flicked to his mouth. 

Just once. 

Then back to his eyes. 

Neither of them moved. 

But the space between them seemed to close without help. His hand dropped slowly to her jaw, hesitant, like a prayer in motion. Their foreheads were close now. Too close. Her lips parted just slightly. 

Then— 

“Oi! Anyone seen the wine opener?” 

The balcony door creaked open with a clatter. 

Ariana stepped back so fast she nearly bumped into the chair behind her. Lando turned toward the voice, blinking like someone pulled out of a dream. 

It was Max. 

In socks and holding a corkscrew. 

“Ah. Found it. Never mind,” he said, oblivious, disappearing back inside. 

The door closed. 

Silence fell again—but it was different now. 

Charged. Unfinished. 

Ariana was looking down, one hand nervously adjusting the sleeve of her sweater. 

Lando cleared his throat, voice rough. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she said quickly. Too quickly. 

They stood there for a second longer, the almost-moment still hanging between them, breathless and fragile. 

Then she looked up at him and whispered, “Next time, maybe.” 

His eyes met hers. 

Soft. Certain. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Next time.” 

@landonorris

Quiet nights with loud friends🍕✨

Liked by @arianariverria, @maxfewtrell and @pietra

@maxfewtrell

I wonder what you were doing on that balcony...

@pietra

you’re welcome for the candlelight and the entire concept of ambiance

@carlossainz55

I can’t believe you didn’t burn the pizza this time. proud.

@softlapclub

this is such a vibe, what even is this new aesthetic era??

@filmfoodandformula

slide 4 is the most intentional accidental aesthetic I’ve ever seen

@gridandgrace

Ariana liked… interesting 👀 just sayin

@pietra Pizza night supremacy

Liked by @maxfewtrell and @arianariverria

@filmfeedgirls

Any party that includes a movie and pizza is a success

@f1andchill

petition for Pietra to host every hangout from now on

@maxfewtrell

not even a picture of me. terrifying.

@dancecorecollective

Who is that girl with the red rubbon ??

@curatedchaosx

Ariana liking this post, are they friends now ?

Instagram Story – @arianariverria

@vibesinballet

Ariana liking Lando’s and Pietra’s posts? 👀 hmm. Interesting.

@gridsofts

Her story feels like it’s from the same night as Pietra’s post… cozy crossover content???

@justalittleslowburn

no one’s saying anything but the vibes are vibing…

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

[coriihanniee]

WE'RE GONNA BE TIMELESS — ⋆˚𝜗𝜚

𓂃۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : boynextdoor reincarnated in present time, their connection remains unbroken

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : historical romance, reincarnation, contemporary romance, angst to comfort, fluff, slow burn, soulmates, second chance romance

𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of war, violence and death, emotional distress, subtle themes of grief, trauma and healing

𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 1.7k - 2.5k words / member

𓂃۶ৎ A/N : several of you wanted a continuation to my we would've been timeless fic so here it is! this is a birthday special post since today is my birthday~ as a present and to express my gratitude, I decided to give all members the happy ending they deserve!

strongly recommended to read first :

WE WOULD'VE BEEN TIMELESS (part 1)

SUNGHO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : world war II (1939 - 1945)

˖➴ PAIRING : nursing major!sungho x uni student!reader

The university café thrummed with its usual Monday mayhem—orders barked over the grind of beans, chairs dragged impatiently across tile, the sharp tang of espresso clinging to the air like a second skin. You moved through it with quiet focus, a delicate balancing act of textbooks, a slipping laptop bag, and a paper cup filled too close to the brim with hot americano.

You were nearly at the lone empty table when the impact came—sudden and clumsy, a shoulder brushing yours hard enough to tip your center. Coffee sloshed over the edge, searing against your wrist and bleeding into the fabric of your sleeve. You sucked in a breath, startled.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry,” a voice stammered, low and laden with genuine remorse.

You turned.

A boy stood before you—tall, slightly out of breath, brow creased in concern. He blinked as though stunned by the collision, or perhaps by something more. Before you could speak, he reached instinctively for a stack of napkins, moving with quiet urgency as he began blotting the spill with a care that bordered on reverent.

“I didn’t see you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “God, I wasn’t watching—”

His touch, though brief, was light. Thoughtful. Not the careless fumbling of someone desperate to fix a mistake, but something gentler, more deliberate.

You opened your mouth to assure him it was fine, that no harm was done—but the apology caught in your throat when your eyes met his.

Something shifted.

The room did not fall silent, yet the clamour faded into distance. He stared at you with a peculiar stillness, his expression caught between apology and awe. There was a flicker of something behind his gaze—something quiet and ancient. Not recognition, not quite. But familiarity. The kind that runs deeper than memory.

As though, in that brief moment, he’d stumbled into something forgotten. As though he had known you once—not here, not like this—but across time.

And in the space of that glance, you felt it too.

Something in you stilled.

“Do I… know you?” he asked, the words tentative, like they surprised even him.

You shook your head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

But the moment lingered. Like two ghosts brushing shoulders in a life they no longer remembered.

He introduced himself—Sungho, a final-year nursing student. His voice was steady but warm, with a trace of shyness that made you feel oddly at ease. When he offered to buy you a new coffee, you hesitated, not because you needed one, but because there was something in his gaze—something quiet and steady—that made it hard to say no.

As the two of you stood waiting for your drinks, the conversation unfurled easily—too easily, like you were remembering rather than meeting. He asked your name, made you laugh with a joke about caffeine being the only thing holding students together. And even when silence fell between you, it didn’t feel awkward. Just… natural.

Comfortable, in a way that didn’t make sense.

After that day, you started noticing him everywhere.

At first, you thought it was coincidence—catching a glimpse of him by the reference shelves in the library, his nose buried in a tattered anatomy textbook. Then again in a lecture hall, sitting alone in the back row, headphones in, eyes scanning the screen with quiet focus. Another time, waiting under the same bus stop you used every Thursday night, hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain like he was remembering something just out of reach.

Each encounter felt like stumbling into a conversation you’d never quite started—but somehow already knew how to finish.

One evening, as rain tapped against the windows of the quiet study hall, Sungho glanced up from his notebook. His voice broke the hush, low and almost hesitant. “I had the strangest dream last night. I was a soldier. And there was this nurse—she kept me alive. She had your eyes.”

You froze, pen pausing mid-word.

Something in the way he said it—soft, like he didn’t quite understand it himself—sent a shiver down your spine.

Because just hours earlier, you’d woken in a cold sweat, heart racing. A dream still clinging to your skin like the scent of smoke. You’d been in a field hospital, walls groaning as explosions rang out nearby. Dust rained from the ceiling, cracks splitting through concrete like veins. And in that dream, there’d been a soldier—his uniform torn, eyes wild with fear—as he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt. As if the building was collapsing and you were the only thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

And those arms… were his.

You couldn't manage to say anything at first.

But then, during a casual conversation, he reached for your drink and his sleeve pulled back. A scar, jagged and pale, marred the inside of his forearm.

Without thinking, your fingers reached for it.

“Shrapnel,” you murmured. “I mean—how did you get it?”

Sungho blinked. “Bike accident. When I was twelve. But…” He looked down at your hand. “When you touched it—it didn’t feel like the first time.”

His brows furrowed as though trying to summon something long buried. “It was like… muscle memory. Like my skin knew your touch before my mind could catch up.” He shook his head softly, almost in disbelief. “I haven’t thought about that scar in years, but when your fingers grazed it, something just… shifted.”

The air between you changed. Not dramatic, not loud. Just quieter. Denser. Like a page had turned in a book you hadn’t realized you were reading.

You didn’t know what to say, only that you felt it too—something ancient and echoing, stirring beneath your skin.

Days passed. Neither of you brought it up again, but it lingered, unspoken and undeniable. Something had cracked open between you.

A week later, he sent a text.

> Found an antique shop. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to go.   > Will you come with me?

The shop was dim, musty, and hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. Dust clung to the air like a memory, and the shelves sagged beneath the weight of relics long abandoned. Time seemed slower here, suspended in the quiet hush of things left behind.

Sungho drifted through the aisles as if pulled by an invisible thread, until he stopped at a glass display filled with war memorabilia. His gaze fixed on a rusted pocket watch. Slowly, his hand rose toward it, fingers trembling.

“This watch,” he whispered. “I’ve seen it before. I don’t know how—but I have.”

From behind the counter, the shopkeeper—an older man with tired eyes and a voice softened by years—watched you both. “That came from a field hospital in Gangwon,” he said. “There's something else from that collection. Wait here.”

He disappeared into a back room and returned with a weathered envelope. Inside, wrapped in tissue like something sacred, was a photograph.

A field hospital. A line of nurses and injured soldiers.

And at the center—him.

Sungho, or someone who wore his face, one arm in a sling. And beside him, a nurse. Her hand rested protectively on his shoulder, her eyes hauntingly familiar.

Yours.

You couldn’t breathe.

Sungho turned the photo over. Written in faded ink: 

"Nurse L/N and Pvt. Park. Found in rubble after bombing. 1944.”

The shopkeeper’s voice softened. “Witnesses said they never ran. When the building collapsed, they were still holding each other.”

Sungho’s hands trembled as he cradled the photograph, his gaze anchored to the faces frozen in sepia. There was a flicker in his eyes—something ancient, aching, as though a door had cracked open inside him, letting in a memory too heavy to bear.

“They found this watch in his hand,” the shopkeeper said softly, nodding toward the tarnished timepiece in the glass case. “It stopped the moment the bomb struck. In his pocket, they found a letter—unfinished. He wrote that amidst all the ruin, she was the only peace he had ever known.”

Silence gathered around you, thick and fragile. It clung to your skin, to the photograph, to the aching quiet between heartbeats. You felt it in your bones—that this wasn’t grief for strangers, but something buried deep within you, long-lost and long-mourned.

The shopkeeper’s gaze lingered. “You two… you resemble them quite closely. It’s uncanny. Almost as if…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Sungho didn’t hesitate when he bought the watch. No one spoke of how his hands shook as he handed over the bills, or how your eyes refused to leave the image of the nurse and the wounded soldier, their silhouettes etched with unspeakable tenderness. There were no questions, only the unspoken understanding that whatever this was, it mattered.

Outside, under the awning as rain whispered against the pavement, Sungho finally broke the silence. His voice was low, raw. “I keep thinking about them. About the moment they must’ve realized there was no way out.”

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat. “But they weren’t alone,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “They had each other. Even at the end.”

Sungho looked at you then, his eyes shining with something too vast for words. “Some things,” he said, “are more important than survival.” His breath caught. “If it were me… if it were us…”

He trailed off, but the rest hung between you like a vow neither of you had to speak.

The watch, now warm in your clasped hands, pulsed faintly between you, as though echoing with a heartbeat once lost to war. And in that moment, there was no past, no present—only the weight of what had always been. A tether, invisible and unbreakable.

“I don’t remember them,” Sungho whispered, rain clinging to his lashes. “But I miss them. I mourn them like I knew them. Like I loved her.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden. There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. No grand declaration. Just a quiet truth lodged deep in his chest.

And somehow, you knew he already had. In another life, in another war, he had stayed.

You reached for him. Fingers tangled with his, grounding you both in a present that felt like a continuation of something unfinished.

You didn’t notice the watch had begun ticking again—its heartbeat restored after decades of silence. 

Some bonds are stitched too deeply into the soul to be unsewn. Some loves remember even when the mind forgets.

In this life, there were no bombs. No letters left unsent. Just two strangers finding each other in the middle of ordinary chaos, tethered by a history that refused to die.

And in this life, they’d have time.

RIWOO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : victorian era (1837 - 1901)

˖➴ PAIRING : literary preservationist!riwoo × antique bookstore owner!reader

The bookstore was your sanctuary. Nestled between a cozy café and a vintage clothing shop, Bound by Time specialized in rare and antique books. As the new proprietor—having inherited it only months ago from your late grandmother—you found solace among the shelves of timeworn spines and the scent of aging paper, as if the past itself had taken refuge there.

The bell above the door chimed, its sound delicate and familiar. You glanced up from cataloging a recent acquisition of first editions. A man stood just inside the doorway, dark hair dampened slightly from the mist outside, his gaze wandering the room with the quiet reverence of someone who believed in the sacredness of forgotten stories.

"Can I help you find something?" you asked, setting your pen aside, your voice gentler than usual. Something about his presence asked for softness.

He turned toward you, and in the silence that passed, his eyes held something that startled you—recognition, confusion, then a wistful smile. "I'm looking for..." He hesitated. "I'm not sure. Something called to me from your window display."

"That's my grandmother's doing," you replied, standing slowly. "She curated the Victorian literature showcase before she passed. I haven't had the heart to change it."

He stepped further in, rainwater softly pooling beneath his shoes. "Lee Riwoo," he said, offering his hand.

As your fingers touched, a strange sensation swept over you—a flicker, like recalling a dream you had long ago and weren't sure was ever real. You pulled your hand back a breath too quickly.

"Do you collect antique books?"

"I'm a literary preservationist," he said. "I restore rare manuscripts. This is my first time here. I travel often for my work, but... this place felt familiar."

Over the next hour, Riwoo wandered your shelves with a kind of hushed wonder, his fingertips tracing the spines as though memorizing their histories. His gaze lingered longest on the Victorian section, and you watched from behind the counter, your chest aching with a curiosity you couldn't explain.

Finally, he approached with a weathered diary in hand. "I was commissioned to restore this," he said. "It's from the mid-1800s. Several pages are damaged. I was hoping you might have paper from the same era—your grandmother's collection, perhaps?"

The diary, bound in cracked leather, trembled faintly in your hands as you opened it. The ink had faded and bled from years of water damage. But the handwriting within—looped and elegant—struck you with something more than familiarity. It struck you with grief.

"This handwriting..." you murmured.

"I know," Riwoo nodded. "It feels strangely familiar, doesn't it? I've been having trouble sleeping since I received it. Dreams of places I've never been, people I've never met."

You examined the diary more closely. It belonged to a nobleman who wrote of his younger brother's scandalous love for a servant girl—a love that ultimately ended in heartbreak when he was forced to marry within his class. Many entries were water-damaged, the ink blurred beyond recognition.

"I might have some matching paper in the back room," you offered. "My grandmother collected restoration materials."

The storage room was narrow, cramped with drawers and trunks of brittle documents and parchment. As you sifted through them, Riwoo stood behind you, and the air thickened with an unspoken tension. Not the kind born of discomfort, but the kind that lives in the breath before a memory returns.

"Have we met before?" he asked, voice low. "I can't explain it, but... you feel like someone I've waited a long time to find."

You smiled without turning around. "I'd remember meeting someone who restores books like a ritual."

Over the next weeks, Riwoo returned with the diary in tow, setting up at the corner table beneath the stained glass window. Sometimes he would read aloud, his voice reverent, coaxing lost stories back to life.

The first dream came like a whisper—fragments at first, then vivid scenes that left you waking with tears on your pillow.

In them, you were someone else yet entirely yourself. A servant in a grand estate, moving through shadows, your heart aching for someone you couldn't have. And there was Riwoo—not quite him, but unmistakably him—dressed in nobleman's finery, his eyes following you with longing across crowded rooms.

"You can't have what you want, Riwoo. It's not possible."

 Your dream-self's words echoed in your mind long after you woke.

You said nothing about these dreams, convinced they were simply your imagination running wild from the diary's stories. But Riwoo grew more agitated with each passing day, his focus on the diary becoming almost obsessive.

"The pages near the end," he said one evening, voice strained. "They're different—like someone else took over the writing. More desperate. More raw."

You peered over his shoulder at the damaged pages he was carefully treating. "Can you make out what it says?"

"Fragments. The nobleman's brother—he was in love with a servant girl. His family forced him to marry someone of his station, but..." Riwoo's finger traced a line of faded text. "He never stopped loving her."

That night, your dreams shifted. You saw Riwoo standing at an altar, his face a mask of composure while his eyes screamed silent apologies. You watched from behind a pillar, your heart shattering as he pledged himself to another. Before the ceremony ended, you slipped away, unable to bear witnessing more.

You woke gasping, a physical ache in your chest. When you arrived at the bookstore, Riwoo was already waiting outside, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said simply. "I keep dreaming about them—the nobleman's brother and the servant girl. It feels like I'm remembering, not dreaming."

Something in his voice made you shiver. "What happens in your dreams?"

His eyes met yours, filled with a grief that seemed centuries old. "I lose her. Over and over, I lose her."

The air between you crackled with unspoken recognition.

Days later, Riwoo called you after midnight, his voice urgent through the phone. "I found something. Come to the store. Please."

You found him surrounded by pages on the floor, his hands trembling as he held a partially restored section of the diary.

"Look at this," he whispered.

The entry described the day after the wedding—how the servant girl had disappeared from the estate without a trace. The nobleman wrote of his brother's descent into despair, his frantic searching, his slow surrender to hopelessness.

The final pages became increasingly difficult to read—not just from water damage, but because the handwriting deteriorated, as if the writer could barely hold a pen.

"There's a change here," Riwoo said, pointing to a particular passage. "The nobleman stopped writing. These last entries are from his brother."

With painstaking care, he had revealed the final legible words:

The laudanum offers temporary peace, but I find myself increasing the dose each night. My wife suspects nothing; she has long since accepted that our marriage exists only in name. I dream of my love each night—standing in the garden where we last spoke, promising to wait for me. I have searched for five years with no trace of her. Tomorrow, I shall join her in the only way left to me. Perhaps in another life, we will find each other again, and I will be braver than I was in this one.

Your hand flew to your mouth, a sob catching in your throat. "He took his own life."

Riwoo nodded, his expression haunted. "The nobleman's final entry confirms it. He found his brother's body in the study, an empty bottle beside him, clutching something in his hand."

"What was it?" you whispered.

"That's where the diary ends. Water damage destroyed the rest." Riwoo's voice cracked. "But I found something else."

From between the leather binding and backing, he carefully extracted a small, folded piece of paper that had somehow survived intact. As he unfolded it, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

It was a letter, the ink faded but still legible. Addressed simply: To her, when fate allows us to meet again.

The first line made your heart stop:

My dearest, followed by your name—your actual name, written in a hand you somehow recognized.

The world tilted beneath you as you took the letter, vision blurring as you read:

By the time you read this, I will have left this world, unable to bear its emptiness without you. Know that I searched for you until my strength failed. My greatest regret is not having the courage to defy convention and claim you as mine when I had the chance.

I make this vow with my final breath: I will find you again. In another time, another place, where the barriers between us no longer exist. Where I can love you as you deserve to be loved—openly, completely, without shame or hesitation.

If your soul recognizes mine as I know it will, please forgive my weakness in this life. In the next, I will be worthy of you.

Eternally yours,

L.R 

The letter slipped from your trembling fingers. You raised your eyes to meet Riwoo's, finding them filled with tears and a recognition that transcended understanding.

"It's my handwriting," he whispered, voice breaking. "And your name."

The room spun around you as fragments of memory—not dreams but actual memories—crashed through your consciousness: standing in the shadows of a grand estate, watching him from afar, the brush of his fingers against yours when no one was looking, his whispered promise: 

"I love you. And I will find a way to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear."

A promise he couldn't keep then.

"We found each other," you breathed, the realization both beautiful and devastating. "After all this time."

Riwoo reached for your hand, his touch igniting not just the familiar flicker of recognition, but a flood of emotion so powerful it brought you to your knees. He caught you, arms wrapping around you as though he'd been waiting lifetimes to hold you again.

"I don't—I don't remember everything," he said, his voice raw. "Just feelings. Fragments. But I know it's you. I've always known it was you, from the moment I walked into this store."

You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by grief for what was lost and wonder at what had been found. "You didn't have to wait for another life," you whispered. "I would have run away with you then."

"I know," he murmured against your hair. "That's why I've spent this lifetime looking for you—to make it right."

Outside, rain began to fall, washing the world clean. Inside, surrounded by the fragments of your shared past, you held onto each other as the barriers of time crumbled around you—two souls finally completing a journey that began more than a century ago.

Not every memory would return. Not every wound would heal. But in that moment, as Riwoo's tears mingled with yours, you understood that some connections were never meant to be broken—only temporarily lost, then found again when the time was right.

JAEHYUN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 1920s Hollywood

˖➴ PAIRING : actor!jaehyun x script doctor!reader

The moment you met Jaehyun on the set of Bright Silence, something ancient stirred within you. It wasn't déjà vu—it was deeper, like muscle memory embedded in your soul. 

You'd been hired as a script doctor for the troubled production, tasked with breathing life into dialogue that felt stilted and forced. The director had called you their "last hope" with the kind of desperation that made your stomach clench. This was your chance to finally make a name for yourself in the industry after years of uncredited rewrites and ghostwriting for more established screenwriters.

The first day on set, you were making notes when he walked past—casual, unhurried. Myung Jaehyun, Korea's most sought-after actor making his Hollywood crossover. His eyes met yours briefly, and something electric passed between you. He faltered mid-step, his expression shifting from polite disinterest to something unreadable. For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in an impromptu staring contest that felt weightier than it should have.

"Have we met before?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine confusion.

"No," you answered automatically, though the word felt like a lie on your tongue. "I don't think so."

He nodded slowly, unconvinced. "I'm Jaehyun."

"I know." You extended your hand. "I'm the new writer."

His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and for a bizarre moment, you had the overwhelming urge to never let go. A flash of something—a dimly lit room, his face illuminated by a different kind of light—passed through your mind.

"Strange," he murmured, reluctantly releasing your hand. "I feel like I know you."

That night, you dreamed of golden sunlight and long shadows, of hushed whispers and the mechanical whir of old film cameras. You woke with a start, heart racing, the phantom smell of smoke in your nostrils.

The studio lot where Bright Silence was being filmed had history—one of the original Paramount backlots that had survived decades of Hollywood's evolution. Walking through it sometimes felt like traversing through time itself, modern equipment jarringly out of place against the backdrop of buildings that had witnessed the birth of cinema.

You found yourself drawn to the oldest section, a preserved slice of 1920s Hollywood. During lunch breaks, you'd wander there, notebook in hand, telling yourself you were seeking inspiration. In truth, you were chasing the gossamer threads of dreams that felt increasingly like memories.

One afternoon, you found Jaehyun there, standing in front of Building 8, an old soundstage rarely used now except for period pieces. He was so still he might have been a statue, staring up at the faded lettering with an intensity that made you pause.

"They used to film the silent movies here," he said without turning, somehow knowing it was you. "The ones shot in black and white."

"Yes," you replied, though you hadn't known this for certain. "Before the talkies changed everything."

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting the same confused recognition you felt. "I keep having these dreams."

Your heart stuttered. "What kind of dreams?"

"Old Hollywood. Black and white film. A script." He hesitated. "And fire. Always fire at the end."

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Since meeting Jaehyun, you'd developed an inexplicable aversion to open flames. Yesterday, when the gaffer lit a cigarette near you, your hands had begun to tremble so violently you'd had to excuse yourself.

"I've been having dreams too," you admitted. "But they don't make sense."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, at not being alone in this strange experience. "How about we head out for lunch? We have an hour before they need us back."

At the small restaurant just outside the lot, tucked away from prying eyes and eager paparazzi, you talked. Not about the dreams directly—they felt too intimate, too bizarre to articulate fully—but about everything else. How writing had always been your refuge. How he'd fallen into acting, discovered in a photography shoot when he was nineteen.

"Sometimes when I'm on set," he said, stirring his iced latte absently, "it feels like I've done this before. Not just acting, but..." he searched for the words, "...like I've lived this specific life before."

You understood completely. "Like déjà vu, but prolonged."

"Exactly." He looked at you intently. "Since I met you, it's gotten stronger."

The confession hung between you, neither willing to explore its implications further. Instead, you discussed the script, the changes you were making, how his character needed more depth, more conflict.

"He loves her," Jaehyun said suddenly, referring to his character. "That's his real conflict. He loves her but doesn't know how to tell her before it's too late."

You blinked. That wasn't in the script—not yet, anyway. But he was right; it was exactly what was missing.

"How did you know that's where I was taking the story?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting out the window to the studio lot in the distance. "I just felt it. Like I've played this role before."

That night, you pulled out an old box from your closet—university projects and early attempts at screenplays. Something had been nagging at you since your conversation with Jaehyun. A half-remembered project, something about Hollywood's golden age.

Near the bottom of the box, you found it: a screenplay titled Burning Bright. Your final project for your screenwriting course. You didn't remember much about writing it—just that your professor had called it "surprisingly authentic" for a period piece and that you'd received an A.

