#the last of cra

[zinofghast]

the colors look kinda fucked up on camera. pretend it looks good

[cracosplays]

Sneak Peek WIP of one of our favorite creeps. . . It'll just be a headshot. I didn't want to draw hands or body. (I'm lazy, no surprise.)

EDIT: LINK BELOW FOR FINISHED VERSION

[bechdelexam]

she works for ei so i think its a two birds one stone situation. cant pay people unemployment if theres not enough people to do the paperwork.

[d1stalker]

Blink Twice If You Need Help [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, fem!reader, canon-level violence, arguing/bickering, realizations & revelations, SMUT 18+ (oral f receiving, backshots lol, etc) WC: 12.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: super sorry for the reupload i got the heebie jeebies

The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.

He’d been stronger than you expected—some sort of fire freak with a half-baked god complex and a plan to torch his house while the rest of his family slept inside: his wife, his children. Disgusting. Rolling your shoulder, you wince. Yeah, there will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow, but you’ve dealt with worse. You had gone a little easy on him at the start, let him kick you around a bit, burn the bottom of your mask off, and give a punch here and there. Probably filled him up with too much confidence before you struck, but hey, life isn’t always fair.

“That’s what I thought,” you mutter, resisting the urge to spit on his corpse. The air stinks of ash and scorched pavement. You step off the lawn and onto the sidewalk, already imagining the comfort of your bed. “Uggo.”

You're halfway down the block when:

“Hey!”

You freeze.

Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.

A long, long, exhale slips from between your teeth and shut your eyes against the creeping flood of irritation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you summon the voice from that online meditation webinar you half-watched last week. Breathe in. Breathe out. You try. You really do.

Your head tips back, neck stretching as you look up at the sky. The moon stares down at you, a silent witness to your misery. You don’t even believe in a higher power, but still, you beg for it to spare you from this colossal pain in the ass. 

Of course.

Of course, he’s here.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

Annoyance buzzes through your veins, and you slowly—very slowly—turn around. “Oh, hey, Supes!” you chirp, voice high and bright and obviously dripping with sincerity. You even throw in a little mock-wave for good measure. “Wow, look at you! Dropping in unannounced. What a treat.”

“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”

He lands hard a few feet away from you, the pavement under his boots cracking from the force. His gaze flicks over to the lump of flesh for a brief second before settling onto you. “You killed him.”

Cue the fake, wide-eyed gasp and hand over your heart. “Really?! Are you sure it was me?” You flash him a peace sign and pivot back toward the street. “Anyway, nice chat, but I’ve got places to be and a long night ahead, sooo—”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, way too close, and blocking your path forward in an (unsuccessful) attempt at intimidation. Narrowed eyes paired with a nostril flare is a guaranteed combo when it comes to being in your presence. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll. 

“That’s because you—” He stops. Whatever moral high ground he was about to climb dies somewhere behind his clenched teeth. “Never mind. You can’t keep doing this. You don’t get to play god.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”

You step to the side, aiming to brush past him, but unfortunately for you, Wannabe Tough Guy has different plans. Instead, his hand juts out from his side, wrapping around your throat, and the world yanks upwards faster than you can say kinky. 

Wind nips at your ears as he lifts off—just a few feet, then slams you backward, spine-first, and hard, against the fence of some poor neighbour’s front lawn. Wood cracks behind your shoulders, and the impact makes you grunt as your fingers grab instinctively at his wrist.

His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”

“Erm, what about—” his grip tightens, and you know better than to try to continue speaking. So a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Maybe he’s blown away by the sight of your beautiful lips, or maybe he's confused as to the reason you’re smiling in the first place, but he pulls back a mere centimetre, blinks and—

You’re gone.