With trembling fingers, you flipped through the pages. It was a love story set in 1920s Hollywood—a screenwriter and an actor falling in love during the production of a film. Your eyes widened as you read. The dialogue, the scenes, they felt achingly familiar yet strange in your own handwriting.

The final scene made your blood run cold. The screenwriter, trapped in a burning studio, the actor desperately trying to reach her as flames consumed the building.

You dropped the screenplay like it had burned you. There, on the last page, were the words:

FADE TO BLACK as smoke engulfs the frame. The only sound: JAEHYUN screaming her name as the building collapses.

Jaehyun. You had named the character Jaehyun.

But you'd written this years ago, long before you'd ever heard of him.

Sleep eluded you that night. When you finally drifted off near dawn, your dreams were vivid and terrifying—smoke filling your lungs, the heat unbearable, someone banging on a door you couldn't reach.

Production moved to the old soundstage the following week. The director wanted authenticity for the climactic scene, and Building 8 provided the perfect backdrop with its vintage architecture.

You arrived early, the screenplay from university tucked in your bag. You hadn't shown it to Jaehyun yet; it felt too strange, too personal. How could you explain that years ago, you'd written a story about a character with his name dying in a fire?

The building felt different today—oppressive, almost hostile. As the crew set up lighting and cameras, you found yourself moving away from the vintage heat lamps they'd brought in for the period aesthetic. Their glow made your skin crawl.

Jaehyun arrived looking exhausted, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as you had. When he spotted you, he made his way over immediately.

"I found something," he said without preamble, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. "In the studio archives. I was doing research for the role and..." he trailed off, handing it to you.

Inside was a photograph, brittle with age and burned at the edges. The image showed a man in 1920s attire, standing on what was clearly this very soundstage. The man was undeniably Jaehyun—or someone who looked eerily like him, down to the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Next to him stood a woman, but her image was partially destroyed, the right side of the photograph blackened by fire. Only half her face remained visible, but what you could see made your stomach drop. It was like looking in a distorted mirror.

"Turn it over," Jaehyun said quietly.

On the back, in faded ink: Hollywood Star Myung Jaehyun and his screenwriter, 1928. The last picture before the fire.

The room seemed to tilt around you. "This has to be some kind of joke."

"That's what I thought too." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "But I couldn't find any record of who placed it in the archives. It's been there for decades, according to the archivist."

Before you could respond, the director called Jaehyun to set. He gave your arm a gentle squeeze before walking away, leaving you with the photograph and a growing sense of dread.

They were filming the scene where his character confronts his rival. The vintage heat lamps glowed ominously in the background, casting long shadows across the set. You watched from a distance, unable to shake your discomfort.

Everything was going smoothly until one of the heat lamps malfunctioned, sparking violently. It was a minor issue, quickly handled by the effects team, but the moment you saw Jaehyun walk toward it, something inside you fractured.

"Stop!" The word tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Get away from there!"

The entire set turned to stare at you. Jaehyun froze mid-step, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in your panic-stricken face.

The director called for a break, clearly annoyed at the interruption. As the crew dispersed, Jaehyun approached you cautiously.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leading you to a quiet corner away from curious eyes.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. "I don't know. When I saw you near that lamp, I just—" You broke off, unable to articulate the visceral terror that had gripped you. "I think I'm losing my mind."

Instead of dismissing your fears, he took your hands in his, steadying them. "You're not. Something's happening to both of us." He hesitated. "Last night, I dreamt of a fire again. But this time, I remembered more. I was trying to reach someone—banging on a door, screaming..." He swallowed hard. "Screaming your name."

Your eyes met his, and in that moment, something clicked into place—not a full memory, but the shadow of one, like looking at your reflection in troubled water.

"I wrote a screenplay in college," you said quietly. "About a screenwriter and an actor in 1920s Hollywood. The actor's name was Jaehyun, and they both died in a fire."

His grip on your hands tightened. "When did you write it?"

"Years ago. Before I knew you existed."

A long silence stretched between you as you both grappled with implications neither of you wanted to face.

"Do you think we're..." he began, unable to finish the thought.

"I don't know what we are." You pulled the photograph from your pocket, studying the half-burned image. "But I think we've been here before."

The director, impatient with the delays, decided to shoot the climactic scene the next day. It called for dramatic lighting, heightened emotions—and fire elements controlled by the special effects team.

The mere thought made your stomach churn. You considered calling in sick, but the prospect of Jaehyun facing those flames alone was somehow worse.

You arrived to find the set transformed. The vintage architecture of Building 8 now prominently featured in the shot, with carefully controlled fire elements positioned strategically around the perimeter. 

Jaehyun found you before filming began, his face drawn with concern. "You don't have to stay for this."

"I do," you insisted, though every instinct screamed at you to run. "I can't explain it, but I feel like if I leave..."

"Something bad will happen," he finished for you. "I feel it too."

When filming began, you stood as far from the fire elements as possible while still maintaining a view of the set. The scene called for Jaehyun's character to make an impassioned confession, surrounded by the symbolic flames of his inner turmoil.

As he performed, something shifted in the atmosphere. His delivery wasn't just good—it was transcendent, as if he was channeling emotions from somewhere beyond himself. The crew fell silent, captivated.

"I should have told you sooner," he was saying, the scripted lines taking on a different weight in his mouth. "Before it was too late. Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

Your breath caught.

 That last line wasn't in the script.

Jaehyun's eyes found yours across the set, filled with a recognition that transcended the present moment. For a heartbeat, the decades between then and now seemed to collapse, and you weren't on a movie set in the present, but somewhere else—somewhere you'd been before.

One of the fire elements flared unexpectedly, higher than it should have. Someone from effects cursed, rushing to control it. Jaehyun didn't flinch, his eyes still locked with yours as if nothing else existed.

"Cut!" the director shouted, breaking the spell. "Effects, get that under control! Jaehyun, that was brilliant, but stick to the script."

Jaehyun nodded absently, his attention still on you. As the crew reset for another take, he made his way to your side.

"Those weren't my lines," he said quietly. "They just... came out."

You nodded, understanding completely. "It felt right, though."

"It felt like something I've spent lifetimes chasing.” 

The weight of his words settled between you—not a full confession, but the acknowledgment of something unfinished, something that had been waiting decades to be resolved.

You could almost hear the echo of a different time, of a different version of him, still trying to say what had never left his lips.

A whisper, a touch, a confession lost in the haze of fire and smoke. The burning that had taken everything from you both.

The director called for positions. Jaehyun squeezed your hand once before returning to his mark, surrounded once more by the controlled flames that nevertheless made your heart race with ancestral fear.

As filming resumed, you watched him deliver his lines—the right ones this time—but the wrong ones still lingered in the air between you.

“Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

You didn’t know what he meant. Not fully.  

But somewhere deep inside—beyond memory, beyond logic—you understood.

There were nights you still woke to the phantom scent of smoke. Moments when the touch of warmth on your skin made you flinch without reason.  

A life you didn’t remember.  

A love you had never finished.

Whatever had been left undone in the 1920s—whatever words had been swallowed by flame and fear—still pressed against the edges of your heart, waiting.  

The universe rarely offered second chances. Rarer still was the chance to recognize them when they came.

You watched him now, the set lights soft on his face, his expression too serious for the lines he recited.  

As if he remembered, too.  

As if some part of him knew there had once been a fire, and that it had cost him everything he hadn’t been brave enough to say.

The past tugged at you, quiet and merciless.

This time, you would not wait for the world to end to tell him you were already his.

TAESAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : zombie apocalypse

˖➴ PAIRING : reincarnated unaware!taesan x reincarnated aware!reader

The Gwangju subway station hums with mechanical precision and indifference. Steel carriages arrive and depart with mathematical certainty, carrying bodies from one destination to another as they have for decades. You stand on the platform, your reflection fragmented in the polished tiles of the opposite wall—pieces of yourself scattered across the surface like the memories that haunt you.

It happens when you least expect it. The scent of antiseptic and industrial cleaner. The fluorescent lights flickering twice before steadying. The distant screech of brakes against metal rails. These ordinary elements of metropolitan life shouldn't trigger anything in you, and yet they do.

Blood on your hands. The weight of a gun. His eyes—lifeless but somehow still filled with forgiveness.

You blink, and the vision dissipates like morning fog. Your therapist calls them "intrusive thoughts with vivid imagery," likely stemming from trauma or an overactive imagination. She doesn't know about the dreams—dreams so visceral, so painfully real that waking feels like dying all over again. Dreams of a world consumed by chaos, of survival against impossible odds, of him.

Taesan.

The name never leaves you. It sits on the tip of your tongue during your waking hours, burns itself into your consciousness during sleep. A name that belongs to someone you've never met in this life but somehow know more intimately than yourself.

The subway car approaches, its headlights cutting through the tunnel darkness like searchlights. People around you shift forward in anticipation, clutching bags and phones, their faces illuminated by blue light. No one else flinches at the sound of the brakes. No one else hears the groans of the undead in the mechanical whine.

Only you.

The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss. Bodies file out, others push in—the eternal dance of urban commuters. You step inside, finding an empty seat by the window. Your reflection stares back at you, features blurred against the backdrop of the station sliding away as the train pulls out. You look tired. You always look tired these days.

Three stops later, the doors open again. You don't look up immediately—there's no reason to. But something shifts in the atmosphere, something imperceptible yet undeniable, like the air pressure changing before a storm. A prickling sensation crawls up your spine, and your eyes are drawn up as if by magnetic force.

He stands there, scanning for a seat, dressed in a charcoal suit that sits perfectly on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than in your dreams, styled with modern precision. No dirt on his face, no blood on his hands. Clean. Unburdened.

Alive.

Taesan.

Your heart stutters, then races. Your lungs forget how to function. The subway car suddenly feels too small, too hot, too loud. Is this another hallucination? Another cruel joke your mind is playing?

But no—other people see him too. A woman offers him her seat. He declines with a polite smile, gripping the overhead handle instead. He looks... normal. Ordinary. A businessman on his evening commute. Not a survivor. Not a protector. Not the man who died in your arms, confessing love with his last breath.

You stare, unable to look away, cataloging the similarities and differences between this man and the one who haunts your dreams. The same sharp jawline, the same penetrating eyes. But his posture is different—relaxed, not constantly coiled like a spring ready to unleash. His hands are smooth, lacking the calluses from weapons and hard labour. This Taesan has never had to fight for his life. Never had to make impossible choices. Never had to protect you.

And yet, it's him. Every cell in your body recognizes him, calls out to him across the distance between you.

He doesn't notice you. Not at first. He's preoccupied with something on his phone, thumb scrolling with casual indifference. You wonder what mundane concerns occupy his mind. Work deadlines? Dinner plans? So far removed from survival, from the visceral reality of existence that consumed your shared past life.

The train lurches slightly as it rounds a bend, and his gaze lifts momentarily, sweeping across the car. For a fraction of a second, his eyes meet yours, and the world stops.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, perhaps. A slight furrow between his brows, a momentary pause in his breathing. He blinks, and then looks away, returning to his phone with practiced nonchalance. But you see the tension in his shoulders now, the slight stiffness in his posture that wasn't there before.

Did he feel it too? That electric shock of recognition? That soul-deep knowing?

The automated announcement chimes overhead: "Next station: Hwajeong 1-ga." His stop, somehow you know. You shouldn't know that, but you do, just as you know he takes this train every weekday at exactly this time, that he lives alone in an apartment overlooking the river, that he drinks his coffee black with just a hint of sugar.

Knowledge that isn't yours to possess in this lifetime.

The train slows, and he moves toward the doors, still not looking at you. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a wild animal seeking escape.

Say something. Do something. Don't let him walk away. Not again.

But what would you say? 

The absurdity of it freezes you in place as the doors open. He steps out onto the platform, merging seamlessly with the evening crowd. In seconds, he'll disappear, swallowed by the city, and you'll be left with nothing but dreams and fragmented memories that might be delusions.

Your body moves before your mind decides. You're on your feet, squeezing through the closing doors at the last possible moment, stumbling onto the platform. The crowd jostles you, impatient bodies pushing past on their way to exits and transfers. You scan frantically, catching a glimpse of his charcoal suit ascending the escalator.

You follow, heart thundering in your ears, unsure what you'll do when you catch up to him—if you catch up to him. The escalator seems to stretch endlessly upward, each mechanical step too slow for the urgency building inside you. By the time you reach the top, he's already passing through the ticket gates, moving with purpose toward the eastern exit.

"Taesan!" His name tears from your throat before you can stop it, echoing against tile and concrete.

He stops. Slowly, methodically, he turns around. From twenty meters away, his expression is unreadable, but his posture is rigid with surprise. For a long moment, he simply stares at you across the distance, commuters flowing around both of you like river water around stones.

Then, deliberately, he walks back towards you.

Each step he takes coils the tension tighter in your chest.

 What if you’re wrong? What if this is just some cruel twist of fate, a mirror image meant to break you? Or worse—what if it is him, but the man you loved is gone, replaced by something unrecognizable?

He stops before you, close enough to see the amber flicker in his dark eyes. Those eyes—his eyes—once so full of warmth as they watched over you through every danger, once clouded with pain as life slipped away, now look at you with nothing but uncertainty.

"Do I know you?" His voice is the same—deep, slightly rough around the edges, but missing the weariness, the weight of a world collapsed.

You swallow hard, reality crashing down.

Of course he doesn't remember. Why would he? The universe isn't that kind. It gave you these memories—this curse—and left him blissfully ignorant.

"I'm sorry," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. "I mistook you for someone else."

A lie. A necessary one.

He studies you, head tilted slightly, brows drawn together. "Are you sure? You seem... familiar."

Hope flares, bright and dangerous. "Familiar how?"

He frowns, eyes narrowing as if trying to bring something into focus. "I don't know. It's strange, but I feel like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers on your face, searching for something he can't articulate. A connection he feels but doesn't understand.

"Have we met somewhere before?" he asks, the question tentative, as if he's not sure he wants the answer.

Your heart constricts with painful clarity. In his eyes, there's no recognition of shared foxholes or whispered confessions in the dark. No memory of the night he told you, 

"You don't have to carry all that weight alone. We're in this together." 

No recollection of his final words, gasped between labored breaths,  

"I love you. I never... I never said it, but I do. Always."

Just polite confusion from a stranger who might have passed you on the street once.

"I don't think so," you lie again, each word like glass in your throat. "I'm new to Gwangju."

Another lie. You've been drawn to this city for months, pulled by something you couldn't name until this moment. Some cosmic thread connecting you to him, even across lifetimes.

"Ah," he says, nodding slightly, but the furrow between his brows doesn't smooth out. "Well, I'm Taesan. Han Taesan."

The name vibrates through you like a struck bell. It's confirmation of what your soul already knew—this is him. Reborn, remade, without the scars and traumas of a world that never happened in this timeline. 

"Nice to meet you," you say, offering your name in return. It feels surreal, introducing yourself to the man whose blood once stained your hands, whose weight you felt grow cold in your arms.

An awkward silence stretches between you, filled with the ambient noise of the station. Commuters brush past, announcements echo overhead, and somewhere distant, a train rumbles into motion.

"Well," he says finally, shifting his weight. "I should probably..." He gestures vaguely toward the exit.

"Of course," you say quickly. "Sorry for bothering you."

He nods, turns to leave, then pauses. "Actually," he says, turning back. "Would you like to get coffee together sometime?"

The question catches you off guard, leaves you momentarily speechless. This isn't how you imagined this encounter going. You'd prepared yourself for dismissal, maybe even suspicion or fear. Not... this.

"You don't have to," he adds, misreading your silence. "It's just—" He stops, seemingly embarrassed by whatever he was about to say.

"Just what?" you prompt gently.

He looks at you directly then, something indefinable in his gaze. "I can't shake the feeling that I should know you. It's probably nothing, but..." He trails off with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't usually do this. Ask strangers for coffee, I mean."

“It's too late. You know it is.”  

“No!”

“You should've stayed away from me. I'm not the man you think I am.” 

You blink away the memory, forcing yourself back to the present. To this Taesan, who looks at you with curiosity rather than shared understanding.

"I'd like that," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

His smile—genuine, unguarded—makes your chest ache. You've seen that smile before, but so rarely. In another life, smiles were precious commodities, rationed like water during a drought. This Taesan smiles easily, without the weight of survival pressing down on him.

"Great," he says, pulling out his phone. "Can I get your number?"

You exchange contact information, the mundane action feeling strangely surreal. In your past life, such normal activities had been rendered obsolete—no phones, no casual meetups, no easy exchanges of pleasantries.

"I'll text you," he promises, pocketing his phone. "There's a good café near here that stays open late."

"I look forward to it," you reply, and mean it despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

He nods, seemingly satisfied, then turns to leave again. This time, you let him go, watching as he moves through the crowd with that same casual confidence, so different from the hypervigilant man of your memories.

As he disappears around a corner, you stand frozen, trying to process what just happened. The weight of your memories presses down on you—the apocalypse, the losses, the final, brutal moments of Taesan's life in that other reality. The gun in your hand. The decision you had to make.

"Taesan,"

"I'm so sorry."

One last look.

One last breath.

One last shot. 

You shut your eyes against the memory, the weight of it sinking into your chest like lead. When you open them again, the subway station is just that—bright lights, hurried commuters, distant echoes of announcements bouncing off sterile tiles.  

No groaning bodies.  

No blood staining the ground.  

No apocalypse.

Just you, standing in the present, shackled to a past that only you remember.

Your phone chimes, its soft ping a cruel reminder that the world moves on, indifferent to the wreckage it leaves behind.  

Taesan, still keeping a promise he never made, unaware of the price you paid to survive.

> Coffee tomorrow evening? 7 PM?

You stare at the words, as ordinary as they are devastating.  

In another lifetime, you held him as his body grew cold. Felt the life slip away from his eyes. Made the impossible choice to end his suffering before the world could claim him fully.  

And now, here he is, asking you for coffee.

The reply slips from your fingers with a quiet "Yes." But beneath that simple word, your heart shatters, a crumbling, jagged thing.  

Grief lingers like the taste of ash. Hope feels like an open wound.  

A lifetime of unsaid things stretches between you—memories that you carry, but he can never know. Memories that belonged to a world that has long since crumbled to dust.

As you step into the cold night, the city alive around you, you wonder if this is your penance—or your salvation. To be the only one who remembers what was lost. To carry the ghosts of a love that never had the chance to breathe, alone.

But maybe this is it.  

Maybe memory is your only salvation.  

Not to reclaim what was shattered, but to hold on to the possibility of something new, something free from the horror of the past.

In this life, Taesan doesn’t need you to be his shield.  

He doesn’t need you to carry the weight of his death in your bones.  

He just needs you to be here.  

The you who made it through the ruins, the you who dares to hope despite the wreckage.

The night air cuts sharp against your skin, the city sprawling endlessly beneath you. The lights flicker like dying stars, far too distant, too cold.  

Above, the real stars are silent witnesses to the story that only you know.  

Tomorrow, you'll meet him—this stranger who feels like home. A man who loved you in another life, but who won’t remember a thing.  

Maybe, if the universe owes you anything, you'll hear him say those words again—  

Not as a final confession, but as the start of something whole:

"I love you. Always."

And maybe this time, always won’t just be a fleeting echo. Maybe it will stretch into forever.

LEEHAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 18th century, coastal village

˖➴ PAIRING : marine ecologist!leehan x intern!reader

Leehan woke with a gasp, sheets twisted around his legs like kelp. The same dream again—drowning, but not afraid. Arms reaching for someone in murky water. A voice calling his name. And always, always that crushing sense of loss when he woke.

"Just a dream," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

But it never felt like just a dream.

The digital clock by his bed read 3:12AM—the exact time he'd woken every night this week. Outside his window, a full moon hung low over the city skyline, its light catching on the distant shimmer of the bay.

Leehan's apartment was fifteen miles from the ocean, but some days he swore he could smell salt in the air. Some days he caught himself staring at the horizon, as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from the waves.

His phone buzzed. A text from his supervisor at the marine research center:

> Don't forget we have a new intern starting tomorrow. I need you to show them around.

Leehan groaned. The last thing he needed was babysitting duty. He'd joined the research centre to study marine ecology, not to play tour guide. But the grant money was good, and the location—right on the coast, with its own private beach—was perfect for his research.

Even if being near the water made his chest ache with a longing so profound it threatened to hollow him from within.

The marine research facility gleamed in the morning sun, all glass and steel perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay. Leehan nodded to the security guard and swiped his key card, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder as he made his way to the main lab.

"There you are!" Dr. Kwon waved him over. "Our new intern is waiting in the tide pool room."

Leehan checked his watch. "They're early."

"Eager to start, I guess." Dr. Kwon handed him a folder. "Show them the basics, then get them started on cataloging the samples from yesterday's collection."

Leehan took the folder without enthusiasm and headed to the tide pool room—a sprawling space with shallow tanks mimicking the coastal ecosystem. As he pushed open the door, the smell hit him: salt water, marine algae, the particular mineral scent of shells. It usually calmed him, but today it made his heart race.

And he laid his eyes on you. 

You were leaning over one of the pools, fingers trailing in the water, completely absorbed. The morning light caught in your hair, casting a glow around you that seemed almost... iridescent.

Something ruptured inside Leehan's chest—recognition, fear, longing—so intense he nearly staggered backward. A tidal wave of emotion surging against the fragile shores of his composure.

"Hello?" you called, turning at the sound of the door. "Are you Leehan? They said you'd be showing me around."

Your voice. It was both foreign and achingly familiar. Like a melody from childhood he'd forgotten until this moment—the notes unchanged but somehow carrying the weight of years.

"I—yes," he managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "I'm Leehan."

You smiled, and the world tilted on its axis.

"Nice to meet you," you said, extending a hand. "I'm really excited to start working here."

When your fingers touched his, Leehan heard it—the sound of waves crashing against a wooden boat. The distant cry of seagulls. A laugh carried on salt-laden air.

"You were the best thing I ever found on the surface."

"Have we crossed paths before?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

You tilted your head, studying him with curious eyes. "I don't believe we have. But..." You paused, brow furrowing slightly. "You do seem familiar somehow."

Leehan released your hand, taking a step back. This was madness. He was acting like a lunatic over a complete stranger.

"Sorry," he said, trying to sound normal. "You remind me of someone."

"No worries." You smiled again, but this time, there was something hesitant in it. "I get that a lot."

Leehan cleared his throat, gesturing to the tide pools. "You seemed pretty comfortable with these already."

Your face lit up. "I've always loved the ocean. My parents say I could swim before I could walk." You laughed, the sound rippling through the room like water over stone. "I've been drawn to water my whole life. Weird, right?"

“Not weird at all,” Leehan thought, a chill racing down his spine like frost forming on glass.

"The thing is," you continued, turning back to the water, "sometimes I feel like I belong out there more than on land." Your cheeks flushed slightly. "Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous."

Leehan stared at you, unable to look away. Because it didn't sound ridiculous—it sounded like the words had been pulled from his own soul, a confession he'd never dared make aloud.

The tour of the facility took twice as long as it should have. Leehan couldn't explain the way he kept finding excuses to show you one more room, one more exhibit. Couldn't rationalize why talking to you felt like speaking a language he'd forgotten he knew.

By the time they reached the lab's private beach, the sun was high overhead, casting diamond-bright reflections across the water's surface.

"And this is where we do most of our field collection," Leehan said, his voice steady as he gestured to the pristine stretch of sand and tide-polished rocks. "The currents here carry in some unusual specimens—things you wouldn’t expect to find."

But you weren’t listening.

The wind had already tugged at your curiosity, the sea drawing you forward like it recognized you. You slipped off your shoes and stepped onto the sand, the grains cool beneath your feet, the scent of salt and sunlight filling your lungs as you walked—almost trance-like—toward the water’s edge.

"Be careful," Leehan called after you, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. A flicker of unease coiled in his chest. "The tide rises fast here. It catches people off guard."

You turned to look back at him, eyes glinting with mischief beneath the low afternoon light. A smile curved your lips—playful, knowing.

 "Relax, marine ecologist. I wouldn’t last a day without the sea."

The words hung in the air, too familiar.

“Relax, fisherman. I wouldn’t last a day on land.” 

Leehan stiffened.

They echoed somewhere deep in his bones, brushing against a memory that didn’t quite belong to this lifetime. A shoreline not unlike this one. A voice like yours, laughter caught on the wind. Those almost exact same words——spoken in another time, maybe even another world.

He couldn’t explain it, but they landed in his chest with the weight of something once lost and almost remembered.

For a moment, he just stared at you. And though he didn’t know why, something in him whispered: You’ve said that before.

"You should be careful. If anyone sees you—"

"They'll try to kill me? I know. Humans are predictable."

"Not all of them."

"No. Not all of them."

The memory—was it a memory?—vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Leehan disoriented and unsteady.

You had reached the water's edge, letting the waves lap at your feet. You closed your eyes, face tilted toward the sun, and for a moment—Leehan could have sworn he saw something shimmer around you, like scales catching light.

"Are you alright?" your voice broke through his daze. You were looking at him with concern, still standing in the shallow water. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Leehan blinked, trying to clear his vision. "I'm fine. Just... the sun."

You frowned, unconvinced, and started walking back toward him. But as you took a step, your foot caught on something beneath the surface, and you stumbled.

Leehan moved without thinking, crossing the distance between you in seconds, catching you before you fell.

Time ceased to exist.

Your eyes met his, wide with surprise. His arms were around you, holding you steady, and every point of contact burned with a strange familiarity that threatened to consume him whole.

"I would have chosen you."

"Do you hear that?" you whispered, not moving from his embrace.

Leehan swallowed hard. "Hear what?"

"I don't know. It's like..." you shook your head, struggling for words. "Like someone's singing, but far away. A lullaby, maybe."

Leehan listened, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the steady rhythm of the waves—a rhythm that seemed, impossibly, to match the beating of his heart.

"I don't hear anything," he said softly.

You stepped back from his arms, a flash of embarrassment crossing your face. "Sorry. That was weird."

"It's okay," Leehan assured you, though nothing about this felt okay. Nothing about this felt normal.

You bent down, reaching into the water where you had stumbled. "Look at this," you said, straightening up with something in your palm. "I think this is what I tripped on."

In your hand lay a small, weathered piece of metal. It looked ancient—green with patina and crusted with sediment. But as you turned it over, a shape became clear.

A crude, handmade harpoon tip.

Leehan's vision blurred, the edges of reality softening. For a heartbeat, he was somewhere else—somewhere cold and dark and desperate. He could feel rough wood beneath his palms, hear the screams of men, taste blood and salt on his tongue.

And arms—strong, unyielding—wrapped around his chest, dragging him back. He fought against them with everything he had, throat raw from shouting, but the grip only tightened. They were holding him down, keeping him from leaping into the chaos. From saving someone.

"It was always going to end like this, Leehan."

"Leehan?" Your voice pulled him back, anchoring him to the present. "You look pale. Maybe we should go back inside."

He nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. As you guided him away from the water, your hand gentle on his arm, he noticed you were still clutching the harpoon tip.

"You should throw that back," he said, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't name. "It's just trash."

You looked down at the object in your hand, then back at him, a strange expression crossing your face. "I don't think I can," you admitted quietly. "It feels... like it's important somehow. Like it's been waiting for me."

Leehan wanted to argue, wanted to grab the rusted metal and hurl it far into the ocean where it belonged. But he couldn't explain that impulse any more than you could explain why you wanted to keep it.

As you walked side by side back to the facility, the sun glinting off the water behind you, neither of you noticed the way the tide had changed, pulling back unusually far from the shore—as if the sea itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Waiting for a story, centuries old, to finally find its ending.

Or perhaps its beginning.

You paused at the edge of the beach, turning back to gaze at the water one last time. The wind picked up, carrying salt and memories that belonged to someone else.

"By any chance…” you asked softly, "Have you ever grieved for something you don’t recall losing?"

Leehan looked at you, at the way the sunlight caught in your hair, at the yearning in your eyes that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to voice the ache that had followed him through endless nights of drowning dreams.

"Every day," he whispered. "Every single day of my life."

Something passed between you then—understanding, recognition, the first fragile thread of a connection that spanned lifetimes. As you turned together to walk back to the world of science and logic and things that could be explained, Leehan felt it—the subtle shift in his heart, like the turning of a tide.

Something lost was finding its way home.

WOONHAK 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : present day, with a twist of supernatural

˖➴ PAIRING : fighter!woonhak x highschool student!reader

The first time you met Woonhak, you had no idea just how much your life was about to change. It was late at night, and you were walking home from a study session, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. That's when you saw them—three figures in the distance, their postures aggressive as they surrounded someone against the wall of a building.

Your instinct told you to walk away, to mind your own business, but something pulled you closer. As you approached, you could make out a man—tall with broad shoulders—facing down the group. Despite being outnumbered, he seemed oddly calm.

"Just hand over your wallet," one of them demanded, voice echoing in the empty street.

The surrounded man—Woonhak, though you didn't know his name yet—simply shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, his voice steady and controlled.

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One of them lunged forward, but Woonhak moved with a precision that was breathtaking—a fluid sidestep, a redirection of momentum, and suddenly the attacker was on the ground. The others rushed him at once, but Woonhak's movements were practiced, efficient. He didn't even seem to be striking them so much as using their own force against them.

Within moments, all three had backed away, cursing as they retreated down the street.

You stood frozen, your legs barely holding you up as you watched him straighten his jacket. The silence that followed felt deafening.

Finally, you managed to speak, your voice betraying your awe. "That was... Where did you learn to do that?"

Woonhak turned to you, seeming to notice your presence for the first time. His expression softened as he met your gaze. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though there was something unreadable in his eyes—something that made your heart skip a beat.

"Just someone who knows how to handle himself," he said with a lightness that didn't quite match the intensity of what you'd witnessed. Then, his voice softened, his gaze never leaving you. "Are you okay? You shouldn't be out here alone this late."

You felt strangely drawn to him, despite the circumstances of your meeting. "I'm fine. I was just heading home when I saw... all this." You gestured vaguely at the now-empty street.

"I'm Woonhak," he said, extending his hand.

When your hands touched, something electric passed between you—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. His eyes widened slightly, and you knew he felt it too. For an instant, your mind was flooded with images: the two of you running through darkness, the gleam of silver weapons, creatures with glowing eyes, and blood—so much blood.

You gasped and pulled your hand away, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Are you alright?" Woonhak asked, concern etching his features.

"I—" you started, then stopped, unsure how to explain. "Did you feel that?"

His expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passing through his eyes. "Feel what?" he asked carefully, but something in his tone suggested he might know exactly what you meant.

"Nothing," you said quickly. "I should go."

You hurried away, heart pounding, but couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous had just occurred—like pieces of a puzzle you didn't know you were solving had suddenly fallen into place.

A few days later, you were working the closing shift at the campus library when you looked up to find Woonhak standing before your desk, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"I need to talk to you," he said without preamble. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about our meeting."

As you walked together after your shift ended, he finally spoke the words that had been weighing on him.

"When we touched," he began hesitantly, "I saw... things. Things that couldn't be real, but felt like memories." He looked at you intently. "You saw them too, didn't you?"

You nodded slowly. "It was like remembering something I never experienced," you admitted. "You and me, but in some kind of... fight? Against creatures that couldn't possibly exist."

Woonhak stopped walking, his eyes serious. "What if they were real? Not here, not now, but somewhere else? Another life?"

"You mean reincarnation?" you asked skeptically, though the word felt right somehow.

"I've been having dreams since I was a child," he said. "Fighting monsters, protecting people. I always thought they were just nightmares, but lately they've been getting more vivid." His voice dropped. "And since I met you, I've been seeing you in them."

Over the following weeks, as you spent more time together, the visions became more frequent, more detailed. They always followed the same pattern—you and Woonhak fighting side by side against creatures of darkness. In these visions, he moved with the same precision you'd witnessed that first night, but with weapons that glinted silver in the moonlight. And you were there too, not as a bystander but as a fighter, your movements synchronized with his as if you'd trained together for years.

One evening, as you sat together in a quiet corner of a park, watching the sun set, a particularly vivid flash overtook you—a memory of standing in a dimly lit room, surrounded by ancient texts and weapons.

"We were hunters," you whispered, the realization settling over you. "In another life. We hunted... supernatural things. Together."

Woonhak's hand found yours, and instead of pulling away from the visions that contact triggered, you both leaned into them, allowing the memories to surface.

"We were good at it," he said with a small smile that felt both new and achingly familiar. "A team."

But as the memories became clearer, so did the shadow that seemed to hang over them—a sense of impending tragedy that coloured each recollection.

The final piece fell into place during a thunderstorm weeks later. As lightning cracked across the sky, you both experienced the same vision simultaneously—the moment when it all ended.

You were in an abandoned church, cornered by a creature more terrible than any you'd faced before. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, its form shifting between human and something decidedly not. You remembered the fear, the certainty that this was an enemy too powerful to defeat.

Woonhak stood before you, his silver blade catching the moonlight as it filtered through the broken stained-glass windows. His silhouette looked too small against the monster looming in the dark, but his voice didn’t waver.

“Run,” he said, calm and certain, like it was the only answer. “I'll hold it off.”

You shook your head, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “No. No, I can't leave you.”

Your hands trembled around your weapon. But his didn’t. His never did.

“You’re safe,” he had once whispered in a world that no longer existed, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so tender it made your chest ache.  

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

That memory hit like a scream in a quiet room—loud, unwanted, real.  

The creature lunged.

But it didn’t go for him. It went for you.

Claws, long and gleaming with death, carved through the air.

And Woonhak moved.

Not like a soldier. Not like a hunter.

Like someone who had loved you across lifetimes.

“No!” you cried, the word torn from your throat too late.

He stepped in front of you, without hesitation, like he had always known he would.

The sound—the sound of claws meeting flesh—was wet and final. His body jerked. You saw the blood before you even understood where it came from. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even falter.

With the last of his strength, he drove his blade into the creature’s heart. They fell together—his body folding to the ground like paper, like it was never meant to hold that much pain.

You dropped beside him, hands reaching, grasping, praying.

“Please—please, stay with me—Woonhak—”

“Then we’ll fight together,” he had said before, firelight dancing in his eyes.

"You and me. Together.”

You pressed your hands to his wounds, but there were too many. Too deep. You couldn’t stop the bleeding. Couldn’t stop time.

His eyes, half-lidded and fading, still found you. Still managed to hold everything he’d never gotten to say.

“Live,” he breathed, voice barely a whisper.

"Find me again." 

Your fingers clutched his as his hand began to go slack in yours.

And in that moment, as his grip faded, another memory surfaced—soft and slow, like the last warmth before winter.

“Because... I don’t want to lose you,” 

“I don’t know when it happened, or why... but I think I’m falling for you.”

You blinked, but this time, your tears fell onto his bloodied skin.

 There was only silence.

A stillness so loud, it split your heart open.

In the present, you both sat in stunned silence as the memory faded, rain pounding against the windows.

"You died for me," you said, your voice barely audible above the storm. "In that life... you sacrificed yourself."

Woonhak's expression was solemn as he reached for your hand. "And I'd do it again," he said with quiet certainty. "In any life."

The realization of what you had been to each other—what you might be again—hung between you, too vast to fully comprehend.

"Do you think that's why we found each other?" you asked. "Some kind of cosmic second chance?"

Woonhak considered this, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know if I believe in fate," he said finally. "But I do know that when I saw you that night, something in me recognized you. Not just from dreams or visions, but from somewhere deeper." His eyes met yours, and in them you saw the echo of countless shared moments across time. "Whatever we were then, whatever brought us together now—I'm grateful for it."

As lightning illuminated the room once more, you both understood that some connections transcended ordinary explanation—that souls could recognize each other across the boundaries of life and death, time and space.

"So what happens now?" you asked.

Woonhak smiled, that same reassuring smile you'd seen in both your present and your shared past. "Now we write a new story," he said simply. "One where neither of us has to say goodbye.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

perm taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh

[austinbutlerslovers]

Star Student

Label Mature 18+

Summary Professor Butler casts you as the lead in the annual college play, coaching you through the difficulties of acting with ease, until it comes to an intimate scene, where he teaches you a lesson you’ll never forget.

🚨Depraved Smut 🚨 Teacher student relationship • unequal power dynamics • broken boundaries •sexual favors from a professor • manipulation •coercion• obsession •angst• regret• edging •fingering • clit play• romance denial • kiss it better • oral sex fem receiving• size kink• p in v• interchanging positions •multiple orgasms•squirting• oral gratification from student •dubcon 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @peggyao3 🎬Scene Consultants @eternal-love @aust-een ✨ Inspo via request 💝

Star Student

Your spring semester in college is a whirlwind of academic chaos. Between endless group projects, partying and essays stacking up faster than you can keep track, the sleepless nights in your dorm leave your vision blurry. 

But above all the unforeseen excitement as a freshmen, nothing compares to the thrill of landing a coveted spot in Professor Butler's Advanced Acting Course.

After impressing him with your intuitive talent over the first few weeks, and absolutely nailing the annual audition, he chooses you to star in the annual production of A Streetcar Named Desire. 

Now, with the performance looming ahead and expectations high, your nerves begin to rise.

He has cast you as the female lead, Blanche DuBois, a coveted role brimming with vulnerability and raw sensuality…a part that demands you kiss your co-star, Stanley, in front of a packed house.

You've never kissed anyone on stage before, and the thought of it makes your stomach flutter with sudden spikes of anxiety.

But Professor Butler becomes your lifeline, your mentor, your anchor, and he rehearses with you daily, guiding the cast with his quiet, unshakable energy.

Under his guidance, the script becomes instinct, your lines needing only fleeting glances as his technique shifts to channeling  the deep emotions and bold physicality into the characters.

Today Professor Butler stands at the front of the rehearsal hall, his sandy brown hair catching the late afternoon light filtering through the large windows. Trim and poised in a crisp white button-up, his sleeves are pulled back to reveal his forearms as he moves with the effortless grace of someone who's spent years commanding the stage.

“A Streetcar Named Desire is about raw human need,” he begins, his deep honeyed voice filling the room. “It’s not just a play it’s a collision of desire and desperation. Every choice you make on this stage has to give into that.”

He speaks with his hands, a habit that both fascinates and distracts you as they sweep through the air demonstrating the intensity of the play, his fingers coaxing the moment into existence. 

“This is a world where want drives every move, Blanche’s longing, Stanley’s hunger,” he says, his voice rich with conviction. “You have to embody that fire.” His blue eyes scan the room, then settle on yours with a familiar smile of expectation. “Let’s see that come alive.”

His full lips always smirk when he speaks about acting, and you can feel his passion for it, his perfect side profile catching the light just so as he pairs you into groups. 

“You two” he says as he teams you up with Jake who’s been cast as the male lead Stanley, his hazel eyes flickering with restless nerves beside your own unsteady energy.

“Blanche and Stanley are opposites, but they’re both driven by want. You’ve got to find that in yourselves and build that tension,” he directs.

You and Jake begin the Dive Bar Scene, where Blanche’s flirtation clashes with Stanley’s raw energy, and Professor Butler watches, his smirk—half-knowing, half-impressed, warming in amusement. 

You can’t help but glance at Professor Butler, his unwavering attention always makes you feel the reward of approval in his eyes.

When he bites his bottom lip in contemplation, it sends a jolt right to your chest, and you fumble through the scene, until he speaks again, his voice cutting in with quiet authority.

“Blanche isn’t fragile, she’s toying with him to hold herself together,” he says, his eyes locked on yours intense and focused. “You’re close, but dig deeper. Unravel, let us see her desire.” He says his words a personal challenge for you.

As you begin again, you can tell he’s pleased with you as he pauses, resting a hand on his chin, his thumb brushing his jaw in that slow, tantalizing way that always makes your pulse race.

Professor Butler is entirely fuckable, a fact whispered in hushed giggles among the class, but his guard is impenetrable.

He calls you all "kids" or "my lovely students," brushing off heated glances with a playful deflection.

Even during frequent late-night rehearsals, when he leans close to adjust your posture, his breath warm against your ear, seeing you shiver from his touch…he never falters, never slips.

It's not just his looks that make him magnetic, it's his intelligence and presence, too. Professor Butler, has worked with legends like Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Christopher Walken… names that feel larger than life, shaping his craft into something extraordinary.

He's had a successful career too, starring in films that racked up critical acclaim before stepping back to teach. Everyone knows he could've kept going, but he always says he wants to give back to the next generation, and damn do you feel so lucky to be part of it.

In the evening, after your particularly grueling rehearsal, you linger in the studio as the others trickle out, leaving you alone with him. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, the stress of the kiss scene for the finale pressing down on you like a weight.

"Professor Butler?" you ask, your voice softer than usual. "Can I talk to you about something?"

He glances up from the script he's been annotating, his blue eyes warm but curious. "Of course, kid. What's on your mind?"

You take a deep breath, stepping closer. "It's the kiss in Streetcar. I've never done anything like that on stage in front of people and I'm terrified I'll freeze up or… I don't know, look ridiculous." He sets the script down, leaning against the edge of the table, his posture relaxed and attentive.

"Hey, that's normal, first time I had to kiss someone on camera, I was a mess, sweaty palms, the whole deal," he grins, his voice dipping into that smooth, honeyed drawl you love.

His blue eyes spark with excitement, a glint of passion lighting them up as his hands gesture to emphasize his point.

"Here's the trick: it's not about the kiss itself. It's about what's behind it. Blanche isn't just kissing Stanley, she's grasping for control, for survival. You've gotta lean into her desperation, let it fuel you. The kiss is just the punctuation."

You nod, hanging onto his every word, he has a way of making everything sound possible, even poetic. "But what if I'm still nervous? Like, physically shaky?"

He smirks, resting his hand on his chin, a telltale sign he's pleased with your honesty.

"Then use it. Channel that into Blanche. She's a wreck too, right? Let your hands tremble, let your breath catch. Make it real." He pauses, then adds, "You ever see the TV Show Carrie Diaries? Look up the scene where I…well, where my character, kisses his girl in the swimming pool. Might give you some ideas."

Your smile quirks. "Wait, you were in TV shows?"

He chuckles, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Yeah, in my early twenties, that's where l got my start. It's all about gaining experience." He says his eyes glancing over you with a quiet intensity.

"Did you ever film a scene that involved more than just a kiss?" you tease, testing the waters, a playful lilt in your voice as you lean in slightly.

His blush deepens, as he rubs the back of his neck, a rare break in his composed exterior. "Well, uh… yes, I have. But even with cameras in your face and twenty crew members around, it still feels personal, and the body responds in ways you don't expect….Acting's funny like that…" He admits, his voice trailing off, then he clears his throat, steering the conversation back. "Anyway, watch it. See how the nerves can work for you."

You leave the studio feeling a rush of excitement and triumph, the honesty of words, and the way he blushed, all rolled into one, swirling in your mind, lingering long after the moment fades.

Later at night, sprawled across your dorm room bed with the lights out, you pull up The Carrie Diaries on your phone. The scene is easy to find, Professor Butlers first name is Austin, and he is much younger in this series, closer to your age but no less captivating.

His toned, tall frame is striking in a pair of black swim trunks, his sun-kissed skin glistening with a casual confidence that pulls you in, his every move radiating a magnetic ease.

You watch the playful banter unfold between he and his co-star, how he tries to kiss her and she pushes back, only for him to pull her into the pool with him.

They play-fight splashing each other in the water until the mood shifts, turning serious. His hands slide around her waist with ease, lifting her to him and drawing her close as he kisses her with a hunger that seems far too real.

The way he holds her, and the slow burn of that kiss becomes etched in your mind. 

He's intoxicating, mesmerizing, and it doesn't help the stage fright for your own kissing scene, but it definitely plants another, far more dangerous idea in your mind.

Chapter 2: The Acting Studio

The next day class is upbeat and energetic. Professor Butler has planned a trust exercise: blindfolded confidence work.

You're paired with him for the demo, the rest of the class watching as he guides you through it. He ties a blindfold gently around your eyes, his fingers brushing your temples, and you swear you hear his breath catch for a second.

"Alright, kid," he says, voice low and steady. "I'm gonna lead you. Just listen to me, feel where I am."

You nod, hyper-aware of his presence and as he releases your hands, he guides you across the room, with his voice smooth and steady. "Alright step forward now…" he instructs, and you do, tentatively at first, the deprivation making you hesitate.

"Good, you're doing great," he says, his tone reassuring as you hone in on where he is.

The class fades away narrowing to just you and he as you step forward, your instincts taking over as you follow the sound of his voice. "You're almost there" he encourages.

When your palms press against his chest, you feel the warmth of him seep into your skin and he stops you, his fingers lingering on yours a second too long before he steps back. "You see?" he says, louder for the rest of the class.

"Trust is everything with acting. When you let go, when you give yourself to it, that's when the passion really begins." He says as he pulls off your blindfold.

You catch his gaze for a fleeting second, and there's something unguarded in those blue eyes of his, a flicker of heat that steals your breath, only to vanish just as quickly.

The rest of the session flies by, everyone feeding off of each other's energy with a newfound passion to perform as they build trust, but you're lost  in a daze, unable to shake the moment with him.

After class, as you pack up your things he calls you over.

"Hey," he says, his tone casual and light as his eyes search yours. "l've got something to show you. Could help with Streetcar. You free tonight?"

Your heart skips a beat. "Yeah, definitely"You say without hesitation.

"Alright meet me at the studio, eight sharp." He says with his signature smirk, but there is a shadow behind it..something he isn't saying.

You've always been quick to read people, and Professor Butler is no exception.

He is kind, happy in nature, teaching is definitely his element, but you can tell there's something about you as his student that rattles his carefully curated demeanor.

And you, eager, sharp, and with a growing crush on him, are just as reckless and determined enough to uncover exactly what that is.

The clock on your phone reads 7:58 as you push open the heavy door to the acting studio, your nervous pulse thrumming in your chest.

The studio is dim, lit only by a pair of soft spotlights casting a warm glow across the hardwood floors of the stage.

Professor Butler is already there, standing near the center of the space, his sandy brown hair slightly tousled, as if he's been running his hands through it.

He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, a shift from his usual button-downs, and the casual look only amplifies his effortless allure.

When he sees you, his face changes from contemplative to a wide, beaming smile, the kind that lifts the corners of his eyes, and it makes your knees weak.

"There she is," he says, his voice bright with enthusiasm. "Right on time. I've got something set up for you to help with those Streetcar nerves."

He gestures toward a tripod in the corner, a small camera perched on top, its lens pointed at the open space where you'll be working, like a silent witness to whatever is about to unfold.

You step closer, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. "A camera?" you ask, tilting your head.

"Yep," he says, picking up a thin stack of papers from a nearby table and handing them to you. "We're gonna run lines, block it out, and see exactly how you look. Sometimes watching yourself back is the best way to shake those jitters. Plus, I figured a little one-on-one could get you comfortable with the physicality of it."

He says with a small smile, "You good with that?" he asks resting a hand on his chin for a moment, and you feel a familiar heat creep up to your cheeks.

You nod, glancing at the script seeing Blanche and Stanley's most intense exchange, leading right up to the kiss. "Yeah, I'm good. I trust you," you say quickly as your eyes meet…because you do trust him.

There's just something about him…his warmth, his steady presence, that makes you feel safe, even as your pulse races with anxiety.

"Alright then," he says, switching the camera on with a quick tap. "Let's dive in. You're Blanche, I'll take Stanley. We'll start from the top of the scene, right after she's taunting him about his roughness. Ready?"

You take a deep breath, slipping into character as you step into the spotlight. The studio feels smaller now, the air heavy with the weight of the moment. 

You toss your head back, channeling Blanche's fragile bravery, and begin: "You think I'd be afraid of you? You think I'd tremble in your big, clumsy hands?"

His posture shifts instantly as he embodies Stanley's tempered energy. He steps closer, his blue eyes darkening with intensity: "You talk a big game, Blanche," he drawls, his voice low and rough, tinged with that southern cadence he's mastered effortlessly. "But I see right through you, all that fancy talk …..it's just noise."

The script calls for him to circle you, and he does, his movements slow and intimidating sizing you up as you try not to falter.

You turn to him, your breath stuttering as he closes the distance sharply, standing at your side.

The air hums between you, the energy so heavy you can feel the heat of his body. Your line comes next, shaky but defiant: "You wouldn't dare touch me. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman like me."

He stops, inches away, towering over you just enough to make your heart pound. His smirk flickers, dangerous and knowing as he delivers Stanley's retort: "Oh, l'd know exactly what to do."He confirms his voice dropping an octave, his gaze locked on yours steady and unyielding.