Air rushes in to fill the space where your body used to be, his hand snapping closed on nothing. You reappear several feet away, crouched on the roof of a garage like a smug little gargoyle. One leg dangling, the other propped beneath you. “Damn, you’re a grabby one, aren’t you?” His head whips over to the source of the sound, jaw clenching as his eyes land on your figure. “If all you wanted to do was choke me, I’m sure we could’ve chosen a better time and place.”

You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”

Blink.

And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.

—

“Ouch,” you yelp, as your hip hits the corner of your dinner table. Usually, that doesn’t happen, but what can you say, the urgent need to get as far away as possible from Superman must have hindered your stability.  

Now, finally back at your apartment, your feet are killing you, and your eyelids are heavy from being awake for too long. You run to the washroom, stripping off your suit before you even enter, and jump into the shower. There's a vague plan in your head to find the time to clean your place up, but for now that’ll have to wait. 

Once you’ve finished washing yourself, you put on some pyjamas and crawl into bed, turning the light off, and getting into a comfortable position. You feel yourself about to enter dreamland when your eyes shoot open.

Shit. Your mask.

Specifically, the currently singed and half-melted bundle of fabric lying on your floor thanks to a little firebug with crazy mommy-adjacent issues. Actually, the worst night ever, you think. You drag a hand down your face with a long groan, swing your legs over your bed, blink to the kitchen, and pull open the drawer where you keep your “tools”: a sad collection of scrap fabric, thick thread, and a heavy-duty needle. You really should invest in something more professional, but it’s not like you get a stipend for your line of work.

Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.

You were born like this. Blinked out of your mother’s womb right after the first push, and for a second, the doctors thought your mom just had a really big bowel movement (her words, not yours!). They say the delivery room went into full panic mode when you suddenly disappeared from the table and reappeared in the hallway, still covered in bodily substances and screaming. 

When you were younger, it didn’t mean much. It was only something you used when it was convenient, like if the TV remote was too far away or if your friend was about to find you in a game of hide-and-seek. It had felt more like a trick back then. Like something small and silly and yours.  

The first time it actually mattered, you were sixteen. Late afternoon, walking home from school with headphones in, when a scream cut through your music. The sight of a man lunging for a girl, covering her mouth with his hand and muttering obscene words into her ear while holding her a gunpoint awakened something in you, and without thinking, you blinked across the street, grabbing the gun from his hands. 

His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died. 

You blinked out of sight so fast the police never caught on, but the guilt of killing someone made you sick for weeks. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. But it was that, or let God-knows-what happen to that little girl. And later, only when she saw you again and thanked you, did you stop wishing you’d done it differently.

You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.

There was a time when you made the mistake of believing someone when they said they’d change for the better. Spared their life, only for them to hunt you down and stab you in the back. Literally. The scar is still there, above your left hip. 

It’s jagged, long, and ugly. 

It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity. 

It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.

You thread the needle, slide it through the fabric of the mask, and frown. That’s what you don’t understand about that jackass. He thinks that justice always has a storybook ending. That the villain always comes around. Or that the world always rights itself if you just keep being good long enough. 

You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.

Two years ago, an imbecile thought he could break into your favourite bakery and try to threaten the owner for money. You’d left him breathing as long as you could. Long enough to watch him reach for the second gun in his waistband, but the Kryptonian arrived three seconds too late to see that part.

What he saw was a dead man and a masked figure standing over him, blood on her knuckles and no badge to back her. You blinked before he could grab you, across the room, out of reach, but you didn’t realize he had superspeed. He never even asked what happened. Just started throwing punches and shouting something about being a good person. About accountability. Which was ironic, given how quickly he jumped to a conclusion.

It took two days for the bakery owner to speak out, and for the security footage to be leaked. The next time he saw you, he apologized immediately, and you had the gall to think that maybe you could get along, or even better, work together. But he shot you down, glowering down at you as he claimed he didn’t associate with ‘merciless fools’. So yeah, clearly things haven’t exactly warmed up between you.

Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do. 

You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.

Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth. 

—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucckkkkk.