The script denotes he'll grab your arm, yanking you in close, and he does, his grip firm his fingers squeezing against your skin as he pulls you to him. You fall forward, chest brushing his, and for a moment, you almost forget your lines entirely.

You tilt your chin up, Blanche's desperation bleeding into your own as the scene intensifies. "You're nothing but a brute," you whisper, your voice trembling, your true nerves rising and blurring the line between you and the act.

His hand slides up your arm, resting just below your shoulder, and you feel the heat of his palm through your thin shirt. His breath fans across your face, shallow and quick, and you aren't sure if it’s the aggression of the scene or something else simmering in his blue eyes.

The script denotes to pause here, right before the kiss, a beat of silence where Blanche's resolve crumbles and Stanley takes what he wants.

Your both at a stand still, breaths heavy, the space between you charged with uncertainty. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up, and you can’t tell if it’s planned or not, if this is still the scene or something more.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, and then, without warning, he breaks character and kisses you.

It isn't hesitant or staged. It is full-on, hungry, his mouth crashing onto yours with a force that steals your breath. His lips are soft and warm, parting yours as his tongue sweeps in, tasting you like he's been starving for it.

Your hands fly to his chest, script falling to the floor as your fingers curl into his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He groans into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

You devour each other, the camera long forgotten, the script a distant memory, nothing exists but the heat of his body, and the way he presses himself against you like he can't get enough.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back, his palm outstretched to hold you at arm's length. His chest heaves, his lips swollen and tinged a deep shade pink. His eyes are wide with something raw, shock, maybe, or regret.

"Wait," he rasps, his voice rougher than you've ever heard it. "We…shit, I didn't mean…" He drags a hand through his hair, stepping back further, the distance between you cold and abrupt after the fire you'd just shared.

You stand there, dazed, lips tingling, your own breaths staggering. The camera's red light still blinks in the corner, a silent witness to the line you both crossed.

You don't know if it was part of the exercise or if he'd lost himself as much as you did, but one thing is certain, the dynamic in the studio has shifted, and there is no going back.

Professor Butler stumbles toward the camera, his movements rushed, like he is trying to outrun what just happened. He pulls the camera from the tripod, holding it in his hands as he sinks onto the steps at the side of the stage.

His shoulders hunch as he stares at the tiny screen and as you watch him you can't help the small smile that forms across your lips. He's completely undone, his impenetrable guard fractured to pieces letting something real and vulnerable show through, and it thrills you to to no end.

You walk over to him, sitting on the steps close enough that your thigh brushes his. The heat radiating off of him is intoxicating, and you can't resist leaning in, your breath grazing his shoulder as he presses play on the footage.

The screen comes to life, and there you are Blanche and Stanley, raw and captivating. You nailed the scene, every trembling word and desperate glance is perfect, and watching it unfold again sends a fresh wave of heat through you. The way he grabbed you, the way your bodies had collided, it was hotter than you'd even realized, and your breaths quicken as you struggle to stay still sitting so close to him.

The kiss comes up on the tape, and his finger hovers over the pause button. The second your lips met on screen, he hits it, stopping the frame. 

His eyes stare ahead, unblinking, as his voice comes out low and hesitant, laced with something dark. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he confesses, almost to himself.

"I'm your teacher. This… this is so fucked up." 

He swallows hard, his jaw tight, his hand trembling where it rests on the camera. "You're too good, you know that? Too fucking good, and I-I shouldn't have allowed that to happen."

You freeze, caught between the thrill of his confession and the edge of fear in your gut. But your body betrays you, leaning closer, your voice barely a whisper. "Then why'd you kiss me?"

His head turns toward you, eyes filled with conflict. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says, his voice hushed as he sets the camera down. 

His breaths are heavier now, his chest rising and falling as his blue eyes stare at your lips, then back into your eyes filled with everything unspoken.

Your voice is a shy whisper as you look at him. “I liked it, Professor,” you confess, and he freezes, his breath catching, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. 

“You shouldn’t say that,” he chastises, his voice low and firm, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“I mean it,” you say as you look at him, your eyes soft and honest. “I liked it when you kissed me, Professor Butler” You say without hesitation.

His jaw tightens, a war raging behind his eyes, and then he leans in, rushed and desperate, as he claims your lips a second time.

He kisses you with a deep urgent press of his mouth, and it lunleashes all of your desire for him as his lips move against yours with a reckless edge

His hands slide down your sides igniting a throbbing heat that pulses through your core, and you whimper as his palms glide up your thighs, his touch hesitant before turning bolder, his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt 

He grazes the soft fabric of your panties, stroking his fingers between your legs with agonizing precision, and you moan as he presses against your clit sending a jolt through you.

He breaks the kiss, the realization hitting before he can stop it. “I shouldn’t be touching you like this…” he says, his voice a shaky command. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he says, his tone soft and broken, the hesitation overwhelming in his blue eyes as he looks at  you unable to pull away.

You don’t tell him to stop… you can’t. 

Instead you part your legs wider, a silent invitation letting him in, and he makes a soft, needy sound as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them smoothly down your legs in one swift motion.

Your heart is hammering as he leans closer, his beautiful hand trembling as he presses it between your legs, testing you. “Fuck,” he mutters sliding two fingers along your slick heat. “You’re already so wet,” he whispers, his voice shaky, reverent.

He glides his fingers gently up and down, holding on to the last thread of his restraint as you reach for his wrist.

“Please, Professor Butler,” you beg breathlessly, your pelvis titling up pressing yourself against his hand, and he lets out a desperate groan of surrender as he finally pushes his fingers in, slow and deep. 

“You like this?” he breathes, his tone shifting darker, more commanding as his wrist flexes, thrusting his fingers just right and you nod, chest heaving as you try to stay focused.

“Show me,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your clit and you whimper, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watches you, his eyes locked on your face, memorizing every expression, every sound.

“Good girl,” he praises, thrusting deeper, steady and relentless. “You’re so obedient—fuck, you’re killing me.”

Your soft little gasps and whines spur him on, his words spilling out in a fevered rush. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Watching that tape, getting all worked up.” His fingers pump faster, slick and precise, and you moan louder, the sound echoing in the empty studio. 

“Fuck I love your voice,”he praises, his tone filled with awe “So full of emotion and range when you act.” He reveals, his fingers making sloppy wet sounds as you feel them deep inside. “But what I’ve really wondered”he confesses, his voice low and desperate. “is how you would sound just like this.”

His words make your whole body tense as your hips twitch taking a pounding from his fingers until your moans come out wild unstoppable.

You crave every part of him now, his touch, his voice, his passion, your desperation rising as you ache for him to claim you completely. Your body writhes, slick and needy, your heart racing with a raw, reckless desire to be his, entirely consumed by the thought of him inside you.

"Professor Butler please," you breathe, clutching his arm. "Please-more—"

"More?" he echoes, his breaths quickening, his eyes sharp and dangerous. "You want to give me everything, don't you?" He coaxes, thrusting his fingers inside, hitting the sweet spot that makes your vision blur as you cry out, trembling. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, his fingers jostling you as they thrust harder inside, “I should’ve known my star student would always give her everything," he praises, his voice a low rasp.

His filthy encouragement pushes you to the brink and you moan loudly enough that he covers your mouth, his fingers plunging into your core as you choke back sobs against his palm.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” he commands, his breaths fast and ragged.

Your body seizes, a rush of heat flooding through you as you come hard, squirting all over his fingers in a slick mess.

His hand over your mouth stifles your pleasurable moans, but the whimpers slip out anyway, soft and needy as he works you through it, his fingers relentless until you’re shivering and delirious.

He slowly pulls his hand back releasing you and his fingers are glistening with your slick, then he looks at you, his chest heaving, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

You sit there, panting, skirt hiked up, legs wide, a dazed expression on your face as you see the camera lying forgotten beside him, the frozen kiss still on the screen, a memory now surpassed by the real thing.

You are hopelessly in love with him now, your mentor, your teacher, Professor Butler, the man who's just finger-fucked you on the edge of a stage. 

Your breaths are shaky exhales, as your body recovers from the intensity of what he's done, and when you glance at him, your heart stutters.

He stares at his slicked fingers like they've betrayed him and he wipes them clean on his jeans, you quickly fumble to find your panties, pulling them back up over your thighs, feeling the wet fabric press against your skin.

He reaches for the camera with a jerky motion.

"I have to delete this," he says, voice low and rough, tinged with something heavy…guilt, maybe, or fear. "This can't… it can't exist. If anyone sees-"

"No!" you blurt, lurching forward to grab his arm. Your voice is desperate, pleading, and you don't care how it sounds. "Please Professor, don't. I-I want it. I want you to keep it." Your eyes lock on his, wide and pleading, and you see the conflict across his face. "It's ours. No one else has to know." You say shakily.

He pauses, his thumb hovering over the delete button, and for a long moment, he just stares at the screen. His blue eyes are stormy, torn between reason and whatever irresistible hold you have over him.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning the screen off. "Fine," he mutters, relenting. "But it stays between us. Locked away. You hear me?"

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as relief floods through you. "Yeah. I hear you."

He stands abruptly, gathering the tripod and script pages in a rush, like he needs to move to shake off the weight of it all.

You follow suit, tugging your skirt down and collecting your bag, your mind spinning with the memory of his fingers, his voice, the way he made you come on the side of the stage.

As you leave the studio together, the cool night air hits your face, but it does nothing to dim the heat you feel for each other.

"Good night," he says softly, his voice lingering in the air between you. "Good night," you reply, your tone dreamy, and drifting as a small smile forms across your lips.

You walk back to your dorm in a haze, every step light and floaty, your thoughts consumed by him, your body still on a high from his touch.

After your shower you lay in bed with the memory of him and a strange calm settles over you. 

Maybe he will fuck you. 

He could have tonight but he didn’t. Maybe that was the line he wouldn't cross, but you smile to yourself, a quiet, private thing.

You’ve already gone further than he wanted to go, and that alone feels like a victory. But you want for more. You want him entirely, you want him to lose control again when he takes you, and that idea alone makes your pulse race all over again.

Chapter 3: Restraint

The next morning, you arrive at class, your eyes meeting Professor Butler’s briefly, a fleeting spark passing between you before you tuck into your row, heart racing from the memory of last night.

The class is a test of restraint, and Professor Butler stands at the front, playing it cool—too cool. His posture is stiff, his voice tense as he outlines the day’s lesson: subtext in physicality, how to convey longing without words.

He wears a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his sandy brown hair is tamed, but you notice the tension in his jaw, the way he doesn’t move his hands as much when he speaks.

You, on the other hand, are a glowing mess, cheeks flushed, eyes smitten and burning right through him. Every time he glances your way, you catch the flicker of his indecision: look away or hold your gaze? He can’t decide, and it thrills you to no end.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’re pairing up. I want you to pick a moment of unspoken tension and play it out. Less dialogue, more movement.” His eyes sweep the room, landing on you, and your heart leaps.

“You,” he says, pointing and you practically jump out of your seat eager to be his partner, but then he nods to someone else behind you. 

“And Jake. You two are together. I have something special planned for you.”

Your excitement fades, nerves creeping in as your co-star Jake, the tall sophomore with dark curls and a shy smile, stands up.

You like Jake well enough, but he isn’t Professor Butler, and the thought of performing with anyone else after last night feels wrong.

He looks at both of you, handing you scripts. “You two are going to play out the kissing scene, emphasizing the subtext in physicality.” 

You and Jake nod standing to face each other, and Professor Butler circles you both to watch, just like he did last night, and his presence becomes a gravitational pull you can’t ignore. 

“Start closer,” he instructs, his voice steady but edged. “Let the space between you tell the story.”

You try to focus, standing inches from Jake, acting out the dialogue mirroring last night’s intensity, but your pace is lagging, slow and distant in an awkward orbit. 

Your mind is elsewhere, on Professor Butler’s hands, on how his lips felt against yours last night and your energy becomes soft, dream like, distracted.

Jake, picking up on the exercise, steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, pulling you to him gently leading right up to the kiss. 

Your eyes lock and both of your faces break into wide, giddy grins, your shyness eating you alive, and just as quickly Jake leans in giving you a soft chaste kiss, it’s part of the improv but it jolts you all the same.

“Stop,” Professor Butler says, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. Everyone freezes, heads turning, but his eyes are fixed on you and Jake, his hands on his hips, his composure cracking. 

“That’s not it…You’re rushing the tension, build it, make her want it, don’t just jump to the kiss.” His tone is sharp toward Jake, then his gaze lands on you, a flash of jealousy betraying his cool facade.

You bite back a smile, your lips still tingling from Jake’s kiss, but it’s Professor Butler’s reaction that lights you up. 

He looks rattled, his guilt surging back to the surface, as if seeing you kiss a boy your own age is supposed to fix something, to erase the line he crossed last night. 

Maybe he hopes it will snap him out of whatever this is, remind him you belong with someone like Jake, not him.

But it doesn’t work. You feel it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his hand pulls into a fist at his side like he wants to pull you away.

Jake shuffles back, his grin widening, muttering a quiet “Sorry” under his breath, but you don’t respond, too busy watching Professor Butler as he steps back slowly pacing, trying to regain control.

Your cheeks glow hotter, your smitten eyes still locked on him, and you know, kissing Jake hasn’t fixed anything….It only makes you want Professor Butler even more.

The rest of the class resumes as you rehearse, but the air between you and Professor Butler is heavy with unspoken tension.

The studio empties out, the chatter of your classmates fading into the hall as they file through the door, but you linger behind, moving slowly, like a cat stalking its prey.

Your bag hangs loosely over your shoulder, and you let it drop to the floor, your eyes tracking Professor Butler as he busies himself at the front of the room, stacking scripts and avoiding your gaze.

He wants you gone, you sense it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he keeps his back to you so long. But he doesn’t say it, and that’s enough to keep you there, toying with him.

“Professor Butler?” you call, your voice soft and laced with intent you can’t resist. You step closer, your sneakers silent against the floor, stopping just a few feet from him. “Can I ask you something about the exercise?”

He stiffens, his hands pausing mid-motion, and when he turns, his blue eyes are guarded, flickering with something he tries to bury. “Yeah, sure,” he says, precise and careful. “What’s up, kid?”

You tilt your head coyly in a move to draw attention. “I just… I feel off with Jake. Like I can’t connect. You see it, right?” You take another step, closing the gap, and his breath hitches faintly. “I keep thinking about last night. How it feels… different.”

His jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms in a flimsy shield. “Last night was a mistake,” he says, low and firm, but his eyes dart to your lips for a split second before snapping back up. “We’re not doing that again. You should go.”

You don’t move. Instead, you smile…just a little, just enough to nudge him further. “You sure?” You ask peering up at him innocently. “You didn’t seem to think it was a mistake when you had your fingers inside me.” 

The words hang in the air, bold and unapologetic, and you can see the crack in his resolve, the way his hands squeeze his biceps.

“Stop it,” he snaps, uncrossing his arms as he steps back, but his voice wavers, betraying him. “You don’t know what you’re playing with. I’m your teacher. This—” He gestures between you, frantic. “This can’t happen. I don’t want it.”

But you see it, the bulge straining against his jeans, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. He’s lying, and you both know it. 

You step closer, bolder now, your fingers slowly tucking into his belt loop to pull him in closer  “Then why am I still here Professor Butler?” You ask your voice laced with a playful challenge.. “Why haven’t you kicked me out already?” You say staring into his eyes.

He exhales sharply, a sound of frustration and surrender, and then he moves fast, grabbing your wrist firm and pining your hand against the desk beside you.

“You’re becoming such a fucking menace,” he grits, leaning down his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. “You think you can just push me like this and I won’t break?”

Your heart races, exhilaration flooding as he towers over you, his control slipping. “I want you to,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

That does it—He lets go of your wrist only to spin you around, pressing your hips firm against the desks edge, his body crowding yours from behind. 

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, and his hands are already on you sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. His fingers brush your panties, and he groans, low and guttural. “Damn it, you’re already soaked again.”

You gasp, arching into him wanting more, but he pulls back, leaving you in place as he goes to lock the studio door with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty space.

When he returns, his cock is hard and strained against his jeans, undeniable now as he presses it against you caging you in. “Is this what you want?” he rasps, his hand slipping between your legs, tugging your panties aside. “Me losing it? Taking you right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, trembling under his touch and his fingers tease you, circling but not dipping in yet, still fighting himself, even now, as his free hand grips the table like it can anchor him.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, almost to himself, but then he gives in, his two fingers sliding in to you, slow and deep, stretching you with a precision that makes your knees buckle.

“Professor Butler it feels so good,” you cry out, your voice filled with lust as he thrusts steady and deliberate. 

“You’re driving me insane, you know that? All damn class, with those eyes on me.”he grits.

You moan, soft and desperate, your hands bracing against the table as he works you open nice and slow. 

“More Professor Butler please,” you beg, and he complies, his pace quickening, fingers curling just right, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down.

“Shit,” he curses, his control unraveling as your little noises fill the room. “You’re gonna take this aren’t you? Everything I give you.” 

“Yes” you moan and his free hand slides up your back, pressing you down until your chest meets the table, and he leans over you, his hard cock grinding against your hip through his jeans.

“I try to stay away,” he says, pumping his fingers harder, faster, his voice dark and desperate. “I try to be good. But you—you just keep begging for it.”

You whimper, lost in him, your body tightening as he pushes you close to the brink, until you can’t hold back anymore, his fingers, his words, the weight of him pinning you down, it’s too much. 

“Come for me,” he orders, as his lips brush your ear, and you do, climaxing on his fingers with a cry you can’t stifle, your walls clenching tight as pleasure rips through you.

He slows but doesn’t pull away, his breathing heavy as he feels you tremble beneath him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, easing his fingers out, slick and glistening. He steps back running his other hand through his hair, his cock still straining, untouched. “Get your stuff,” he says, voice hoarse but softer now, the fight drained out of him. “We’re done here.”

You straighten, dizzy and glowing, your love for him a wild, reckless thing as you pull up your painted and adjust your skirt. He takes advantage, sure, but you want it, you push him to it, and the thrill of it lingers as you grab your bag, casting him one last smitten glance before slipping out the door.

At night in your dorm room you lay sprawled across your bed, utterly wrecked. The play A Streetcar Named Desire is only a day away, and your mind feels like it’s been dipped in jelly, sluggish and sweet. 

All you can think about is Professor Butler, his hands, his voice, the way he lost it and pinned you across a desk and made you come in the acting studio. Now the only thing on your mind is how badly you want him to fuck you until you see stars.

Chapter 4: Just a Girl

The next morning, you wake with a lingering smile, your body still on a high from Professor Butler’s touch, his voice echoing in your mind. 

You head to the theater, heart pounding to see him again, to catch that spark in his blue eyes that makes your heart flutter with excitement. 

The final rehearsal for A Streetcar Named Desire is today, the play set for tomorrow evening, and the pressure is undeniable.

You arrive early enough to see only few crew members adjusting props and Professor Butler is already there, standing near the stage, clipboard in hand. He’s in a sepia button-down, sleeves rolled up, but his posture is tense, his jaw set in a way that makes your stomach knot. 

You approach slowly, a smile on your lips, “Good morning Professor Butler,” you say sweetly, your voice laced with intimacy.

He cuts you off turning sharply, his blue eyes cold, devoid of the warmth you crave. “No,” he says, his voice low and biting, a harsh edge you’ve never heard directed at you. 

“We’re not doing this here.” He says his eyes darting over the crew members working dutifully. “Yesterday  was another mistake ..a fucking stupid one—and it’s not happening again.” His words land like a slap, each syllable intensified as you stare at him.

“You’re my student. I’m your teacher. That’s it. Get it through your head.” You freeze, breath catching, heart plummeting, because  the  rejection stings, raw and unexpected.

“Professor Butler, please you don’t mean it,” you whisper, voice trembling, stepping closer, desperate to bridge the gap. “I want to be with you… you can’t just—”

“I can,” he snaps, stepping back, his tone brutal, blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger and guilt. “And I will. This stops now. You’re a kid, chasing something you don’t understand. I’m not your boyfriend, and I sure as hell am not yours to play with.” He voices, trying to keep his tone low. “Focus on the play. Be a good student. Leave it at that.”

His words shatter you, your chest tightening as tears prick your eyes. You want him so badly the ache hurts like a physical pain, he’s shutting you out, his denial now a wall you can’t breach. 

You open your mouth to argue, to beg, but his glare silences you, “Go,” he says, turning to his clipboard, dismissing you.

You stumble into a seat, crossing your arms and sinking down, legs shaky, heart hammering. The cast trickles in, their chatter a distant hum as you open your script, trying to anchor yourself.

You throw yourself into, memorizing every nuance of Blanche’s lines, every stage cue, determined to prove your worth to him, to channel the pain into your performance. 

Your eyes keep drifting to Professor Butler, standing at the front, directing the cast with  precision and each time you look, tears well, stinging as they threaten to spill. His rejection cuts deeper than you expected, a wound that deepens with every glance.

Rehearsal begins, and you force yourself to focus, running scenes with Jake, whose timid acting feels like a shadow compared to Professor Butlers intensity. 

You pour everything into Blanche, her fragility, her longing, her desperation, using your turmoil to fuel her. Your voice trembles authentically, your movements bold yet brittle, and the cast notices, their whispers of praise and awe lifting through the theater. 

Jake grips your arm for the kiss scene, his touch gentle, and you flinch, remembering Professor Butlers firm grasp. Your eyes flick to him, standing in the wings, watching you with a neutral expression, and you catch a fleeting crack the tensing of his jaw, a shadow in his eyes. It’s not enough to undo his words, but it sparks a flicker of hope, he still wants you.

You push through the scene allowing Jake to kiss you deeper making your performance raw and electrifying driven by the need to show Professor Butler what you’re capable of, to make him see you. 

When you pull away from the the kiss you glance over at Professor Butler but he’s focused elsewhere, intentionally avoiding your kiss with Jake, and the tears well again your vision blurring. 

You blink them back, refusing to let them fall, channeling the hurt into Blanche’s unraveling. The final run-through ends, and the cast applauds, Jake whispering, “You’re incredible,” but it’s hollow without Professor Butlers approval.

As the theater clears, you linger, script clutched to your chest, eyes drifting to Professor Butler as he gathers notes, speaking to another student. You want to talk to him, to understand why he’s pushing you away when you both know the truth, but his words—“I’m not yours”—echo, rooting you in place. 

A single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek; you wipe it away quickly, heart heavy with longing. Tomorrow’s the play, and you’ll be Blanche, flawless and fierce, but tonight, you’re just a girl broken by the man you love, acting through the pain, his rejection a fire that both burns and drives you.

Chapter 5: Muse 

You arrive to the theater for premiere night of A Streetcar Named Desire and the air is filled with frantic energy. Backstage is a whirlwind of organized chaos as crew members dart about, adjusting velvet curtains and testing flickering stage lights.

A rack of costumes sways as a wardrobe assistant rolls them past, while props like a poker table and a tarnished brass lamp are shuffled into place from the prop warehouse.

You spot Professor Butler near the front of the stage, clipboard in hand, giving directives with calm authority.

He’s in a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up, sandy brown hair catching the glow of the theater lights, his blue eyes sharp yet distant.

He looks stunning, visionary, commanding, and you try not to get distracted as you head to wardrobe, your heart beat quickening despite the ache of his rejection.

In the cramped dressing room, you slip into Blanche’s costume, a delicate, cream-colored chiffon gown, the soft fabric clinging to your frame, paired with pearl earrings that evoke her fragile elegance.

Jake, as Stanley, wears a tight, stained white t-shirt, slightly torn, with worn jeans that hug his tall frame embodying Stanley’s raw edge. You exchange nervous smiles in the wardrobe room, the weight of the performance settling in.

Sitting in front of a bulb-lit vanity, you powder your face, the warm glow framing your reflection as your eyes drift to the mirror’s edge landing on Professor Butler in the background.

He’s been watching you, and as your gazes lock in the reflection, his blue eyes are filled with a mix of longing and restraint that silently echoes your own.

The moment holds, heavy and restless, until he looks away, jaw tightening as he busies himself reviewing prop placements with a stagehand intentionally avoiding your stare.

You weakly smile, eyes welling with tears as you understand the forbidden love you have for him. You love him fiercely… recklessly… but it’s a secret you promise to keep locked away, suffering in silence as the theater bustles around you.

You blink back the tears, focusing on your reflection, channeling the ache into Blanche’s desperate soul, determined to make tonight’s performance flawless.

When the curtains rise on stage, you’re a different person. No nerves, no hesitation, just Blanche DuBois, aching and luminous beneath the spotlight. 

You meld into her like she’s always been inside you, waiting to be let out. Every tremble in your voice, every subtle gesture and glance is embedded with meaning. You pour everything into the performance, the longing, the desperation, the heartbreak.

When you argue with Jake, the theater is silent , not a whisper from the audience. And when you kiss him full on confident and alive—it’s seamless, charged with a kind of raw power you didn’t know you had.

At curtain call, you all hold hands and bow as the crowd erupts the applause crashing around you as the focused spotlights warms your skin, bight and dizzying. 

As you rise from your final bow, you glance side stage and see Professor Butler there, just beyond the curtain. His smile is small, and real, a sense of pride flickering in his misty blue eyes, and it lights you up brighter than the stage lights ever could.

As the curtain falls, cheers and whistles echo across the theater and you head backstage into the celebratory chaos. 

Ecstatic classmates hug and laugh shouting praises after a successful performance. Jake touches your shoulder, beaming. “You were absolutely amazing,” he says, and you glow, not just from the applause, not even from the kiss, but knowing it was your talent brought out from what Professor Butler sparked in you, the fire still burning bright inside.

As the chaos settles, your eyes scan the backstage area until you find him. Professor Butler is leaning near the stage door, his arms crossed, a fond smile curving his lips. 

You approach slowly, the chiffon of your gown whispering with each step as the adrenaline surging inside you becomes something more.

His eyes soften as you near, the look in them doing something dangerous to your heart as you feel that spark, that pull, knowing what you want as you gaze up at him.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

His words wrap around you, warm and private, and your cheeks flush under his gaze. The two of you stare at each other, caught in the moment, heavy with heat and anticipation, both of you aching to touch—but knowing you can’t. Not here. Not with people still darting past, the noise of the post-show adrenaline still filling the air.

You make a small daring gesture, your hand drifting toward his belt loop, fingers tucking in subtly at his side in a silent request for more.

His eyes flick down, a smile forming across his lips, and he gently takes your wrist, carefully pulling it back. “Not here,” he says, soft and steady.

He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with a question as he nods toward the hallway with an invitation.

“Come with me,” he says, his tone gentle but sure.

“Okay,” you whisper, your mind racing with anticipation.

You follow him, heart pounding, as he leads you through the backstage corridors, each hallway quieter than the last, until it’s just the two of you.

He stops at a large nondescript door, pulling out a set of keys, his movements quick as he unlocks it, and you both step inside, revealing the college’s prop and set storage warehouse.

It’s massive, high ceilings with rows upon rows of props and set pieces. Painted backdrops hang like giant tapestries, Grecian columns from past plays lining the wall with sets of knight’s armor. 

Racks of period costumes in plastic wrap line one section, hats and crowns perched on shelves above, and a gilded throne from Hamlet sits beside a velvet-draped bed from Romeo and Juliet

You’re speechless walking in, your eyes scanning around every infamous theater prop before landing on a large scaled ship for the Odyssey.

Professor Butler closes the door behind you and locks it, the latch click echoing in the silence. 

His eyes darken as he steps closer, his voice low and reverent. “I couldn’t stop thinking about us,” he confesses, each word heavy with longing. 

“The way you channeled your heartbreak and commanded that stage tonight, I understood everything you felt about me,”he whispers, and before you can respond he tilts your chin up, his mouth claiming yours in a slow passionate kiss.

He gently backs you against a pillar, grasping your waist. “I can’t do this anymore,” he pleads between kisses, his large hands roaming your body, tugging your chiffon gown up. “Pretending I don’t want you is killing me,” he whispers, his hard cock pressing against you through his pants and you softly moan, fingers sliding up his neck to pull him closer. 

“I want you too,” you confess, your voice shaking with needs as you look in his eyes, and that’s all it takes.

His fingers reach your hips, sliding your panties down, and he turns you around, bending you over a weathered table from a play, his hand sliding between your legs, teasing your slick entrance. 

“My perfect little muse,” he praises, and you wait, expecting his fingers to slide in, but instead he sinks to his knees behind you almost worshipfully. “Let me satisfy you,”

You gasp, voice shaky as his large hands cup your ass, his tongue lapping at your core and pushing in with a warm probing glide. He hums against you, and the vibration making you moan, until he nips at your sensitive skin, drawing a sharp yelp. 

“You taste so good to me,” he praises, his voice thick with lust. “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, and he dives back in, his tongue swirling in circles, teasing your entrance before plunging slowly back in.

He eats you out until slick drips down your thighs, and you choke back sobs, your core throbbing under his relentless mouth.

“Fuck, you’re getting so wet,” he groans, and he wipes his mouth along your thigh, pulling back as he pushes two fingers in, stretching you wide with steady, precise thrusts.

You whimper as he gently flicks your clit, his fingers scissoring inside as your body rocks against the table, chasing the torturous pleasure.

“Don’t stop! …Please keep going… I’m so close!” you plead, hips pressing back to offer more and his fingers curl, hitting a spot that blurs your vision, pumping relentlessly until you lose yourself, back arching.

Your moans grow raw, desperate, your body trembling as you come, a shuddering cry escaping your throat as your walls clench tight on his fingers feeling the surge of release flood through you.

He slowly glides his fingers out as he stands, and you shudder, gasping, “Please…give me more, Professor Butler,” your voice threadbare as you peek back at him, and you tremble when you see he’s unbuttoning his pants. 

“I’m going to give you everything this time,” he promises, a grin on his lips as his hands shove his pants down just enough to let his hard cock spring free, thick and heavy, daunting in its size.

You gasp, eyes widening, a mix of awe and nervousness and he places his palm on your back. He keeps you in place as he nudges the tip against you, the blunt pressure slipping  making your core clench instinctively. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be so tight on me,” he whispers, his voice dripping with lust.

He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch immediate, overwhelming, a sharp ache that has your feet kicking out. 

“Shh shh take it all the way in,” he soothes, his voice low and patient, “You’re my star student I’m giving you everything you wanted,“ he says one hand gripping your hip as the other keeps you steady.  

You whine, your senses overwhelmed, a raw, keening wail erupting from your throat as his cock stretches you beyond belief, your feet kicking out against the floor

The sensation becomes too much, a delicious pressure that narrows your senses as he settles in, and he claps a hand over your mouth, muffling you completely unaware you’ve been making high pitched crying sounds the entire time.

“Fuck your little sounds are breaking me,”he rasps, his voice thick with lust.

He works himself deeper with several thrusts, each one harder than the last until your squirming, half-fighting it, half-taking it, your body resisting even as you crave more.

“Doing so good for me…such a good girl” he praises, slipping two fingers into your mouth to soothe you, and you give in to his encouragement, sucking on them, swirling your tongue and making him buck his hips even harder as you moan in pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he curses, his restraint slipping as he starts to thrust faster, his need taking over as his thighs clap against yours with rhythmic force, the sounds echoing in the warehouse with your moans and stifled whimpers.

He slips his fingers from your mouth as your moans fade into silence, the pressure so deep and relentless, you can’t speak , you can’t even  think, all of your senses consumed by his cock, and how well he fucks you with unrestrained awe.

“Such a good girl, taking me so well,” he says, his hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit. The wet squishing sounds are slick and messy until you can’t hold back anymore and you to come, squeezing tight against his cock.

He pulls out abruptly, the sudden emptiness leaving you aching, and his hands find your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulse hammering, as he carries you to the large stage bed.

Its canopy looms in the dim light, a silent witness to performances past, and he sets you on the edge, the bed tall enough to allow him to stand between your legs.

“You’re so damn pretty like this,” he praises, his voice low and reverent as he hitches your legs around his waist. “I’m gonna let you feel me all of me now,” he says, his hand cupping your jaw and he kisses you, soft and slow, nudging his cock against you, then pushes forward, filling you all over again. 

The slow glide of his cock stretches in your pelvis deep, the aching fullness making your body quiver involuntarily as your back arcs overwhelmed by his size.

Your hands cling to his neck, anchoring yourself as he builds a steady rhythm, and his palms grip behind your knees, spreading you wide.

Your eyes lock, yours wide and pleading, his eyes dark with lust as his hips clap between your thighs, the force slamming your deepest point, your moans desperate feeling your clit throb as he wrecks you. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, feeling you take his cock deep, each thrust sending a jolt through your core on the verge of another orgasm.

Yes, Professor Butler!” you cry out, your voice trembling with need. 

“Austin,” he responds, his voice a low, breathless plea, letting you call him by his first name for the first time, and the intimacy makes you fall for him all over again. 

“Yes, Austin,” you say softly, voice pleading , looking up at him with worshipful eyes, and he groans, a deep, primal sound, holding your legs tighter, snapping his hips, harder seeing the the way you’ll do anything for him.

“Do you know how many times I watched our little tape?” he asks, his thrusts hammering fast now. “You know how many times I’ve wanted you like this?” he breathes, and you’re a feeble mess your moans rising higher, knowing you’re about to come.

“I wanted you all along, I wanted you to be mine,” he says, his tone resolute . “I won’t fight it anymore.”his confesses, his voice breaking and he kisses you, tongue diving in, as he delivers his most devastating thrusts, your core throbbing, as your eyes fall shut feeling the indescribable pleasure.

You pull from the kiss, unable to breathe, unable to think, begging, “Please…please,” not even knowing what you’re begging for. Then it hits, your body tensing as you orgasm, whimpering as a surge of your release soaks him, his thrusts rebounding faster, tighter. 

He groans, breathing ragged, his cock twitching as he makes soft sounds of pleasure. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, pulling out abruptly.

He holds the base of his cock, stroking it as he guides you down onto your knees before pressing the tip to your tongue.

“Take it all for me,” he instructs, and you nod as he slowly pushes it in, guiding his cock and smoothly filling your mouth with a warm, weight that makes your jaw stretch to accommodate him. You seal your lips around it gently sucking trying and draw him in deeper and he groans in pleasure l.

“So pretty…such a good girl…satisfying me like this .” he praises and your knees press together, unable to withstand the surge of arousal from pleasing him. 

He thrusts gently, the wet, slurping sounds amplifying each slick glide in your mouth as you whimper around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers up his spine. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, his voice strained. You look up into his eyes silently begging, and in that moment he comes, warm and slick on your tongue. 

His voice is tense as he groans, slowing his thrusts to release more into your mouth, and he cups your jaw, guiding you to taste the last of him before pulling out.

His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth as he tucks his cock away, and he pulls you up into his arms letting you rest against his chest, your hearts pounding. You look up at him wide-eyed, and breathless, soft sighs escaping as you tremble.

He gazes down at you, his eyes softening as he traces his thumb along your cheek, “I can’t be without you now,” he says, his voice low and heartfelt, filled with unspoken promise. 

You smile, heart beat slowing as you place your hands behind his neck pulling him down into a kiss. “I can’t be without your either,” you whisper against his lips.  

He smiles, taking you into another kiss, and his fingers weave softly into your hair, holding the back of your neck. “My star student” he says with pride.

His thumbs slide down your neck as he pulls back slightly. “I’ll find a way to make this work, I promise,” he says, his gaze steady and affectionate.

 “I know,” you respond, your eyes filled with trust.  He looks at you a moment longer, as if envisioning a shared future before he smiles kissing you again,slow and tender. 

You wanted him: your mentor, your teacher, your lover,

—and now you had him.

END 🎭

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me List

@purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @dunevitani @unicoo @thejoywillburnoutthepain @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @stars-remain2 @skulliecadaver-blog @jjubilee-fluff @laurenmcquilty @louisejoy86 @butlerrizz @kulturalismellektermek

[suppermariobroth]

In Super Mario Odyssey, crates exist outside of time.

In early versions of the game (1.0 or 1.1), a glitch exists whereby capturing a stack of Goombas that are touching a Life-Up Heart results in time stopping. All movement except for Mario's own is suspended and almost no interaction with objects is possible.

Top: note how Mario is unable to interact with NPCs while time has stopped. Not only do they not have collision, but all of their functionality is also removed. This applies to the vast majority of objects.

Bottom: however, crates and cardboard boxes are an exception. When Mario performs a Ground Pound on them, they still react to it and become destroyed even though time has stopped, showing that they are fundamentally different from other objects.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Small Findings | Source: YouTube user "MatyasYT"

[nan-not-found]

MHA Boys and the Cars They'd Drive

I wanted to put together a list of the MHA boys (Class 1A) and what vehicles I think they'd drive/own!

List includes - Katsuki Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya, Shoto Todoroki, Tenya Iida, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hanta Sero, Fumikage Tokoyami, Mashirao Ojiro, Rikido Sato, Mezo Shoji, Koji Koda, and yes, even Minoru Mineta.

Some of these were kinda hard cause I could see a few choices they'd all drive XD

Let's get started! ⤵️

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💥 Katsuki Bakugou 💥

Matte Black Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat – Loud, aggressive, fast as hell, and constantly threatening to violate noise ordinances. – Bakugou lives for the guttural engine growl. He is that guy revving it just to piss off people. 💬 "If it ain't screamin', it's dead."

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🥦 Izuku Midoriya 🥦

Used but obsessively-maintained 2012 Subaru Forester – Practical. Safe. Reliable. Not cool. But he loves it. – Covered in All Might-themed keychains and a bobblehead on the dash. – He drives like a grandpa with both hands on the wheel and narrates traffic rules to himself. 💬 “I read online that this model has a 5-star safety rating in rear collisions!”

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🔥 Shoto Todoroki ❄️

2024 Lexus RX Hybrid in Pearl White – Sleek, quiet, expensive. – His dad probably bought it for him, but Shoto refuses to let anyone else drive it. – Has heated and cooled seats. He doesn't even use the radio. Just drives in thoughtful silence. 💬 "I don't mind driving. The quiet is nice."

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🏃 Tenya Iida ��

A pristine, navy blue Volvo XC90 – Safety. Functionality. Responsible adult-core. – He reads the entire owner's manual before even turning the engine on. – Polishes it every Sunday. Turns on the turn signal three blocks before the intersection. 💬 “It’s imperative to maintain regular oil changes! Neglect is the enemy of efficiency!”

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💪 Eijiro Kirishima 💪

Cherry Red 2016 Toyota Tacoma TRD Off-Road – Pickup truck energy but make it manly and reliable. – Covered in rock band stickers and definitely has jumper cables and emergency snacks in the back. – Offers to help everyone move. 💬 “C’mon, hop in! The passenger seat rattles a bit but it builds character!”

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⚡️ Denki Kaminari ⚡️

2020 Dodge Challenger in Neon Yellow with Black Racing Stripes – He got it purely because it looked cool. The gas mileage? Don’t ask. – Drives with sunglasses on at night. Plays EDM at ear-rupturing volume. – Once tried to drift in a parking lot and nearly hit a cart return. 💬 “Bro, hear that purr?? That’s 400 horses in stereo, baby!”

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🖤 Hanta Sero 🖤

Matte Black 1994 Nissan Silvia S14 (Drift Spec) – It’s a sleek little menace. Low to the ground, loud, slightly scuffed from past stunts. – Drifts into parking spots and acts like it's no big deal. – His steering wheel has a little tape decal. 💬 “Don’t worry, I’ve done this a million times—probably.”

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🥀 Fumikage Tokoyami 🥀

1971 Dodge Challenger R/T – Jet Black

– A sleek, muscle-bound beast with soul. – Roars like thunder but drives smooth and calculated. – He doesn’t speed—he cruises like he’s narrating a tragic sonnet. – Interior has red accents, a raven feather hanging from the rearview mirror, and the glovebox? Stacked with philosophical books and hero gear. 💬 “My ride, like my soul… is forged in darkness.”

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🥋 Mashirao Ojiro 🥋

Toyota Land Cruiser Prado

– Clean, efficient, and dependable. – Perfect for weekend drives. – Always has a towel, water bottle, and first aid kit in the back. Maybe even a bokken. 💬 “I just like something that gets me where I need to go."

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🍬 Rikido Sato 🍬

Chevy Silverado (Full-Size Pickup Truck)

– Big, dependable, and straightforward — just like Sato. – Perfect for hauling snacks, moving gear, or just cruising comfortably with his buddies. – He’d have a sweet little sticker on the back, maybe something like “Sugar King” or a cute cupcake decal. 💬 “Ready for anything."

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🤏 Mezo Shoji 🤏

Honda Odyssey

– Surprisingly cool minivan vibes. – Lots of room for the whole squad, gear, and maybe even a few snacks. – Shoji drives it with calm confidence and treats it like a mobile base of operations. 💬 “Comfort and safety first — no one’s getting left behind.”

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🐰 Koji Koda 🐰

Volkswagen Beetle

– A sweet, approachable car with a vintage vibe — reflects Koji’s kind and humble nature. – Not flashy, but instantly lovable and easy to drive around town. – Maybe painted a soft green or earthy brown, matching his love for nature. 💬 “It’s small, but it gets me where I need to go.”

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🍇 Minoru Mineta 🍇

Let's be honest, he ain't driving anything XD but if I had to give him something, I'd say an electric scooter.

[unanimousgolddd]

Bad Day, Worst Day.

Update: I’ve finally gotten the courage to rewrite my hot, flaming trash of a fanfic ("You're alright, I've got you") I posted so long ago because I’ve gained motivation to write again, so here's the better version.

TW: angst w/fluff???, (possibly cringe), Wesker is possibly a bit oc, Reader is an assistant scientist working for Wesker in Umbrella/pre-Resident Evil 1, GN!Reader, Reader has a fear of needles, some vulgar language (literally just shit and asshole).

Word Count: ~2.7k

Summary: Being late and getting scolded for it can make for a bad day, but when you add a little bit of sabotage from a jealous scientist with chemicals and a cold boss, it turns the day into something officially horrible. But lucky for you, you grow a little bit closer to Dr. Wesker in the process.

Pt. 2

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You woke up on time, 5:30 A.M. sharp, and showered a few minutes after getting up. Afterwards, you did your hair and got dressed. Your bag, shoes, and coat lay downstairs like usual. You made yourself something to eat, just so you wouldn’t starve for the next few hours. Before leaving your apartment, you brushed your teeth and quickly gathered your things.

Things were going well until traffic decided to do its job at a quarter to eight (7:45), but it was alright. You were still on time, just not as early as you would have liked to arrive at work. Parking a country mile from the building because you didn’t arrive early enough wasn’t as okay as the traffic. However, you weren’t late.

But then, the new security had wasted ten minutes at the entry of the underground labs by insisting “you had to show your proof of employment”. Not wanting to cause any trouble, you complied and dug out your ID and any possible items from your bag that said you worked at Umbrella. Now, realizing you were running late, you traversed the long and bleak corridors with haste. Finally, you arrived at your desk with a sigh, only to be fifteen minutes late, and Dr. Wesker was waiting a couple of feet away from you, sitting at his own desk. He didn’t look up from his research papers, too busy but not busy enough to give you a scolding for being late. And you didn’t dare to give him a snarky reply, your frustrations beginning to stack on top of one another.

It only slowly got worse. It wasn’t long until Dr. Wesker had ordered you to print files from the latest Tyrant experiment data. Without missing a beat, you went to the office room, which felt halfway across the building. Next thing you knew, the printer stopped working, as if wanting to worsen your day. You fixed it, thankfully (only after ten minutes of trying), and printed the test data pages. With a well-deserved exhale, you gathered the papers and made your long trip back to his office.

Making a turn to the right, only a few feet from his office, you suddenly collided with Dr. Maria and caused whatever she was holding to spill all over you. “Oh, my God! I am so sorry!” She quickly apologized, however, the emotions in her words didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t feel sorry for shit.

You grimaced at the cold feeling of the liquid chemical coating your shirt and sleeves. You had just gotten that shirt, too.

"Thanks for the bath, Dr. Maria…" You said with a short sigh. You decided not to say another word, choosing to keep your peace.

"Please forgive me," She pleaded before walking off with the container that once had liquid in it. You failed to notice that papers, which had fallen out of your hands due to your collision, were now in hers.

You shook your head, glancing over your shoulder at the woman. You never quite liked her, having taken note of her frequent attempts to sabotage others (specifically you) whenever she had the chance. She’s always exhibited this type of behavior since you’ve been promoted to Dr. Wesker’s assistant. She was quite jealous (how stereotypical).

But at the sudden feeling of a burning sensation on your neck, face, and stomach, the chemical had seeped into your clothing, you rushed to the bathroom. Now standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you quickly took off the lab coat and tossed it in the contamination bin. Finally, having a clearer view of where your skin came in contact with the chemicals, you saw how irritated it had become. It was as if you were experiencing hives or a skin rash. Your shirt had to go too, and it was also tossed in the bin.

Whatever the chemicals were, it was obvious Dr. Maria had done this on purpose.

Running your hands under the faucet, you splashed water onto your face and used the soap and several pieces of paper towel to clean your skin the best you could. You only had five more minutes until you had to return to the lab.

The water was cold, and it helped slow the irritation of your skin, easing the burning sensation. However, the redness didn’t disappear immediately. You shook your head as you made a silent joke to yourself about how you looked like you were having an allergic reaction. You made use of the extra shirt and lab coat that were in the closet next to the sink. The shirt and coat were a few sizes too big, the shirt occasionally readjusting itself incorrectly on your shoulders. However, both articles of clothing had to do for the rest of the day.

With another sigh, you walked out of the bathroom and headed back to Dr. Wesker’s office. You hesitated in opening the door, trying to give yourself at least another moment to prepare for another scolding.

Eventually, you stepped back into the quiet space and glanced over at Dr. Wesker, who was going over files with his back turned to you.

Dr. Wesker was a handsome man, undeniably, even with the pair of sunglasses he wore constantly. Although he gave an air of unapproachable, he was ambitious and intelligent and always seemed to do every action meticulously and purposefully. This in itself was attractive. Or perhaps, it was his coldness, his ranking over you, that attracted you to him (or maybe it was just his face that was the most attractive thing).

"You're back," He said without looking, "I was wondering when you would get here." He finally looked up, and he didn't seem happy. Although he never seemed happy.

You swallowed, fingers adjusting the collar of the shirt for the third time. The darn thing kept moving. "I'm sorry, I had to take care of something… I promise it won't happen again, Dr. Wesker." You said, and he only sighed in response.

"Dr. Maria gave me the files… I recall assigning you to give them to me." He looked at you through the black shades, and you promptly cursed under your breath. You avoided his eyes, feeling his gaze on her face, watching your reaction as if you were another experiment.

That's what she did. She spilled the chemicals on you just to give him the files. She was petty, but smart; you had to give her that.

"I'm sorry, I–" But you quickly started to get an itch all over your body, and it distracted you from completing your sentence. "I… I knew I dropped them somewhere–" You started scratching at your neck and arms through the sleeves of your shirt and lab coat. By now, you figured that you looked like a dog frantically itching at fleas.

Dr. Wesker, who began to move towards you as he called your name, was concerned. Grabbing the spare latex gloves from his lab coat pockets, he put them on, and his eyebrow slightly twitched. "Come here." He ordered. You glanced up at him before moving closer cautiously, hands still scratching your body. Once closer, he guided your hands from your neck with his hands on your wrists as his eyes observed your skin. You felt hot under his gaze, like you were exposed despite being fully clothed. You felt comparable to a muse, standing in front of an artist as they concocted their next art piece.

"Come," He said, moving away and walking to the laboratory.

You quickly followed, trying to resist the urge to scratch at the skin that burned. Eventually, the sensation felt painful, with your red skin throbbing. Tears that were a mixture of the subconscious reaction to the painful reaction to the chemicals, but also your frustrations towards today’s events, began to fill your eyes. However, you blinked them away to prevent yourself from crying. He pointed to one of the lab beds for you to sit before shining a black light on the skin of your neck.

"Is it anywhere else?" He asked, and you felt his gaze on your face again.

"Yeah. My stomach and arms." You said with a shaky voice. Your fingers twitched, urging you to scratch at your skin once more.

He gestured for you to take off the lab coat and the shirt. You took off the coat, which he tossed in a bin. But when it came to your shirt, you hesitated, but with the weight of his expectant gaze, you pushed your shirt up. Wesker made no indication he was bothered by the sight of your stomach, simply touching the irritated skin of your stomach like a doctor would.