You’re late.

You slap the light switch on as you barrel through your apartment, nearly tripping over your newly-fixed suit and the bucket of laundry you swore you’d put away two nights ago. Your shirt is halfway over your head, twisted like a noose around your neck, and your other hand is trying to shove burnt toast into your mouth. 

Your hair’s a disaster, shoulders and back screaming from not only where Superman threw you into a fence last night, but that little fire idiot, too. The bruise is already blooming—deep and purple just beneath your collarbone. You catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and groan inwardly. It’s like everything bad that happens to you can somehow be traced back to Mr. Justice himself. 

Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.

The Daily Planet isn’t too far of a commute, but the ancient elevator in the building must add at least 5 minutes to your overall travel time. You catch your reflection in the blurry steel doors of the machine, and wow. Not looking too good. 

You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.

“Ah,” you say, like an idiot. 

“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”

“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.  

“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him. 

“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.

A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.

Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“Dude.”

“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag. 

The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”

Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”

“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”

Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”

“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”

….What?

“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”

“I—okay, that’s—”

“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.

“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”

You squint at her. “Not helpful.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” she replies, but you’ve already blocked out her voice, grabbing your notebook and heading over to Perry’s office. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter,  still typing something furiously into his desktop keyboard, when he speaks. 

“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”

You offer a weak smile. “If only.”

He snorts, then jerks his chin at the chair in front of his desk, gesturing you to sit down, which you do. “Hostage situation,” he says unceremoniously. “Business tower in Midtown. The CEO lost his damn mind. Locked up a boardroom full of execs, apparently waving a gun around, demanding to speak to someone who doesn’t exist.”

“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.

“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”

Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”

“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”

“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."

—

You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.

When you arrive, the scene is already in motion—Cops are clustered around the front steps, radios crackling, tape sagging between barricades. People, other reporters, are packed in tight behind the line, pressed shoulder to shoulder with their phones raised. You scan the perimeter, but there’s no sign of Clark. 

Then, a shadow looms over you, and your eyes flit up to see the back of Superman as he enters through one of the windows near the top of the building. While you aren’t able to understand the word, you can hear him shouting at someone inside. After a while, he exits the window and touches down near a group of officers.  You edge closer.

“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head. 

“They caught him skimming company money,” he mutters. “Not just bonuses. Personal charges, hotels, sex toys. Thousands of dollars in latex and—well, I’m sure you get the point. He knows it’s public now, and he’s humiliated.”

Oof. That’s unfortunate. 

Despite feeling kind of bad for the guy, whatever shit he’s currently pulling is a gross overreaction. He’s not the first executive to get caught dealing with a midlife crisis the wrong way, and he won’t be the last. If he wanted to cry in the bathroom and get quietly fired like everyone else in corporate, fine. But taking a whole boardroom hostage over some receipts is… well, extreme. 

And where the fuck, is Clark? You thought he’d be here by now. You figured maybe he was talking to the police or stuck behind a barricade with the rest of the press. But now—now you’re not so sure. Maybe he already went inside. Slipped past before the building got shut down. Maybe he’s trying to talk the guy down himself. Knowing him, that is a very plausible option. 

Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way. 

“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”

The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”

“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“

But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.

You grind your teeth. Useless.

Is this really the state of Metropolis’ law enforcement? They aren’t doing shit. And if no one is going to do anything, then you guess you might have to. Slowly, you back away from the front of the group, walking around the street and behind a tall garbage bin, dropping to one knee and unzipping your bag. Your suit is folded neatly between your notebook and computer. 

Yes, you bring your suit to work. No, you don’t care how insane that makes you look. This city doesn’t exactly give you time to run home and change. You learned that the hard way—last winter… You shudder at the memory. 

After wrestling with the spandex, the suit is on, and you blink into the building, finding yourself in the lobby. Completely evacuated. You blink again—second floor, far side—and materialize in a narrow corridor lined with executive offices. The carpet muffles your boots. You hold your breath, waiting to see if you hear anything.

Nothing.

Again. This time, the third floor, west wing. 

Still quiet.

Finally, after blinking around so many times you’ve lost count, you hear voices coming through the walls. One of them is trembling. The other keeps cutting in—sharper, erratic. You can’t hear every word, but you catch:

“—you lied—” “I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.” “Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”

You hear that last line, and the hallway around disappears and is replaced by the interior of the boardroom, where every head jerks in your direction. The CEO reels back, eyes going wide, gun swinging in your direction.

He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.

You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”

“No! Don’t test me!” he yells, and points his gun toward the window, shooting at it three times. Glass explodes. Someone screams. One of the hostages ducks under the conference table. Before the last shard even hits the carpet, a blur of red and blue rushes up past the blown-out window.

Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—

���What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.

You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”

The almost-bald man makes a wild noise, some combination of a groan and a sob, and turns the gun toward you. You don’t even have time to blink. Before the trigger clicks, arms close around you, and you’re all the way on the other side of the room. In Superman’s arms. 

Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”

The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.” 

That response warrants a middle finger, you decide, then blink back to where the CEO is, rearing your fist back and delivering a stern blow right across the face. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He yelps, folds like a lawn chair, hands scrambling to cradle his cheek as the gun skitters out of reach. 

“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”

Your eyes scan the room, and you notice the fact that Clark is, in fact, not in here. Literally, where is this man? You’ll worry about that after. Quickly, you grab the two nearest people to you and blink them to the front of the building where the police are. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room is empty.

By the time you make your final appearance, the fat businessman is screaming something incoherent, sputting words of hatred and nonsense. On him—not beside, not in front— on him is Superman. He’s crushing the other below him, sitting with elbow on perched knee, head resting on his chin.

You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”

“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”

The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”

You both ignore him. 

“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”

“Well,” he starts, “I don’t plan on you taking him without causing him further pain.” He stands up, hauling the CEO, who sags in defeat, upright by his collar, then flies out the window. You follow, blinking back to the garbage bin, pulling your regular clothes on and rapidly fixing your appearance. 

On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”

He turns, startled, blinking behind his glasses.”I —what? No, I got stuck. My train was delayed.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Then the cops wouldn’t let me past the barricade. I only just got here.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”

Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—

You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.

He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.

Maybe Jimmy was right, after all. Does Clark like you? The thought makes you nervous, and you lean back, staring up at him.  “We should head back to the office. Might as well get a head start on the article while it’s all still fresh.”

—

“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!” 

You suppress the grin tugging at your lips, doing your best to play it cool as you walk toward your desk. But the truth is—yeah. You did look cool today. The news has already flooded the internet with a dozen grainy stills of you mid-blink, captured in blurry motion. There’s one particularly good shot where you’re helping a hostage while the police are standing around looking especially stupid. And the interviews? One witness described you as “insanely efficient.” You’ll absolutely take it.

“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.” 

“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”

Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”

“I dunno. Seemed like a reckless decision.” What is he talking about? He wasn’t there. He has no idea what the real situation was like. If you hadn’t laid one on him, then people could have died!

“Well, I think Superman needs to learn how to loosen up. Maybe try dealing with problems the real way for once.” That gets his attention. His head lifts slowly, and there’s something sharp and unmistakably offended in his eyes. For a fan, he sure does take things personally. 

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”

Both you and Clark choke.

“Friends?” you cough.

“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.

You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.

Because—friends? Team? Bitch, you did all the work. You blinked into a hostage situation, took out the guy with your own two hands, and personally evacuated every single employee while Superman lounged on the CEO like he was a couch. 

“I mean,” the young photojournalist adds, totally oblivious to the palpable tension growing in the room, “she got him disarmed, Superman backed her up, they split the work—come on, it was awesome! The people loved it. Like a buddy cop thing.”