"Hmm…" He hummed. You hissed as the burn sensation flared, sending you to the brink of shedding tears. Usually, you wouldn’t cry this easily. Working under Dr. Wesker made you develop thick skin. However, after being late and scolded for being so and having an unknown liquid spilled all over you, your frustrations were bound to reach a boiling point. You closed your eyes, embarrassed about the very idea of crying in front of your boss, and in pain. You could hear him sigh as he rummaged around the room, searching for something. "I believe you have side effects from a poison ivy liquid." He said, somewhere around the room. "You're lucky, we have a solution to your problem…"

You slowly opened your eyes and immediately, your gaze landed on the small bottle and container in his hands. Wesker opened the container, now wearing a fresh pair of black latex gloves, he prepared a syringe. Anxiety rose at the sight of the needle. It was ironic that you took a job at a pharmaceutical company with a fear of needles. You swallowed nervously, eyes shifting from the syringe in his right hand and the pair of shades that kept the color of his eyes from you.

“Why a syringe?” You asked, trying to mask your fear. However, your flinch when he came closer was too obvious, and the little creases in between his brows softened just a little. “Afraid of a little needle?” He asked. You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or not.

He gave another sigh. He placed the needle back down in the metal tray, his hands moving to unbutton the top of the big shirt. You kept your eyes on his hands, watching as his fingers slipped the collar off your left shoulder to expose the deltoid part of your arm. You refused to look too much in his gentle touch. "Relax. You’ll be fine." He said to try and ease you. He gently turned your head away from your left shoulder, knowing if you saw the needle again, you’d completely object against getting a shot.

Closing your eyes, you soon felt the prick of the needle on your shoulder. Once the syringe was empty, he removed the needle and discarded it in the sharps bin. A moment later, he placed a bandage where the needle had entered before rubbing your shoulder, gaze on your face as you tried to ignore the burning and itching sensation. However, minutes prior, without your acceptance, your tears had begun to fall, frustrations from the day pouring out. Uncharacteristically of him, he had begun to shush you, gloves off his hands, and thrown them in the trash as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. Surprisingly, his fingers were soft, like he had been using a hand lotion.

“Why the tears?” He asked quietly. He stiffened when you leaned forward, head resting just below his chin. But eventually, he wrapped his arms around you loosely. It was obvious he wasn’t touched often. You clung onto him, like how a child would to their mother. It was unprofessional to do that, but you didn't care anymore. And eventually, you explained everything to him, from the early morning traffic and hold up at the entrance of the underground laboratories to Maria spilling the God awful substance onto you. He stayed quiet, proving to himself to be a good listener.

And when you finally eased, the tears drying on your cheeks, he separated from you. He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about Dr. Maria. No assistant of mine will be distracted from the work I give them, yes?” He said before he turned. You quickly redressed yourself, buttoning up the white shirt before getting off the bed. “Take the rest of the day off. I believe you…” He paused, looking over his shoulder at you. “Earned it.” If you hadn’t been staring at him for a moment, you wouldn’t have noticed the small quirk of the corner of his lips. And then, Dr. Wesker was out of the room, leaving you alone.

You best believe you took the chance of the day off. You treated yourself to a nice hot shower at home, scrubbing away the day (and the chemicals) off before spending time in your bed, watching TV shows you needed to catch up on as you ate dinner. The itching and burning had left hours ago, and now the redness had finally disappeared by the time you went to bed. After that day, things felt oddly uneventful. It wasn’t until a week later, you decided to confront Dr. Wesker.

“Did you do something to Dr. Maria?” You asked, standing in front of him with your arms crossed. He didn’t look up from his computer. A moment later, almost fifteen seconds later, he responded.

“What makes you believe I did something?” He asked a question of his own, fingers typing away quickly. Your eyes narrowed at the blond man.

“I haven’t seen her in a week, ever since she spilled those chemicals on me. It’s unlike her, she takes every opportunity to make my life hell.” You said. “And, last week, you told me not to worry about her.” You reminded him, shifting your weight from your left foot to your right.

He hummed. “Yes, I did. And yet, now you’re worrying about her.” He said, finally tilting his head up to look at you. He clasped his hands in front of him, the lid of the laptop folded at a forty-five-degree angle. His attention was finally on you now, it was what you wanted, yet it felt too much at the same time. You took a conscious breath. “Just admit you did something to her, Wesker.” You persisted, keeping your gaze locked on him. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, head tilting to the left.

“When I said no assistant of mine will be distracted from the work I give them, I meant it. Dr. Maria proved to be a distraction, and she needed to be removed.” Wesker said bluntly. Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you suggesting you fired her? Just for me?” You asked. You swallowed as he stood from his desk, making his way around the wooden furniture and standing tall in front of you. So close yet so far. There was at least a foot in between you both, yet, if you just moved half that distance, it would make the space seem like you were inches from his person.

“I wouldn’t say I was suggesting the idea that I fired her…” He muttered, gaze locked onto your eyes. Half of you wanted to look away from the sunglasses, another wanted to continue to hold his gaze for as long as you could. “I merely moved her to a different department where Dr. Maria is more useful.” He said plainly.

“You can’t just do that, Wesker–” You objected immediately. His left brow quirked.

“Why not? She proved to be a distraction to your work and a danger to your well-being.” You fell silent at this.

“Besides, I like you better when you’re not crying your eyes out because of some jealous woman.” He said before he suddenly turned, moving back to his seat at his desk. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, you stared at him as he resumed his typing. But for a moment, you could’ve sworn his lips were curled in a satisfied smile.

Maybe, just maybe, your boss wasn’t a total aloof asshole.

[justtr]

✰ ✰ ✰

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Agora hills by Doja Cat ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

The house on the hill was a refuge, almost invisible from the winding road leading to it. Surrounded by tall trees and the whisper of the wind, it seemed to exist outside of time, away from the world you were trying to escape. The silence of the place wasn’t cold or distant.. it was a comforting void, the kind of stillness that could only be found when you knew no one was watching.

Billie had found it months ago, a secluded corner where no one could interrupt you. “Our place,” she once called it, though she never needed to say it out loud for you to understand. Every detail spoke of her character: the wide couch at the center of the living room, the open windows letting in the pale glow of the moon, and the stack of vinyl records next to a vintage turntable that seemed to have been waiting decades just for her hands.

When you arrived that night, she was already there. Sitting on the edge of the wooden table in front of the window, one leg crossed over the other, her loose hair cascading over her face. Her black shirt hung slightly off one shoulder, and her baggy pants revealed a sliver of skin when she shifted her leg impatiently.

She didn’t say a word when you walked in. Her eyes swept over you from head to toe, as if she were taking in something she already knew by heart but could never tire of admiring. There was something about her gaze that always unraveled you: that glint of playfulness mixed with authority, as though control naturally belonged to her.

You closed the door behind you, but before you could take another step, Billie had already crossed the space between you. Her hand settled gently on the curve of your waist, guiding you toward her with a firmness that didn’t require words to be understood.

The air in the room grew heavier, as if her presence filled it entirely. The way her fingers traced small circles on your hip was deliberate, a touch that didn’t rush but seemed to claim you. Billie never asked for permission, but her touch was always an invitation, never a demand.

You leaned against the table as she tilted forward, her warm breath brushing against your neck. Her lips didn’t touch you right away; they lingered, playing with the boundary of what you knew she would do. It was her way of reminding you that here, in this hidden house, the rules were hers.

The window behind her cast her silhouette against the night, and the contrast between the darkness and the faint glow of the lamp on the table made every movement she made feel slower, more intentional. When her lips finally met yours, it was a soft collision at first, almost exploratory, but the way her hands slid up your back turned it into something deeper, more urgent.

The wood of the table creaked as she effortlessly lifted you, placing you on the edge as if that was the only place you were meant to be. She held you firmly, her hands large and warm, finding the perfect balance between strength and tenderness. Every movement she made was a statement, a reminder that here, away from prying eyes and judgment, you were entirely hers.

Her fingers grazed the hem of your shirt, barely touching the exposed skin as her eyes locked onto yours, silently asking if you were ready to follow her anywhere. But you already knew the answer. In this secret space, in this house on the hill, the outside world didn’t exist.

A smile instinctively spread across your face, born from the touch of her lips against yours.

Billie noticed it immediately. Her hands, firm and confident, guided you toward the nearby couch. The cold leather contrasted with the warmth Billie radiated as she positioned herself above you, her arms on either side of your head, claiming the space with a mix of authority and tenderness.

She watched you as if she wanted to capture every little expression on your face, as if time itself was hers to command. Her hair grazed your cheek, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. Her lips returned to yours, this time exploring you slowly-but not as a question. It was a statement, a reminder of what was hers.

Her mouth traveled to your neck, and your eyes widened slightly as you felt her find that sensitive spot she always knew how to reach.

You took a breath and murmured “the windows...are open”

Billie separates her lips from the tattoo on your neck to give a mocking look.. her expression was refined by the soft light of the lamp.. her shadow extending behind her made her look even more authoritative* “It's not like you mind if someone sees you “ she says near your earlobe.. licking the skin behind it so painfully slow.. it made your skin crawl and you closed your eyes fighting the urge to let out some sound. reckless for just her words”

Her fingers drifted lower, teasing along your stomach, your sides, always avoiding the place you wanted them most. She could feel your breath hitching in your ear, could feel you trembling with unspoken demands. She smirked, enjoying the power she held over you in these moments.

She pulls you close, one hand tangled in your hair while the other wraps around your waist. Her lips are demanding, assertive, as she kisses you with all the pent-up desire she's been holding back. The couch cushions shift beneath you both as she moves.

She breaks the kiss only to trail her lips down your neck, sucking and biting gently. Her hand in your hair tugs slightly, tilting your head to the side to give her better access. She grinds her hips against yours, the heat between your legs building once again.

 She quickly undresses, her hands moving urgently as she reveals the strap-on already secured around her waist. She doesn't bother with anything else, just hikes your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, the cold plastic of the cock pressing against your already wet folds.

With a swift, dominant movement, she pushes you down onto the couch, your back flat against the cushions. She climbs on top of you, her strong thighs caging you in.

She grabs the hem of your shirt and rips it open, sending buttons flying everywhere. She discards the ruined garment and reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, tossing it aside. "So pretty," she murmurs, her eyes roaming over your bare chest. "So fucking pretty."

“did you just rip my shirt” you say, leaning on your elbows and looking at her with your eyebrow raised

She smirks at you, unapologetic. Her hands move to your skirt, gripping the fabric tightly. With a sharp tug, she tears it open, leaving you bare except for your soaked panties. "You should've worn something easier to remove, love."

You're going to put it together button by button * you say, lying back down and pulling her by the neck for a heated kiss.

She settles between your legs, the cold metal of the harness pressing against your inner thigh. She kisses your forehead again, a gentle, reassuring gesture that belies the intensity of her gaze as she looks up at you. With a slow, deliberate motion, she aligns the strap-on with your entrance.

She can feel your body trembling beneath her hands, can see the pleading in your eyes even though you refuse to make another sound. She slowly, torturously, pushes forward, her cock stretching you open.

frustrated and desperate, you tilt your hips up, demanding the rhythm of the movements even knowing well that you were in no position to demand anything. She smirks at your desperate tilt, loving how you try to take control even when you're the one begging beneath her. She sets a maddeningly slow pace, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, teasing you with shallow strokes. "Look at you,"

She leans down to capture your bottom lip between her teeth, giving it a sharp tug before soothing the sting with her tongue. Her hips snap forward, filling you completely and stealing your breath. She does it again and again, each thrust harder than the last, each one driving you closer to the edge. “Billie-“

She cuts you off with another kiss, this one more intense, more demanding. Her hands grip your hips tightly as she pounds into you, the sound of the strap-on filling the room. "Shut up," she growls against your mouth. "Just shut up and take it."

Continuing her aggressive rhythm, she kisses you to prevent any more protests. Her tongue pushes into your mouth, dominating and possessive. Occasionally she breaks the kiss to deliver orders: "Hands on the couch," demanding that you submit fully to her control. 

Her strong grip keeps your wrists secured above your head as she continues the intense pace, each thrust hitting exactly the right spot. She breaks away from your mouth to whisper in your ear: "Look at you... taking my cock so beautifully..."

She can feel you getting closer, your muscles tightening around her. She grins wickedly, knowing she has complete control over your pleasure, your body writhing beneath her. "That's right," she whispers in your ear, speeding up her thrusts.

She reaches between your legs, her fingers finding your sensitive clit and rubbing it in tight circles as she continues to pound into you. As you come down from your high, she slows her thrusts, eventually stopping entirely. She pulls out slowly, the strap-on slipping free from your now-sensitive body. She sets it aside and collapses on the bed next to you, pulling you into her arms. "Good girl,"

She strokes your hair soothingly, murmuring soft words into your ear as she holds you. You can feel her breath against your neck, her body pressed against yours possessively. After a few minutes, she pulls back slightly, her fingers tracing patterns on your stomach.

She smirks as she feels you tremble beneath her touch, knowing that even after that intense orgasm, your body is still responsive to her. She leans down and presses a soft kiss to your stomach, her fingers moving lower. "We are not done”

°•*⁀➷

you are missing two

She snorts again, frustrated that her arm isn't long enough to reach under the couch where she suspects the missing buttons might have rolled. She stretches her arm out as far as it will go, her fingers scrabbling at the floor, searching... "Dammit..."

Kissin' and hope they caught us

[jukesjoint]

Remmick is so interesting because he was in America around 1911 (allegedly, given the lore) and the Easter Rising happened in 1916. Did he try to go back? I know he was hellbent on community and by that time, pretty much half of Ireland’s culture was wiped by the British.

But, how would it feel to see the place you’ve known your entire life finally take a stand against the people that forced them under their (British) rule?

I also like to think that Remmick might’ve known about Smoke and Stack, but didn’t actually know that the collision between the Irish and Italian Mob was started by them. And when turning Stack he made that connection. Obviously this doesn’t change anything because his end goal was Sammie.

I gotta say I’ve never seen this much storytelling within a movie before Sinners. You can tell Ryan put a lot of effort intro creating this world, essentially. I gotta get into his head or SOMETHING.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 8/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 8 :

Texts messages :  

Lando:  Hi, I hope you sleep well :) So I have an idea Tomorrow. Noon. Wear something casual and comfortable. I’ll pick you up. 

Ariana:  Where are we going? 

Lando:  Surprise. 

Ariana:  Is it loud? 

Lando:  Possibly. 

Ariana:  Dangerous? 

Lando:  …Debatable. 

Ariana:  You’re making me nervous. 

Lando:  Good. See you at twelve, ballerina. 

The next day, Ariana stood just outside her building, dressed in blue large jeans, a pale beige oversized sweater, and her favorite white sneakers. 

She checked the time. 

11:59. 

Then she heard it before she saw it. The purr of an engine, low, velvety, almost feline. She turned toward the sound just as the car pulled up in front of her. 

She blinked. 

Lando stepped out from the driver’s side, sunglasses on, hair tousled, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans, his grin wide and boyish. 

“Told you it was casual,” he said, gesturing to the car. 

Ariana stared. “Lando…” 

“I know,” he said proudly. “She’s a beauty.” 

She circled the car slowly, fingers trailing just above the paint without touching it. “It looks like it belongs in a museum.” 

“That’s the idea,” he said. “It’s a Lambo Miura” 

Ariana let out a slow breath, clearly impressed. “Okay… it’s stunning.” 

“And it’s ours for the day,” he said, opening the passenger door with a smirk. “Your chariot awaits.” 

She gave him a suspicious glance. “I’m starting to worry about this surprise.” 

“You’ll love it,” he said, offering his hand. “Maybe.” 

The drive was smooth, except when it wasn’t. 

Lando didn’t drive recklessly, he was surprisingly in control but every now and then, he’d press a little harder on the gas just to see her flinch and grab the door handle, laughing at her own reactions. 

“Relax,” he teased. “I’ve got you.” 

“You say that like it’s comforting,” she muttered. 

He looked over, still grinning. “Admit it. You like it.” 

“I’ll admit I like the car.” 

“I’ll take that as a win.” 

When they finally pulled into a lot lined with cones and engine noise, Ariana’s heart dropped. 

Rows of small, aggressive-looking go-karts idled at the far end of a makeshift track. Flags fluttered in the wind. Helmets hung from hooks. Rubber tire barriers stacked around corners. 

Lando turned the engine off and faced her with a grin too wide to be trusted. 

“Surprise.” 

She stared. “Karting?” 

“Yup.” 

“You brought me to drive?” 

He nodded, pleased with himself. “You said you wanted to see my world.” 

“I thought your world involved… like, watching you drive. Not putting me behind the wheel!” 

“It’s safe,” he promised, stepping out and walking around to open her door. “Controlled. Mostly painless.” 

“I hate driving.”

He blinked. “You what?”

“I hate driving,” she repeated, folding her arms. “I don’t even have a license.”

Lando stared at her, jaw slightly dropped. “Wait. Wait—what?”

“I never got it,” she shrugged, unbothered. “Didn’t want to. Don’t like driving. It stresses me out.”

“You’re telling me…” He pointed at her like she’d just committed a crime. “You let me think you were a fully licensed, car-competent adult this whole time?!”

“We barely know each other!” she said, laughing. “You didn’t ask!”

He looked positively betrayed. “This feels like a major breach of trust.”

“I just don’t like driving. I prefer being the passenger,” she said casually, crossing her arms like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Of course you are. The ultimate passenger princess.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?!”

He held his hands up, already laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that! I just mean—like—you’ve got the vibe, you know? You like comfort, good music, someone else doing the work—wait, I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

“Unbelievably,” she deadpanned, narrowing her eyes at him.

Lando winced. “Okay, okay, let me rephrase.”

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

He stepped closer, tilting his head just a little. “What I meant was… you can be my passenger princess. Professionally speaking, it’s a very exclusive role.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but charming,” he said, offering her an helmet. “Admit it.”

She snatched it from his hands. “I’ll admit you’re lucky I didn’t walk away after that comment.”

“Still get in the kart, though,” he grinned.

She eyed the helmet like it was a medieval torture device. “I don’t know about this.” 

He leaned in, eyes warm. “Just one lap. I’ll be right next to you the whole time. You can scream, curse me, cry, whatever. Just try it.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “If I die, it’s on you.” 

“You won’t die.” 

“Not comforting.” 

“You’ll look amazing in the suit,” he added with a wink. 

Ten minutes later, Ariana stood in a full racing suit, red, tailored surprisingly well to her figure and helmet in hand. The boots were clunky, the gloves thick.  

“You look so cool right now,” Lando said, adjusting her helmet strap. 

“I feel like I’m dressed for combat.” 

“You kind of are.” 

He brought her to one of the smaller, beginner-friendly karts. “Okay. Foot pedals: right is gas, left is brake. No clutch. No gear shifts. You steer like a normal car, and that’s it. Think of it like a really fast bumper car.” 

She gave him a flat look. “That is not reassuring.” 

Lando climbed into the kart next to her, already grinning through his helmet. “Ready?” 

“No.” 

“Perfect. Let’s go.” 

The first lap was chaos. 

Ariana’s kart rolled forward slowly, her hands tight on the wheel, her eyes wide with panic. Lando drifted ahead, spinning playfully, yelling back, “You’re doing amazing.” 

“Lando, I swear to God—!” 

She turned a corner, barely, nearly clipping a cone. 

“Just a bit more gas!” he called. “You’re driving like a grandma.” 

“Shut up!” 

He laughed so hard he nearly missed the next turn. 

Despite her panic, despite the protests, despite the few times she almost did crash into the barrier, Ariana finished the lap. 

And then another. 

By the fourth, she wasn’t terrified anymore. 

Still nervous. But not terrified. 

And when she finally pulled into the finish area, her cheeks were flushed pink, her braid coming loose, and her eyes shining behind the helmet. 

She climbed out of the kart with shaky legs, and Lando was waiting for her, helmet off, grinning like a man completely in love with his own prank. 

She handed her helmet to him, breathless. 

“That. Was. Horrible.” 

He smirked. “You survived.” 

“Barely.” 

“You did great.” 

“I hate you.”  

“And yet…” he shrugged. “You came.” 

“I must be out of my mind.” 

He stepped close again, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek. 

“You like my world a little now?” 

She didn’t answer right away. 

“Maybe.” 

“Enough to do it again?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

He grinned. “You will.” 

And maybe she would. 

Because for someone who hated danger and speed, she’d never felt more alive. 

The drive back from the karting track felt quieter. 

Not in a bad way. Just softer. Ariana was tucked into the passenger seat of the vintage car, legs curled up beneath her, one hand lightly resting near the gear shift, her other elbow leaning on the door as she stared out at the fading golden sky. 

Lando watched her from the corner of his eye. 

“You’re staring,” she said without looking. 

“I can’t help it,” he replied. “I was just re-thinking on how you were a total natural back in the track.” 

“Natural disaster, maybe.” 

He laughed. “I’ve never seen someone brake before every straight line.” 

“I enjoy caution!” 

“Well, I enjoy how you almost crashed into the tire barrier with your eyes closed.” 

“I didn’t close my eyes.” 

“You did.” 

She finally turned to him, eyes narrowed, lips twitching. “You’re lucky I like you, Norris.” 

“Very lucky,” he murmured under his breath. 

They stopped for food, he let her pick, since she was the one who’d nearly had a heart attack on the track.

She chose something cozy: Thai take-out. Spring rolls, warm noodles, coconut curry. Food you could eat on a couch with bare feet and music playing in the background. 

By the time they reached her flat, the sky was ink-dark, and the city had grown quieter. 

She looked at him at the door and, without much ceremony, said, “You’re coming up, right?” 

Lando blinked. “Am I?” 

She tilted her head. “You bought me food. It’s the least I can do.” 

He didn’t need convincing. 

Ariana’s flat was as precise and beautiful as she was. 

Cream walls, soft amber lighting, wooden floors, and books stacked neatly in corners. Her throw pillows were perfectly arranged, and a few candle sat on the side table. There was a record player in the corner, dozens of vinyls organised by color by the side. 

They kicked off their shoes, settled in with the food on her low coffee table, curled against each other on the couch. 

Ariana sat cross-legged, chopsticks in hand, hair loosely tied up now. 

“So,” she said, mouth full of noodles, “I’m plotting my revenge.” 

He raised a brow. “Revenge?” 

“For the public humiliation you subjected me to today. I screamed in front of small children. They laughed, Lando.” 

“You screamed like a cartoon character.” 

“You’ll pay for it.” 

He grinned. “Can’t wait.” 

She nudged his knee with hers. “You’re enjoying this far too much.” 

“I’m enjoying you,” he said easily. 

Her smile faltered, just a little, and then softened into something quieter. “You’re smooth.” 

“I’m honest.” 

They kept eating, sipping warm tea she made in beautiful porcelain cups. The conversation stayed light at first : bad childhood stories, movies they loved, strange foods they hated, until, slowly, things began to shift. 

Lando leaned in, resting one elbow behind her on the couch. Ariana had turned slightly to face him, her ankle brushing his shin, her fingers brushing his when she reached for the spring rolls. 

Neither of them pulled away. 

His eyes dropped to her mouth a few times. She caught him. She didn’t look away. 

And then a thump sounded in the hallway. 

Lando jumped. Ariana didn’t flinch. 

A moment later, something small and cloud-like sauntered around the corner with the kind of slow, imperious grace that said this space is mine. 

Lando blinked. 

A white cat, pure white, fur like silk, tail curled and fluffy, strolled into the room, paused, and stared directly at him with ice-blue eyes like twin moons. 

“Oh,” Ariana said casually, “that’s Aria.” 

“Aria?” he repeated slowly, already shifting slightly away on the couch. 

“My cat,” she said. “Gift from my brother, he names her after me saying we kinda look alike.” 

The cat stared at him. Judging. Silently threatening. 

“She looks like she’s planning something,” Lando whispered, frozen. 

“She always looks like that.” 

“I—okay, not to be dramatic, but I think she hates me.” 

“She doesn’t hate you.” A beat. “She just hates everyone she doesn't know.” 

“That’s not comforting.” 

Ariana laughed, standing to collect their plates. “You’ll survive. Probably.” 

Aria hopped onto the couch the second she stood. And, with horrifying calculation, curled into Lando’s lap. 

He stiffened like someone had just placed a sleeping cobra on his legs. 

“She’s… sitting on me.” 

“Yes, means she likes you.” 

“She’s blinking very slowly. Is that like… a threat?” 

Ariana returned, smiling. “It means she trusts you.” 

“Oh god.” 

He looked down at the cat again, still unsure. She looked up at him with royal indifference, blinked once, and nestled deeper into his lap. 

He cleared his throat. “I’m scared to move.” 