“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”

“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought. 

“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.

Horror washes over you. Did he just compare Blink and Superman to you and Clark? Impossible. Two completely different dynamics. Clark is so sweet, so honest and pure, while Supes is the exact opposite. You bet that if you died, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.

—

You’re pacing in tight, erratic circles in the middle of an empty street, arms crossed so tight your elbows hurt. Your brain is still buffering, trying to catch up to the audacity of the words you’ve just heard.

“You want me to… what?!”

“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”

Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”

You stop pacing and glare at him, squinting. “So what, you want me to just teleport into some dark alien cave full of who-the-hell-knows-what, get zapped by a cosmic laser or whatever, and hope I make it out alive?”

“I’ll be close by, but yes.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”

There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.

You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”

You scowl. You hate him.

Breathe in, breathe out. It takes every fibre of your being not to launch yourself at him just to make a point. You try to quiet the relentless chorus in your head yelling don’t do this!! You don’t know what you’re getting into!! This is a trap!! You don’t do Superman—

“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”

He nods. “Fine by me.”

And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy. 

“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing).  “Supes!”

He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”

His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”

A moment of silence.

“Are you deaf? I said get–”

“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”

Why did you even agree to this? You want to punch your past self from a minute ago. And of course, he’s just floating there, his cape flowing even though there isn’t any wind. What you’d do to rip it off and strangle him with it. “I don’t do piggybacks,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Reluctantly, you reach out and grip his arms. Damn, they’re broad. And solid. “God, what is this suit made out of? Reinforced stone?” The words are a grumble, as you try to find the least awkward way to climb onto a man who is literally four feet off the ground. 

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.

 “Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him.  “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.” 

A bit more uncomfortable shifting around, and you’re finally settled in, arms circling his neck, legs locking tightly around his waist. It feels weirdly... secure. Not comfortable, because nothing about this situation is, but you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. Then, he shoots up into the night sky.

Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh. 

Below you, the city melts away. Skyscrapers give way to overpasses and industrial warehouses. Roads spiderweb and narrow, then vanish altogether. It’s kind of beautiful. The wind whips all around you, whistling in your ears and clouds touch the tip of your head. You unwrap one of your arms from his neck and lift it, your fingers slicing through the haze. 

It makes you laugh.

Not even on purpose, either. It just bubbles out of you, light and startled and  real. Superman tilts his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this as much as you are,” he says, his voice raised just enough to carry back over the rushing wind.

You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle. 

Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?

It wasn’t even sarcastic. It was almost warm sounding. You edge forward a bit, stealing a the side of his face. Lo and behold, the corners of his mouth are twitched up into a smile. An actual smile. It’s honest. And—

Nope.

Nope.

You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head. 

Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips. 

“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.

You're still recovering—trying to act unbothered but probably clinging a little too tightly—when he finally slows, levelling out again as the world comes into sharper focus. The glow of the city has faded behind you, and what’s ahead now is darker, flatter. No buildings, no people. Just a wide stretch of dense woods and brush, carved through with an old road that leads to… nothing.

He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”

“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.

“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise. 

“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”

“You’ll have to try to visualize it,” he responds. “Think… underground. Caves, maybe. Something old. Damp. Stone walls.” Ah, so you need to think of a dungeon. This shouldn’t be too bad. In and out. When you get down there, you’ll report what you see back to him. Wait a second.

“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time. 

“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”

With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”

Blink.

—

You land with a soft thump, boots hitting something hard and so unnaturally smooth, you almost slip right on your ass, and your eyes snap open. Immediately, you have to squint against the assault of sterile, clinical light. Fluorescent panels line the ceiling in perfect symmetry, humming faintly above you. 

It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.

The walls are tiled in what looks like seamless ceramic, with occasional chrome panels embedded at shoulder height—sensors? Cameras? You're not sure. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant as well. Sort of like that one science lab from high school. 

Each step forward is careful, and you keep close to the wall as you inch farther and farther through the hallway. As you slip around a corner, you pause. In front of you lies a heavy metal door. Pretty important looking, you think. There’s no handle, only an ID scanner to the right.

Are you really about to do this? What if it was all a set-up? Maybe Supes really does hate you that much, and this was his grand plan to finally get rid of you once and for all. With one more breath, your eyes rake over your surroundings, and then you blink again. 

What you’re met with takes the breath right out of your lungs. Rows and rows of sealed containers, stretchers, lockboxes. Shelves lined with glowing canisters and devices you don’t recognize. You walk slowly through it, taking it all in. Your fingertips trail close to some kind of armoured gauntlet suspended in a gel-like field. To your left, a preserved alien body floats in a tank, and the sight makes your stomach turn.

What the fuck? 

So Superman was right. They are hoarding alien tech. But now what? How is he going to put a stop to this? You're lost in your thoughts when something catches your eye, and your heart drops upon the realization of what it is. In a crate, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase, sits a cluster of jagged green shards. Kryptonite. And it’s half covered by some packing foam like a school fair project. Your palms begin to sweat, like big time. If something goes sideways, and Superman comes down here, it’s over. “Shit,” you curse under your breath.

You take a step back, about to blink the hell out, when your shoulder bumps into something. A jar of slimy, neon-pink goo. It tips, teeters, and falls, shattering at your feet. Overhead, the lights flicker once. Then a dull, mechanical thunk reverberates through the walls. Suddenly, all the lights in the room turn red, and the sound of a siren starts echoing off the walls.

“Nonononono,” you panic. You brace, visualizing the hallway outside, but you don’t blink. Or more like, you can’t blink. Your heart rate spikes up and your breathing starts to resemble hyperventilating more. A sick feeling makes its home in the pits of your stomach, the urge to vomit hitting you.

You’re so screwed. You need to figure out an exit strategy before Superman realizes something is wrong and comes for you (one of the small voices in the back of your head is screaming: that’s not a bad idea!!! but you squash that thought). Think. Think. Think

There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—

The door slams open, and somehow, yet another bald guy is who you’re up against. He smirks when he sees you. “Well, well, well,” he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “Didn’t expect to catch a little stray tonight.”

You glower at him.

He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?” 

“What the hell did you do?” You growl. 

He stops in front of one of the specimen tanks—a preserved alien organ suspended in viscous green liquid—and smiles faintly at his own reflection. “This chamber,” he begins, tone lilting with theatricality, “is engineered to neutralize enhanced bioelectric signatures.” He turns his head slightly, gaze slicing back to you. “Metahuman nervous systems, energy fluctuations, the whole shebang, as they say.”

“Wide vocabulary you got there.” The sarcasm in your voice makes his nostrils flare. Menacingly, he starts walking forward, forcing you to backpedal further and further into the room. With every foot of ground he gains, his smile (if you could even call it that) grows.

“Which one should I choose for you, hm?” he muses aloud, admiring his collection. “Something poetic, perhaps. The restraint collar from Kahndaq? One of the Null Pods from Sector 68? Oh—maybe the Tamarin siphon ring. Cruel, but effective.”

Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”

But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?” 

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.

“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”

Your breathing gets heavy again, speeding up faster and faster as his bony fingers reach up and tug off the only things protecting your identity. You flinch as the cool air hits your skin and bare your teeth. “You’re a psycho.”

The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”

You don’t have time to react. In one heaving motion, he throws you across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body slams into a rack of weaponry, metal and glass crashing down around you in a deafening cacophony. Sharp edges bite through the suit at your back. Something heavy thuds beside your ribs. 

There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.

A vicious kick pounds into your stomach, and your body spazzes with a sputtering gasp. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth tile, trying to brace for the next blow. “You creatures are the reason this planet is weak,” he spits above you. Another kick. You wheeze, coughing, tasting metal.