Ariana curled closer, pulling a throw blanket over her. “For the record, she normally doesn’t sit on strangers.” 

He cleared his throat, voice lower now. “For the record… I’m kinda scared of cats.” 

Ariana turned toward him, surprised and then, a small, amused smile curved her lips. “Seriously?” 

“They’re unpredictable,” he said, eyes still on Aria like she might bite at any moment. “They stare at you like they know your deepest fears. And then they pounce. Or leave. Or judge you for breathing too loud.” 

She laughed, a real laugh, full and light. “And yet you let her sit in your lap.” 

“I’m trying to be brave,” he muttered. “For you.” 

Her expression softened instantly. “You don’t have to be brave for me, Lando.” 

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her now, “but I kind of want to be.” 

She went quiet at that, the smile still on her lips, but something gentler now behind her eyes. Her fingers brushed his arm lightly, grounding. 

“Ariana,” he said softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you want to kiss me again?” 

She didn’t answer. 

She leaned in instead, her hand rising to his neck, her lips brushing his like something remembered. 

This kiss wasn’t like the one at the museum. 

This one was slower… deeper… heavier. 

His hands found her waist instinctively, tugging her closer, until suddenly she was straddling him, her cat long forgotten as her paws thudded to the floor in quiet protest. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers tangled into his curls. He gasped softly against her mouth, and she swallowed the sound like a secret. 

She kissed like she danced: with precision, with purpose, with fire just under the surface. 

They stayed tangled for what felt like forever, mouths learning, hands exploring, until they pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his. 

He looked at her. “Ariana.” 

“You can call me Ari.” 

He blinked. “Yeah?” 

She nodded, smiling gently. “All my close friends do.” 

He tilted his head. “Just friends?” 

Her eyes gleamed. “You’re more than that.” 

His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw. “And only close people call you Ari?” 

“Very close,” she whispered. 

He kissed her again, not rushed, not hungry, just soft and sure. A promise. 

“I feel special,” he murmured. 

“You are,” she said, lips brushing his. “You really are.” 

Behind them, on the armrest, Aria stretched and yawned, unimpressed by romance, but silently approving nonetheless. 

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 4: Reason Over Romance

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend an evening with Wanda and Natasha, watching a movie. In the morning, you and Natasha have a chance to get to know each other a little better.

Word Count: 6.3k

It takes you an age to finish your dinner; you’re so restricted by the sling, the pain, and the fear of spilling your food in such sophisticated company. By the time your plate is clear Natasha has already finished her second helping, and you’ve long since stopped looking at Wanda since her encouraging smiles make you feel flustered — and therefore more at risk of missing your mouth. 

“Thank you for dinner, Wanda,” you say, looking up from your plate finally. “It was really delicious.”

“You’re very welcome, darling,” Wanda replies, with a warm smile. “You did a good job getting through it; I know it can’t be easy with your shoulder.”

You bite your lip and nod, grateful that she understands. 

Natasha stands up and starts stacking plates. You spring up too, eager to help. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” Natasha tells you gently. “I’ve got it.”

“Please,” you murmur. “I’d like to help.” 

You hate being injured, not just because of the need to rest (which you’ve never been very good at), but also the way it makes you feel useless. You want to be helpful. You need to feel helpful. 

“Let her, Nat,” Wanda advises, and you blush at the shared look between them.

“Alright,” Natasha relents. “You can take the glasses, Y/N. Thanks.”

So you do. It’s silly really, since Wanda insists you take them one at a time again, and this makes it a slow, laborious process which Natasha could have easily averted by taking them herself. But she thanks you when you place the third glass by the sink, where she is filling a washing up bowl with warm water and bubbles.

“Is there anything else I can do?” you ask her, pivoting your feet on the shiny floor.

“Hmm…” Natasha considers, glancing between you and her wife. “You could take Wanda downstairs and pick a movie for us to watch. Just be warned: she will try to choose a rom-com and I’m trusting you to convince her otherwise.”

You can really feel that your head has been knocked today, by the amount of time it takes to process her words. When they finally sink in, you giggle quietly.

“Okay,” you whisper, and you feel your chest flutter when Natasha gives you a proper smile and a conspiratorial wink. 

You feel like skipping back to Wanda, but you walk sensibly instead. She’s wiping the table, even though you don’t remember seeing any spillages. They’re so diligent, the two of them. The easy domesticity makes you feel strangely comforted. Like you fit in to their daily routine, without disruption. But then, maybe that’s just the mark of good hosts. Making the difficult seem easy.

“Um, Natasha says we should go downstairs and choose a movie,” you inform Wanda shyly.

“That’s a great idea,” Wanda hums, finishing wiping the table and gesturing with the cloth to tell you she’s just going to put it away. You watch her bring it to the sink, murmur something to Natasha as she leans in to rinse her hands, then return to you. “Alright,” she smiles, “let’s head down.”

Wanda glances back every few steps, checking you’re okay. You feel a little lighter, now that Natasha seems to be opening up and there’s a clear plan for the evening. It’s good that you won’t have to talk much; you like being able to spend time with people without the pressure of chatting all the time. Especially now, when your thoughts can’t seem to form proper sentences.

You hover by the sofa downstairs, wanting Wanda to sit first so you can gauge where you ought to go. But she seems to be waiting for you.

“Do you want to sit on that side again?” she asks, nodding towards the far right end, where you fell asleep earlier. You shrug noncommittally, sort of wishing she would make the decision for you, so you wouldn’t have to think.

“Okay, well I think you should sit there,” Wanda ponders aloud, “because it seemed to be better for your shoulder before, hm?”

You hesitate, then nod in agreement. 

“You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to tell us what you think, and what you prefer,” Wanda tells you quietly. You blush, and shrink in on yourself.

“I - I know,” you stammer. You’re staring at the floor but still, you can feel Wanda analysing you.

“Is it just hard, at the moment?” she asks gently.

Your teeth take hold of your bottom lip, stopping it from wobbling. You nod. 

“Hey, that’s okay,” Wanda approaches, and places a hand on your good shoulder. “We can help you out, then. You just let us know if you’re ever uncomfortable, alright?” With her free hand, she cups your chin and adds a gentle upwards pressure, encouraging you to look up. When you do, you see her expectant face, soft and watchful. You sense that she wants you to respond, to demonstrate you have understood.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I - I can do that.”

She beams at you. “Good girl. Now, let’s get comfy and choose something to watch before Natasha comes down and has chance to take over.”

You sit at the same time as her, head reeling from her soothing praise and the way she moved on so swiftly, preventing it from truly landing. She’s sitting so close to you too, and she’s moved her right hand to take your left, while she presses on the remote with her other hand. You watch in a daze as she pulls up Netflix and navigates to her list. 

“Anything you suggest?” Wanda asks, turning to you intermittently. “These are all films I haven’t seen yet, but want to watch.”

Your eyes strain to make out the images and words. Wanda must see you squinting, because she slows down her scrolling to allow you to process the options. When you see a film you know and like, your eyes must show recognition, because Wanda stops her button-pressing and tilts her head at you. 

“This one?”

You look between her and the TV screen, fidgeting slightly at the realisation she can read you so easily. 

“I like it. It’s a bit sad, though… The director, Joe Wright — he made Pride and Prejudice and Hanna too.” The words come out easily, without pre-planning or any kind of filter. You blush at the unintended monologue, when a simple nod could have sufficed. 

“Was that the Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley?” Wanda asks, and this time you manage to contain yourself to a nod. “Oh, I love that film! I’ve not seen Hanna though, is that good too?” 

Again you nod, but you’re smiling now, feeling a little safer after her enthusiastic response. 

Wanda pulls up Atonement, but makes sure to pause it so that Natasha won’t miss any. She’s stroking your hand gently with her thumb, and it’s making you sink into the cushions behind you, finally relaxing again.

“So, who’s in Hanna?” Wanda enquires, keeping the conversation going easily, despite your reticence. You swallow, and focus on both locating the answer in your brain, and refining it into a measured response. 

“Saoirse Ronan and Cate Blanchett,” you say quietly, leaving out the other names which popped into your head. “It’s like, an action-y spy thriller.”

You shut down then, feeling you’ve said too much as a product of the concussion and the painkillers. You’re probably not even talking as coherently as you think. Wanda’s interested expression and conversational openers were most likely just polite gestures to pass the time in your company.

Natasha appears in the doorway, a welcome distraction from your ramblings. 

“Picked something?” she asks as she swans in and launches herself onto the sofa on Wanda’s other side. 

“Yes,” Wanda says, opening her arm and wrapping it round Natasha’s shoulders. Their bodies entwine effortlessly, like they’re drawn together with magnets. “Y/N recommended this one.”

Natasha leans forward to meet your gaze. 

“Rom-com?” she asks, raising her left eyebrow meaningfully. Your lips quiver into a smile as you shake your head adamantly. “Good,” Natasha sighs, then she gives you another subtle wink.

Wanda presses play and leans back, continuing to stroke your hand very gently. You try to steady your breathing and ignore the touch and the tantalising closeness of your bodies, as well as the gentle display of affection between Natasha and Wanda’s connected forms.

It’s strange, watching a film you’ve seen before in their company, and getting to witness the way they respond. Wanda is overt in her reactions: sharp intakes of breath, furrowed eyebrows and scandalised glances at you whenever there is a twist. You only see Natasha in brief glimpses, since she’s mostly obscured by Wanda. But she seems, predictably, impassive throughout. That is, until the long-take scene of Dunkirk beach.

You’re set off, as always, by the horses being shot. Wanda turns to you and squeezes your hand sympathetically when she spots the silent tears. She joins you soon enough, affected by the swelling music and the scenes of destruction. But it’s not until it cuts to inside, when Natasha clears her throat, that you get to see the effect on her.

“I’ll go and make drinks,” she announces, and Wanda pauses the film in acknowledgement. “Y/N, do you want anything?” 

You look up and see that her cheeks remain dry, but her eyes look a little misty. You wriggle your hand out of Wanda’s so you can wipe the tears out of your own.

“Um, I’m okay, I think. Thank you though.”

Natasha cocks her head and scans you, like she’s deciding for herself.

“Are you sure? I’m going to grab myself a beer, and make a peppermint tea for Wanda…”

“Yes please, my love,” Wanda cuts in gratefully. Natasha smiles cockily at her, seemingly proud of her intuition.

“…so it’s no bother. I could also get you a juice, or soda?” Natasha gives these options easily, but it’s hard for you to process, let alone make a choice. You’ve never been good at making decisions at the best of times, so it’s really no wonder you’re struggling now. Wanda strokes some hair out your face and tucks it behind your ear. It’s a sweet gesture, but it makes you blush and stops your brain computing for an additional couple of seconds.

“Maybe, could I get a peppermint tea as well, please?” you ask finally. 

Natasha nods.

“Of course. You relax ladies, I’ll be back with you momentarily.” She gives a little bow before she leaves, and you giggle at the unexpected silliness coming from such a serious-seeming person as Natasha. 

“She always does this…” Wanda tells you confidentially, as Natasha disappears into the little pantry adjoining the living room, “…leaves when she catches feelings during a movie. Nat tries her best to hide it, but she’s really a certified softie.”

You let out a tiny giggle at the disclosure, and pull your feet up onto the sofa, crossing your legs beneath you. 

Wanda turns on the sofa, mirroring your movements so she’s sitting cross-legged next to you, regarding you with a studious look.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asks, serious all of a sudden. “Is this okay for you, us all sitting together and watching a movie? It’s not too much, is it?”

Looking at Wanda’s eyebrows slightly knitted together, it occurs to you that she’s worried, concerned that she’s approaching this all wrong. You don’t want her to feel bad or guilty about anything she’s doing, because although your head spins from the kindness and their close way of interacting with you, you wouldn’t reject it in your wildest dreams. Keen to assuage her worries, you shake your head quickly. Then nod ever so slightly, confused about which question you are answering, and which gesture is required. Realising your non-verbal response is only intensifying the frown she wears, you force yourself to find words amongst the fog in your head.

“I’m okay. It’s nice, being with you. I feel…” you search for the right word, somewhat regretting the sentence you’ve set up, since you now need to identify a description which is the right level of honest in depicting how you are feeling. Finally, you settle on one word; truthful and all-encompassing. “Safe.”

Wanda reaches out with both hands and encases your left hand between her palms, wrapping her fingers protectively around you. 

“I’m glad,” she replies, her voice hushed, her lips curled in a smile of relief. “I want you to feel safe here. Just… let me or Nat know if it gets too much, if you need space. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You nod earnestly, glad you can give her this confirmation, this commitment in return. But really, will it ever be too much? Despite everything they’ve already done for you, there’s a shameful part of you that’s still left wanting, yearning for more. 

Natasha returns with a mug in each hand. When she spots your positions, facing each other on the sofa with Wanda’s hand wrapped around yours, there’s an odd expression that comes over her face. Something, you think with trepidation, rather like suspicion. Under the guise of preparing for the tea, you tug your hand gently away from Wanda’s grasp and start turning your body around. She lets you go at the first hint of your movement, making you wonder if she, too, feels a little caught by Natasha’s prompt return. When Natasha places a mug on the coffee table in front of you, you murmur a thanks without looking up, too ashamed to show her the colour of your cheeks. 

“Just be careful,” she warns. “It’stoo soon to be drinking it just yet.”

You glance up, and see that she’s not looking at you, but instead at Wanda. Fixing her with a meaningful look which has you worried, scared that you’ve crossed a line. But Wanda sees you looking, and smiles reassuringly at you as Natasha returns to the pantry. You bite your lip and stare at your knees, waiting self-consciously for Natasha to bring her beer back and enable the film to proceed, and everyone’s attention to leave you. 

It takes longer than you expect, but you persist in your determined downward gaze. When Natasha re-emerges, you listen to her footsteps approach, anticipating the sound of her body sinking into the sofa. But instead, the next sounds you hear are of multiple hard objects being placed on the coffee table. You flicker your eyes up slightly, to see her beer on the far side of the table, a big bowl of popcorn in the middle, and a stack of bowls beside.

“Popcorn?” Natasha asks, leaning forward once she’s sat down so she can catch your eyes. You look up sheepishly, scared to meet her gaze but more afraid of appearing rude. She seems curious rather than annoyed; when you hesitate, she continues calmly, as if trying to put you at ease. “It’s a mix of sweet and salty. I hope that’s okay.”

“Excellent,” Wanda says approvingly, setting an example by shuffling forward to the edge of the sofa and grabbing a bowl. “Do you want some, Y/N?”

“Yes please,” you whisper, shuffling forward too. “Thanks, Natasha,” you add, forcing yourself to look over at her again to give her a grateful smile, which feels rather wobbly on your lips. She smiles back though, making you feel a little better.

“You’re welcome. Dig in.”

Wanda passes a bowl to you, which you set in your lap before reaching for the popcorn. She lifts the big bowl closer to aid you, letting you grab a measured handful closer to your bowl, reducing the risk of spilling. Once Natasha has grabbed some too, Wanda checks both of you at her side, then presses play. You shuffle back to lean against the sofa cushion again, feeling your heart thudding through your chest, heartbeat still not settled since the strange moment when Natasha returned from the kitchen. You try to distract yourself with the film and the tea and the popcorn, but it takes ages to redirect your attention from the anxious thoughts. At some point, Wanda’s hand moves to rest on your bouncing knee, calming it with a gentle touch.

“Sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed by your fidgeting.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she reassures you. “Do you need anything? I can pause the film if you like?”

Your embarrassment intensifies at this, her unspoken implication of what you might be needing, but not expressing.

“No, it’s okay — I just fidget sometimes, without realising. I’ll stop.”

Wanda opens her mouth to reply, but then closes it again. She gives your knee a gentle pat, then removes her hand back to her lap. You feel like your leg has been staked into the ground now; you daren’t move it again for fear of further assumptions.

Eventually you fall back into the film, getting caught in the plot and the passive enjoyment of sneaking glances at Wanda and Natasha’s reactions to the twists, to the drama of it all. Wanda blurts out her emotions, letting out strangled sounds when it gets too much, whereas Natasha merely becomes more stern-looking and tense in her seat, like she’s trying not to react to the gut-wrenching events of the film.

When it finally finishes and the credits begin to roll, there’s a silence amongst the three of you. You wait, nervous to know how your recommendation was received since you feel responsible for the emotional rollercoaster it has put them through.

“Well, I’ve got to give it to you, kid,” Natasha says, looking straight ahead and running a hand through her hair. “That was the opposite of a rom-com.”

You watch her, trying to see her face and ascertain whether this is a joke, or a veiled criticism of your film choice. You’re relieved when she turns and gives you a wry grin, one eyebrow raised. 

“I enjoyed it, Y/N,” she tells you, perhaps seeing the worry in your expression. “Good choice.”

You smile back shyly, squirming a little at the attention and the positive feedback.

“Yes, it was good,” Wanda agrees. “But I think I’m owed something feel-good next time, Natasha. No more influencing Y/N to pick sad movies — my heart can’t take it.” She clutches her chest dramatically at this, but grins at you too so you can see she harbours no ill feelings over the film choice either. 

Settling back into the sofa cushions, you watch as Wanda finishes her tea and Natasha grabs another handful of popcorn. They chat a little more about the film, sharing their observations, but you’re only half listening as your body relaxes and emits a yawn.

Wanda turns to you, and smiles in a particularly soft way.

“Hmm, I think it’s time someone gets ready for bed,” she suggests gently, checking her watch. “You’re due some more painkillers around about now too, sweetheart. I’ll come up with you and help you get sorted.”

You don’t argue, because you do feel exhausted and it would be good to get some painkillers in now, before the rising pain begins to swell. So when Wanda stands up and offers her hand, you take it without hesitation and let her help you up. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Natasha says, looking up as she grabs the remote for the TV. “Oh — it might help to have a pillow on your side, to stop you rolling over that way. It saved me a lot of bother with my collarbone when I figured that out.”

You blink, trying to comprehend this but struggling to understand the mechanics of what she is describing in your tired state. 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Wanda reassures you. “I know what she means; I’ll sort you out.”

You nod at Wanda, then give Natasha a bashful smile.

“Goodnight,” you whisper. She smiles back at you, then turns to the TV, changing the input source and grabbing a PS5 controller from the shelf beneath the coffee table.

Wanda leads you out and up the stairs, her gentle pull against your hand an anchor in this strange scenario. Your exhaustion is making you process everything a little differently; maybe now that the day is nearing an end you are finally able to reflect on it properly, and realise how bizarre recent events have been. Today you’ve been hit by a truck, had your bike destroyed, broken your collarbone, and basically been adopted into the care of two kind, generous — gorgeous — older women. Everything has moved so fast and so slow all at once. 

“Are all your toiletries in the bathroom already?” Wanda asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. You find yourself on the landing of the top floor, Wanda hovering outside the door to the bathroom. You nod, not feeling able or willing to speak just now. She smiles at you, almost knowingly, but doesn’t move for a few seconds. You’re not sure why. She’s not letting go of your hand, and you certainly don’t want to let go of hers. 

“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. And then she leads you in, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bath. You sit without question — or even confusion. You’re just there, now. Listening to her movements. Waiting for her next instruction. She seems to be taking her time. Or maybe that’s you, struggling to keep up with the concussion? You’re not sure. 

“Darling, can I help you wash your face?” Wanda asks, placing a hand on your left shoulder. You tilt your head sleepily to the side, then nod. She responds to this with a gentle squeeze, then she moves away to the sink, retrieving a facecloth from the cabinet and wetting it with liquid from some bottle.

She’s so gentle, wiping away the makeup and dirt that remains on your face, and warning you before reaching your chin that it might hurt there, where it is grazed. It stings a little, but her gentle hushing sounds makes it easier to tolerate. 

Your eyes feel droopy now, and you let them flutter, not bothering to hide your exhaustion. You want to lean against Wanda’s arm but she withdraws, making you open your eyes to see where she is gone. She’s holding your toothbrush out to you, toothpaste already squeezed on it, and she encourages you to brush your teeth a bit. You do, even though you hate it, and would gladly forego this part of the routine tonight. The texture feels worse when you are this tired, and you feel the goosebumps spreading down your arms at the sensation of the bristles bending and scraping against your teeth and gums. Disgusting as always, but you’re doing it for Wanda tonight. 

When you can bear no more, you step over to the sink and spit out the toothpaste, trying not to look at your bedraggled reflection in the mirror. 

“Good job,” Wanda praises you, turning the icy shivers into warm tingles. “Now, I’m going to go get your medication and a glass of water to wash it down. Can you go to the toilet, and meet me in your room when you’re ready?”

You’re past the point of being embarrassed now, so you just nod pliantly at her request, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be directed like this.

Wanda smiles, gives you a pat on your good shoulder, then leaves. 

It shouldn’t take long to go to the toilet and return to your room, but the process is such an upheaval now with only your non-dominant hand and your wobbly state of consciousness that by the time you’ve finished and made it across the landing, Wanda is already waiting in the doorway of your bedroom, holding the pill bottle and a glass of water. As you come in, she places the glass on the wall shelf and then shakes one pill out the bottle, before handing it to you. You take it, drop it in your mouth and push it to the back with a swallowing motion, readying it to be washed down with the glass of water she hands to you next. You gulp down some water — and with it the medication — grimacing despite your best efforts. Wanda takes the glass from you then, and delivers it to the bedside table so it’s there if you need it in the night. She also places down the pill bottle, leaving the lid unscrewed and balancing on top.

“Don’t take any more unless you wake up after three, and need another,” she tells you. But then she studies your face, and seems to doubt your reliability. “If you’re confused, you can come downstairs and get me. Anytime of the night, wake me up if you need. Natasha too. We’re here for you.”

You smile serenely at this, not really paying it much heed. You’re so ready to collapse into bed now. 

“Do you want to change into anything else?” Wanda asks, observing your clothing. You’re still in the joggers you put on earlier and the t-shirt Wanda helped you into. This will do fine. You’ll shimmy off the joggers under the covers once Wanda is gone. You can’t bear to wear anything other than underwear on your legs at night, but you’re not quite gone enough that you’ll strip in her presence. So you shake your head and focus in on trying to undo your watch from your left wrist, attempting to undo with strap with the fingers of your right hand without jarring your shoulder. Wanda intervenes at once, gently taking over, removing it from your wrist then placing it on the bedside table.

“Okay,” Wanda smiles. “Let’s get you sorted then, and try out Nat’s trick.”

She opens the duvet cover to let you slide in, and you manoeuvre with some difficulty into the bed with one arm. Once you’ve slid over, responding to Wanda’s gestures, she positions a cushion to your right side, so there’s a barrier preventing you rolling onto the sling. 

“There,” she says. “Comfortable?” 

Not really, you think. Wearing the sling is horrid, and you wish your joggers were off already, but this will do for now. So you nod amicably, and let her gently drape the duvet back over you. 

“Well, goodnight, Y/N,” Wanda says quietly. “Sleep well. And get me if you need anything, okay?”

You nod again, since she seems to need the reassurance more than you. Your eyes are fluttering so much that you doubt you’ll wake at all before morning, once you’ve drifted off. Even the ache in your collarbone is nothing to the exhaustion settled into your skeleton.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, as she leaves. She gives you one last smile as she closes the curtains over, then she turns the light off and closes the door over, not quite fully.

You let a few moments pass, hearing the receding sound of her footsteps, before you wriggle your joggers off and kick them down the bed. Now, at last, you are ready to sleep.

———

The night slips by with nothing of note to report; you remember no dreams when you wake, and you know only the stabbing pains in your shoulder and the throbbing ache throughout your body that let you know the painkillers have well and truly left your system. You groan as it overwhelms you, like a morning song of pain, it commandeers your senses entirely. Dragging yourself into a seated position, you grab the pill bottle beside you and shake it out onto the duvet cover over your lap. You take a pill from the spillage and throw it into your mouth before gulping water from the glass and swallowing it down so hastily that you splutter. 

Once it’s swallowed and the pressure in your throat recedes a little, you tidy up the mess by balancing the bottle in the recession between your legs and returning the poured out pills into their receptacle. Then you place it back on the bedside table, leaving the lid balancing on top just as Wanda did. 

You remember her guidance suddenly, and you grab your watch from the side to check the time. Twenty four minutes past six. Okay. You just need to remember that now, for calculating the doses later. Maybe you can manage that. You feel a little clearer than yesterday already. Particularly compared to last night. You shudder, trying to ward away the memories of how you behaved before bed, too scared to examine them. Trying to distract yourself, you focus on 

Maybe you should head downstairs? You’ve run out of water and you can still feel the acidic burn of the pill in your gullet. Something to eat or drink would help a lot, right now. 

You faff about a while, changing your underwear but pulling on the same joggers from yesterday, since you’d rather wear something comfy than clean at this point. Also, you feel a bit gross from the lack of showering and clean trousers won’t resolve that issue. And besides, you have no hope of changing your t-shirt with one functioning arm and half of your torso rigid with self-protective stiffness. So this dishevelled getup will have to do. 

You briefly visit the toilet before heading downstairs, though you decide to delay brushing your teeth until later. Small blessing, today. 

The floor below is very quiet, and though the door to Wanda and Natasha’s room is slightly ajar, you can’t tell whether this means they are awake, or if it was simply left open in case you needed to call upon their assistance during the night. So you don’t linger; you head down one more flight, making for the kitchen.

When you reach the bottom of the next set of stairs, you are greeted by a soft, warm presence that wraps around your legs familiarly. 

“Hey, Mayakovsky,” you whisper, stooping down with difficulty, resolving to endure the pain in order to greet him as he deserves. You are careful to offer him the same hello as yesterday, extending a closed fist with one outstretched finger for him to boop and rub against, before attempting a stroke. He lets you, purring loudly and meowing his acceptance. “It’s good to see you too,” you tell him, feeling his purrs disarm some of the pain coursing through you.

Mayakovsky gives you one last firm rub of his head against your leg, before walking over to the kitchen, turning round and meowing to maintain your attention. You see Natasha leaning over the kitchen counter, elbows resting on the marble and a steaming mug cupped between her hands. She’s watching you intently, apparently pondering your appearance. You cringe slightly at the realisation that she’s witnessed the whole interaction, seen you chatting to her deaf cat and grimacing in pain as you contorted to stroke him.

You follow Mayakovsky a little hesitantly now, greeting Natasha with an awkward smile. Her hair looks damp, like she’s just had a shower, but she’s in comfy clothes, which you assume isn’t what she will wear to work today (if, indeed, she is working today — you’re too shy to ask her any details about this).

“Good morning,” you murmur, feeling like you’re walking in on her private time, disturbing her peace.

“Morning,” she says, sipping her coffee then allowing you a small smile. “Did you sleep okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, I slept through, actually. I think I was pretty tired.”

“No wonder,” she says, lifting her elbows off the counter and standing up to her full height. She lets go of her mug with one hand and slides a document of a few A4 pages across the counter towards you. “Here, for you.”

You step forward cautiously, then spin the paper to face you. The title reads “Broken Collarbone Rehabilitation”, and you see a chunk of text, followed by an image with a description of a particular shoulder movement. 

“It’s just some exercises which helped me recover when I broke mine,” Natasha explains offhandedly. Then she leaves her mug on the counter, and begins to turn, throwing a question over her shoulder. “Coffee?”

“Thank you,” you say, looking up and smiling gratefully. Her thoughtful offering touches you, makes you feel seen and — in part — accepted. “And, um, yes please. To coffee.”

She nods neutrally, and makes her way to the coffee machine in the corner. You pull out a stool and start to sit down, before Mayakovsky’s plaintive meowing distracts you. 

“Ignore him,” Natasha advises. “He’s just hoping he can convince you to give him a second breakfast.”

You smile, and regard Mayakovsky with an apologetic look as you sit down. He quickly gives up when you turn your attention to the exercises Natasha has printed out, and scurries off towards the staircase, heading down when he reaches it. You see the door to the balcony is closed and assume he’s off to use the cat-flap downstairs, in the hopes of finding more food outside. 

The exercises Natasha has printed out are sorted into stages, with the first set being advised to start from a few days post-accident. Still, you give the first an attempt, a gentle  neck roll to the side of the injured collarbone. You hiss as you try it, finding it a lot more painful than you hoped. 

“Easy,” Natasha chuckles, turning round to see you. “If I knew you’d be so gung-ho about it, I would have saved it until next week. Wanda will kill me if she thinks I’m encouraging you to exert yourself.”

You grin bashfully, sliding the paper away a little to show you’re going to hold off for a little while longer.

“Are you always up this early?” you ask, surprising yourself a little by the sudden confidence.

Natasha nods. “I like to get up early to train. Also, I’m kind of stuck with it now - that menace of a cat has realised it’s possible to get his breakfast at 5:30 and he will not stop meowing outside our door if I’m even five minutes late for his lordship.” 

You giggle, imagining Natasha berating Mayakovsky for his manners in the morning, when they’re all alone. 

“Espresso or Americano?” Natasha asks, reverting back to the coffee chat.

“A-americano please,” you request, still finding it difficult to keep up with her tendency to swing between her serious, task-oriented self and her more silly, humorous side. She nods, and presses another button on the machine, prompting more hot water to dribble out into the mug. 

“What are you training for?” you ask, hoping this is a good question to ask to get Natasha to open up a little more.

“Nothing in particular,” she says, still watching the mug. “Partly I need to stay fit for work, partly I just enjoy it.” You’re just wondering whether it would be appropriate to ask what she does for work, now that she’s brought it up, when she diverts the conversation again. “Milk?”

“Um, a little, yes please.” There’s something about the efficient way she moves the mug to the counter and takes the milk out the fridge that makes you think that any more work chat has been relegated to off-limits again. So you don’t say any more, until she passes the mug of coffee over to you. “Thank you.”

Natasha nods in lieu of a “you’re welcome”, a habit of hers you’re beginning to pick up on. Like she feels uncomfortable being thanked, and prefers to move on swiftly.

“Do you cycle a lot?” she asks, surprising you a little that she is initiating further conversation with you. Maybe she does just find new people a bit challenging, like Wanda said? You resolve to try not to let her stiffness get to you today, and to notice the warm moments rather than the chilly ones.

“Just to commute, really. I did some mountain biking with my Dad as a kid, but I’ve never really got the chance to do any as an adult. I’d like to, though.”

“Hmm, yes, it seems like it could be fun,” Natasha considers aloud, returning to her spot but pulling out a stool this time so she can sit. 

You sip your coffee, holding back from asking more questions, or adding more detail to your answer. You want to fit in with Natasha’s morning as much as possible, not disrupt it. 

“Do you do any other sports?” she asks, tapping her nails quietly on the side of her mug. Your instant thought is that she’s bored, but then you try to re-examine your interpretation, and remind yourself not to jump to conclusions today.

“I run a bit,” you say shyly, deciding to keep it vague. Natasha nods approvingly.

“Have you ever done any martial arts?”

You frown, wondering if this is the kind of training she does. Shaking your head honestly, you tilt your head in the hopes she’ll offer more information. You’re in luck.

“You should learn how to fight, when your shoulder is better. It will help strengthen it. Boxing, or Muay Thai, they’d be good for rehabbing it later on.”

“Could you teach me?” you blurt out, immediately regretting your boldness, even before Natasha fixes you with a particular look. You feel the blush overcoming your face, and dart your eyes down to your coffee. “Sorry, I…”

“Maybe,” Natasha says, very quietly. When you look up, mainly to determine whether you actually heard that word or if she’s still staring at you in that discerning way, you see she’s standing up again, making her way to the cupboard. But just when you feel the temptation to run back upstairs taking hold of your legs, she turns back to you, looking calm and entirely unperturbed. 

“Hungry?” she asks, and you feel relief wash over you at the welcome diversion, the opportunity to distract from your impulsive thoughts spoken aloud.

Author's Note: I really hope you enjoyed this! I'm slowly adding the chapters to Tumblr but I'm very behind - at present (1st June 2025) I have 15 chapters published on AO3 but I'm only just posting this on Tumblr. If you have access to AO3 and don't want to wait, you can read more here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62001889/chapters/158556517

Thank you for reading! ♡

[scorpioriesling]

Invisible String - Part 2

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Eris x reader

Warning(s): light angst if you squint. Please be advised; future parts might not be suitable for all audiences. Proceed with caution.

Summary: You'd taken the nanny position for the royal family over a year ago, not expecting what would come of it or how close you'd grow to the child you cared for. Things became tough for Eris when his wife left him and his daughter, and he found it increasingly harder to raise Riley himself. He soon realizes, you've provided a lot more than the typical job description duties for his daughter... and maybe for him, too.

SR’s Note: I added in the advisory so that younger / uncomfortable readers won't begin the series without knowing or expecting potential risks in content to come. For those who enjoy or look forward to content as such -- get excited! Nonetheless, I hope readers will enjoy this series that came to me in a dream one night. (; Much love to all.

Tags: @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @talesofadragon @rcarbo1 @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kitsunetori (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Part 1

You paced back and forth awkwardly around your room, not sure what to do with your time. Normally, you'd give Riley a bath and see her off to bed -- but not tonight. Her father had come home during dinner today, and you almost couldn't believe your eyes when he'd materialized before the both of you in the dining room.

Gods, you'd never seen her so excited to see him come home in all the time you'd known the two. She truly missed him when he was gone, just waiting to see her dad come home at the end of the day. You understood; to be honest, you worried some nights when he would be gone late, always apologizing like his timing was the end of the world. He failed to realize that it was his safe return you were more concerned with.

You paused, shrieks of laughter heard from the opposite end of the Wing and you smiled to yourself. Padding over to your open doorway, you peeked your head out, listening as Eris' faint voice spoke with his daughter, saying something that had her giggling once more before you heard the distinct sound of her door latching shut. You retreated back into your room, trying to find anything to busy yourself as the sound of his shoes drew nearer toward your room.

"Could I offer any help with the last of those?" Eris asks, leaning casually against the doorframe as he gestures toward the stack of heavy boxes piled in the corner of your room. You turn, crossing your arms and then uncrossing them, not quite finding a comfortable position.

"Um... well, I could probably get them, tomorrow." You shrug, biting on your lower lip. Eris' eyes study your face for a long moment before he chuckles, walking over to the pile and pushing up his sleeves with such grace. He lifts the top box, his arms flexing under the weight as he adjusts his grip under the edges.

You try, really, really hard not to stare.

"I'll leave these outside to be picked up in the morning, unless you needed them to be kept for something?" He asks, and you all but shake your head before he heads out of your room, leaving you in awe. You shake your head, get it together. That is your boss, for Gods sakes. You take a deep breath, pushing your hair behind your ears before reaching for the next highest box, barely reaching the upper rim before its contents nearly spill over on top of you.

"Cauldron damned-" your curse is cut off when the box doesn't completely dump out on to you, but is caught haphazardly between your hands and one of Eris'. His other one is wrapped around your waist, preventing your impending collision with the floor.

"Woah! Woah," he says, his voice much closer than you expected and you open your eyes you'd inadvertently squeezed shut. He loomed over you, holding you so close to his chest that you sucked in a breath, your eyes widening when they met his peering down at you.

"I'm..." you made to stand, and he lifted the cardboard from your hands. "I thought I could help with that one." You said sheepishly. He chuckled, glancing sidelong at you.

"Always trying to do everything," he muttered. "Honestly, I'm just surprised to hear Y/N actually say a bad word out loud."

You set your hands on your hips, raising an eyebrow and ignoring his teasing remark.

"This is my mess, anyhow. I was just trying to help."

He turns, heading for the door once more.

"Allow me to help you for once, hm?" He says, winking and walking out. You roll your eyes, irritated at how warm your cheeks feel. You flit about the room, putting random smaller items away and folding a few articles of clothing as Eris makes the last few trips. When he comes back in for the final time, he sits on the edge of your bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

You look to him, noticing his exhaustion from the day again. "Thank you," you say, and he looks to you again. He offers you a small smile, leaning back on his hands.

"For all that you've done, helping you move a few boxes is incomparable." Your lips curve upward as you place a few more of your skirts inside the drawers of the dresser, averting his eye. After a few shared moments of quiet, he speaks again.

"This room... its... I'm glad someone is using it again." He says, his hand running softly over the duvet. You glance at him, his fallen expression puzzling as you go about tidying up.

"Oh?"

He's quiet again before he looks at you. "I used to avoid coming in here, after... well, after Selene left." He says quietly, and you pause. The air feels thick, you try to keep breathing evenly as your mind races.

"She... the two of you didn't share...?"

"No." He whispers, looking at the floor. "She thought only mates should share a room."

You shoved the drawer closed, walking slowly to the bedside and sitting next to him.

"I'm sure this is common knowledge by now, but our marriage was simply a transaction, a sign of goodwill between our courts." He let out a humorless laugh. "No magic, golden thread there."

For everything he'd done for his court, all the battles he'd won, every fight he'd fought and all he'd witnessed... this was a subject he rarely discussed, as it seemed tomdrag him down the most.

"Eris..." You said softly, reaching out a hand timidly and placing it on his arm. He braced lightly against the touch, and you leaned closer. "I'm so sorry that you were treated that way-"

He sniffed, his hand rubbing along his jaw quickly before he stood, your outstretched hand slowly retracting with the distance between you two.

"It's alright. Nothing for you to worry about, anyway." He flashed a humorless half-smile, and you stared up at him with concern. You could tell it was a tough subject for him, and you definately didn't want to pry; but he didn't exactly have many other people to open up to.

"Well... alright then." You say defeatedly. He nods, turning and heading for the door. He looks over his shoulder only once more before closing the door behind him.

"Sleep well, Y/N."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"Apple juice, please?" Riley asks, and you pour her a fresh glass, delivering it to her awaiting hand. She sips quietly, then blinks a few times when you sit down beside her. "Oh -- thanks!" She smiles.

You nod, silently praising her good mannered habits. You could still remember when you arrived at the Forest House, the little spitfire was ordering people around at the ripe age of three. "Give this!" and "Do that!" was all she managed, and though her heart was pure, you did encourage better etiquitte; luckily, it stuck.

"Daddy said he have a surprise," she swung her legs under the table, some of her juice swishing in her cup. You raised an eyebrow.

"Did he, now?" You weren't sure what she was talking about, or if there really was a surprise at all. Eris had made haste this morning, rushing past you this morning on his way out the door. He'd barely kissed his daughter goodbye before he was on his horse and halfway to the border-

"He did! He said he had one." She insisted, and you nodded in understanding. What it could be, you had no clue.

"Well, lets finish our dinner so we're ready when he gets home, yes?" You suggest, and Riley agrees, jamming the last of her chicken nuggets into her mouth and chewing with maximum effort. You shake your head, smiling at just how normal the girl was. You were just glad she found joy in chicken nuggets still, and didn't request challenging dishes every meal quite yet.

Insisting on wearing her fluffy pink footie pajamas, Rylie then sat in your lap on the couch, her stuffed beagle clutched in her hands as you brushed out her wet-clean locks.

"Braid it pretty?" She asks, and you leaned in, kissing the top of her little head. She grinned, holding her little beagle's head to her lips and kissing it's head just the same.

"Anything for you, Riles," you say, getting to work on the long strawberry strands. She sits very patiently for a four year old; that is, until you've secured the band at the end of your work and the front door creaks open.

"Daddy!" She's up in an instant, running to the door with glee and clinging to her father's leg the moment she spots him. You stay seated a moment longer, listening from the living area but not quite ready to see Eris yet. After the tense conversation last night, you couldn't help but feel... awkward, after the conversation.

After a few minutes, Riley has retreated to the living room looking rather dejected. Your brows knit as she stalks toward you, her beagle hanging limply from her fingers.

"Daddy says bedtime. You take me please?" She says, looking down at the floor. You frown, your hands lifting under her arms as she wraps her legs around your waist.

"Of course sweetie," you try to sound upbeat, but she only lays her head on your shoulder. You pet her head, wrapping your other hand around her to keep her propped up against your waist as you make your way to her end of the Wing. You look around as you go, not seeing any sign of Eris on your way. He literally just got home, what the Hell could he possibly have to do right now?

Once you reach her room, you place her gently atop her plush duvet, her eyes half closed when her head touches the pillow. You pull a loose blanket over her legs, knowing sometimes she gets cold at night, and kiss her little cheek one last time before moving toward the door.

"Y/N," she whispers. Your eyes meet hers in the dim light, your fingers stalling as they reach for the glowing tableside lamp.

"Yes dear?"

"Can you please read? Please?" Her bottom lip trembles. "D-daddy always reads... he reads my book..." she sucks in a breath of air, and you rush over to her bed, taking her little hand in yours.

"Yes, of course honey!" You say, hoping she will feel better. "I would love to read you a story," you look left and right, searching for any tomes near her bed. She lifts a limp hand, her finger pointing to the book resting at the opposite end of her bed.

"You'd like that one? The Kissing Hand?" She nods, one tear slipping free and running down her cheek. You hastily grab the book, and she scoots over, making a space for you to lay beside her. You scoot close, reaching an arm around her and she snuggles close as you flip open the book. Her little fingers wipe her tear from her cheek, and you begin to read.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You weren't sure when you'd drifted off, but when you slipped back into consciousness, your back ached from its cramped position on the small bed. You looked around, the darkened room coming into view as well as the peacefully sleeping babe next to you.

You must have fallen asleep reading to her, you thought. Surely you'd left the lamp on though; its glow would come in handy now as you tried to slip silently out of her embrace, sneaking out in absolute darkness. At least the door was still cracked open.

You'd stumbled around quietly enough and made it down the hallway to the kitchen, the clock on the wall coming into view.

Four in the morning. Gods.

You kept walking, feeling along the walls until you found your bedroom door, and let yourself inside.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You woke up that morning to the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar, the comfort of your plush bed surrounding you as the first light of day drifted through your curtains. You yawned, stretching out your arms and slowly opening your eyes.

Ahh, what a lovely morning.

Morning. The sun was out.

You threw the covers off of you hastily, your bare feet hitting the cold wood floors in a rush as you lunged for your door handle. Riley was surely awake by now, and surely starving. You bounded down the hallway, your steps faltering when you heard her familiar ramblings from the kitchen and registered the smell of food wafting through the air.

As you approached, you watched in pure shock as Eris stood over the kitchen island, his hand holding his daughters as he helped her spread icing over a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls, smiling and talking along with her. He hadn't noticed you walk in; but she sure did.

"Y/N! Finally! You're awake!" She squealed happily, and you forced a smile, still confused by the scene before you. Eris looked up then, his eyes meeting yours only briefly before he went back to the treats he was making.

"Good morning Riley," you said hesitantly, stepping closer toward the island. Eris' eyes flicked up again, snagging on the silk pajamas you'd changed into before collapsing onto your bed last night. You crossed your arms over your chest.

"Good morning. Eris." You said, and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Morning Y/N." He said plainly before turning to Riley, lifting her off the counter and setting her on the ground.

"Bunny, why don't you set the table," he handed her the silverware and a few plates. "And we'll join you in just a few minutes?" She nods, skipping into the dining room, as Eris braces his hands against the countertop, his eyes locked on yours once more.

You stare back, shrugging when you can't understand the point of standing in silence. "What?" You ask. He sighs, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Y/N, I'm sorry for the... discussion. We had. The other night, it was... highly, unprofessional." He nodded, looking down at the pan of cinnamon rolls once more. You raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh erupting from your lips and causing him to flick his gaze to you again.

"What is funny?" He asks, seeming a bit taken aback.

"Nothing, no," you say, smiling softly at him. "I just... Eris, I live in your home. I spend every day with your daughter. I think we're beyond professional, aren't we?" You say. He cocks his head to the side, a small smirk curving the side of his lips.

"I suppose we are, then."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"Daddy. These cimanim rolls. Are. Delicious!" Riley grins with delight, Eris' expression a mirror of his daughter sitting next to him at the table. You watch the two and your heart swells; one day, you could only dream of having something so special as that.

"Why, thank you Princess!" Eris says, and she holds her chin high. You shake your head at her, and Eris' eyes meet yours, his face giving away exactly what he's thinking. After a few more quiet moments, he speaks up again.

"Bunny, I wanted to ask you about doing something fun today," he says, and Riley immediately perks up.

"Fun?" She asks, and he nods.

"In the Town Square, there is the Autumn Festival, and it would make me very happy as your daddy if you would go with me-"

"Yesss!" She shrieks, every single one of her teeth showing as she smiles in excitement. You can't help but feel so happy for her -- she deserves time with her father, and he's finally home to spend it with her, doing something she had been longing to do anyway.

"Ohmygosh I can't wait! I will wear my Princess dress so everyone knows I am a Princess, okay," she explains hastily, only pausing to take a sip from her glass of milk.

Eris nods, looking to you. "I figured you may appreciate at least a day off as well," he adds quietly, and you offer him a gentle smile. Truly, you didn't need one, but you appreciated his consideration all the same. Riley doesn't quite catch the incinuation, though.

"Y/N, you have to wear a dress. You can't borrow from me this time because you're too big," she says, hopping from her chair. "You have a dress?" She asks. Your eyes meet her dad's and his mouth opens to answer first.

"Bunny," he starts. "I don't think Y/N was going to come today," he explains. Rileys brows knit in confusion as she looks at him.

"Why not?"

"Well," he says, trying to tread lightly. "Maybe Y/N has other things she would like to do today. It's okay though; just me and you can go." He says, but Riley looks to you, her eyes looking you up and down.

"What... what else do you want to do though?" She says, and you chuckle.

"Riley, honey, today you can go have fun with your daddy, alright? Me and you play here everyday," You reason with her. She doesn't let up, and Eris studies you from across the table.

"Daddy -- can Y/N just come too?" Riley says. You sigh, looking to Eris for help, but he only stares quietly at you, a small smile on his lips.

"I really will just stay here-"

"Yes." Eris says, and you meet his eyes, Riley spinning in happy little circles at the end of the table. "Y/N can absolutely come with us today."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Part 3

[anylouze]

Tension has always been their shared language—but this time, words burn louder than silence.

In the quiet corner of the library, nothing is safe: not pride, not restraint, and definitely not the space between them.

Here’s what happens when truth slips out sharp-edged and a kiss hits harder than a curse.

Spoiler from When We Collide: Chapter 13 - The Cost of Being Seen

She stood up, voice sharpening—

“I fix books. Spells. People. But I’m not fixing you.” 

Draco snapped, “Did I ask you to?”

His voice cut fast—too fast. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. I’m not broken. And if I were, the last thing I’d need is your kind of help.”

They stared at each other.

He couldn’t breathe right. Her hands were locked like she was bracing for impact.

His gaze dropped to her mouth—too long. He didn’t mean to, but he didn’t stop either.

She saw it.

“Don’t look at me like you want me, you don’t,” she said, “You want the girl who’d walk away. You want the bloody chase”

He almost laughed. “You started it.”

Granger slapped her hands on the table—sharp, loud, a crack of wood on stone. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Just braced, like the only thing keeping her steady was the fury itself.

From across the stacks, Madam Pince hissed a warning shhh—sharp as a hex.

Neither of them moved.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped, but her voice was lower.

Draco stepped in, crowding the space between them.

“So what was it, then? Pity?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

He saw it—the flicker. Not fear. Not revulsion. Not something he could name. Her breath stuttered.

She blinked like it might reset the moment.

“You think this is new?” she whispered sharply. “You think I didn’t see it coming? You’re unstable, you’re angry, you hate yourself more than you hate me. And if I give you more than one piece of me, you’ll use it to hurt us both.”

[…]

“You corner me like I owe you something,” she said. “And I hate how much of me still wants to give it.”

Her hands trembled as she pushed the parchment aside, and that was the crack—Draco saw it.

She hated being wrong. But more than that, she hated being right about wanting him.

A beat passed. She looked at him, really looked. “You wanna know? Fine. I kissed you because I was tired of pretending I didn’t want to.”

Her hand tightened on the table’s edge. She looked like she wanted to run. Or scream. Or both. And maybe if he’d said one more cruel thing, she would’ve. But instead, he said nothing. Just stood there, breathing, waiting.

And then she kissed him—like it would shut her up.

No warning. No pause. Just teeth and heat and frustration. Her mouth hit his too hard. Their teeth knocked. His balance slipped, and his hands flew to her waist, more for steadiness than want.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t mutual. It was chaos, collision.

Her hands clenched in his shirt—like she needed to erase him. His back hit the table behind him. She shoved forward again.

Draco kissed her back. Because she was heat and anger and everything he shouldn’t want—and did anyway.

But then it faltered.

Too much pressure. Her lips slid. Their noses bumped. A breath caught at the wrong time.

The words slipped out from his mouth, breathless—

“This shouldn’t—”

But she kissed him harder, and the rest died in his mouth.

And her kiss deepened—hot, unthinking—and he followed her lead.

Fingers tightened. Her breath hitched. His balance cracked.