“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”

Another.

You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”

Another.

“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”

Fucking hell,  just doesn’t stop, does he?

Blood builds up in your throat, and you don’t have the strength to swallow it, so you spit it out. It lands on his shoe. A thick, dark smear along the polished leather. The bald devil stares down at it, and then, with a grunt, he wrenches you up off the floor. His fist is twisting the front of your suit so tightly, his knuckles are white. 

“Filthy little—”

But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.

Two red boots plant themselves at the doorway, and fuck, the personification of power has arrived. There he is, standing strong, with his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees the other man in the room, he rolls his shoulders back. “Lex. I should have known.”

His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,

And his expression shatters.

It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.

You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”

Within five steps into the room, you see it hit him. His momentum falters. His spine stiffens. A shudder travels down his limbs, and he drops. First to one knee, then the other, crumpling with a muffled cry as the Kryptonite takes hold. 

At this point, you’re thrashing around in Lex’s grip, limbs flailing, but he just smirks. “Aww, boohoo. He came for you, didn’t he? And now look.” His hand opens, and you fall back down to the ground. “This is just too easy.” He licks his lips like a predator smelling blood. “You know what? I’m hungry.”

He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”

The heavy door slams shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Left in the suffocating silence, you grit your teeth and force yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Crawling forward on bruised hands and knees, you make your way toward the fallen hero, whose skin is already paling, veins darkening to that sickly green.

Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”

His eyes flutter open, struggling to focus. When they meet yours, you're met with the same pain you saw earlier, when he first saw your face. Between ragged breaths, he mumbles, voice cracked and strained, “Of course… it’s you.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”

Carefully, you slide your hands under his arms, trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. His weight is nearly dead, and because of his sheer size, moving him is almost out of the equation entirely. You need to think fast. You try to roll him over again, but you notice there’s tension in his cape, holding him back. Tracing your eyes along the red fabric, you find the source and realize it’s because the door has been shut on it. A sudden, sharp idea hits you: if you can wedge the door open and slip out of the room, then you can blink the two of you out of this nightmare. That’s it! 

However, you won’t be able to carry out this plan alone. The thought of making Superman do anything in this state (surprisingly) pains you, but you know it’s the only way you’ll succeed. “Hey,” you say, pulling his attention from his agonizing torture to you, “I know you’re weak, I know you’re tired, but I have a plan.”

He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”

You help him move onto his hands and knees. His muscles tremble beneath your touch, and for a second, you’re filled with fear that it won’t work, but just this once, you decide to trust him. You move beside the door. “Okay. Now.”

Grunts begin to fill the thick, stale air. His pallid hands dig and scrape at the floor, fingers splaying out wide as he tries to get leverage. It’s taking every last drop of strength he can muster just to push forward, even just an inch. You watch, heart pounding, as his cape, trapped and taut, starts to inch forward bit by bit. Every second feels like a minute, but then, a shudder in the red fabric, and the door creaks open, a small, narrow gap appearing. 

Seizing the moment, your fingers dive into the tiny crack now visible between the door and the frame. The cold metal bites into your skin as you wedge your nails inside and pull. At first, the door protests, heavy and reluctant, but it moves. Achingly, painfully slow, the seam splits wider as you throw your weight into it. Your fingers slip, then catch again. You can feel the tendons in your arms screaming, your ribs straining, until finally, finally, the gap is wide enough to breathe. Wide enough to escape.

You stumble through it first, chest heaving, blinking hard against the lights outside the containment room. Turning around, you snatch a fistful of Superman’s cape, dragging him out of the room behind you with all of your remaining strength. One foot is braced against the doorframe for support while you yank with everything you’ve got, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw throbs. “Come on, big guy,” you grunt. “You’re not dying in a fucking science exhibit.”

Then at last, his body crosses the threshold. The fabric slips through your fingers in a whisper of red as you collapse backward, landing in a boneless sprawl beside him. Limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts. You spread yourself out like a pancake on the tile, and whisper the first thought that comes to mind:

“Holy shit.”

Rolling over after a few more moments, you grab the man's hand and blink the two of you out of there, into your apartment. The two of you land on the worn carpet of your room. With cautious movements, you manage to get Superman’s limp form onto your bed. How gallant of you.

You step back, wiping the sweat from your brow, and start toward the living room couch, but abruptly, a hand shoots out from the bed and clamps gently on your wrist, making you stop. Despite still being weak, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he murmurs hoarsely.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”

“Please,” there’s no room for you to say no. Whatever it is, he needs comfort right now, and you just happen to be in the wrong place at the right time. The tension drains from your shoulders, and you relent. 

“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”

So you shuffle to the bathroom, washing the grime and sweat off your skin. The water feels shockingly good against your nerve endings. When you finally return, you slip under the covers beside him, where he’s already asleep. His face is less pale and sunken in, but you can see the traces of kryptonite poisoning that remain in his veins. 

Your eyes finally start to flutter closed, exhaustion tugging you under like a tide. The weight of the night, the adrenaline, the fear—it all begins to fade into the background as your breath evens out, slow and steady.

Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.

You crack one eye open and glance sideways.

Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.

First Clark, now Superman. Is there something wrong with the way you smell? A slow shake of your head betrays your disbelief as you look down at yourself. Do all men have a smelling kink? Insane. If neither of you were exhausted and practically dead, you’d probably question it more, but for now, the fatigue wins, and you fall asleep. 

—

The next morning, when you wake up, the bed is empty. Good, you think, letting your muscles melt into the mattress. He’s gone; you can move on with your day and pretend the traumatic events of last night never happened. 

And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.

Okay—maybe obsessed is a strong word. And if you asked Jimmy or Lois, they might shrug and say it’s not all that different than usual. But you know better, because you're obsessed with him, so you’ve gotten really, really good at reading his body language; hyper-analyzing the tiniest tilt of his head, the twitch of a smile, the angle of his hands when he types. You’ve built an entire thesis on the way he looks at people, and when you say he is staring, you mean it.

It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.

“Ooh girl, he is whipped for you,” she’d whispered during a luncheon, sipping her cocktail with a smirk. “I swear to God, if he looks at you one more time like that, I’m gonna propose for him.”

You’re not sure what could have warranted this change in him, but you won’t tell him to stop. So, when you’re at your desk and he’s sitting extra close to you, you don’t complain. You’re listening to him tell you about one of his favourite punk rock bands when a bone-rattling blast shakes the building. 

Smoke and debris fill the air as a hairless figure saunters his way in. Lex Luthor. Through the dust, his eyes find yours and a manic grin spreads on his face. Clark sucks in a sharp breath beside you as terror floods your features. 

“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.” 

He claps his hands together once, like a game show host introducing the final round. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘Lex, what could you possibly want with a bunch of reporters and interns and sad little copywriters?’” He clicks his tongue, then points a finger in the air, mock-epiphany lighting up his face. “Well, I’ll tell you!”

People are beginning to scream. Others rush for the elevators, but the power’s been cut—emergency lights flicker uselessly as thick gray smoke rolls through the room. I have some news for you all,” he says, eyes still staring right at you. Your stomach churns.

Please no. Please don’t.

You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.

“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”

“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it. 

Clink.

Boom.

The desk explodes in a shower of wood and flame, the blast knocking over nearby chairs, and a new wave of smoke is emitted from the blast. Someone cries out. A man falls hard beside the printer station, clutching his arm. 

“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”

He raises his voice over the screams beginning to grow. “Let’s make this simple. If she doesn’t come forward in five minutes, I’ll blow this building sky-high. With all of you inside.” Raising his wrist, he presses start on a timer. 

You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”

You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.

Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”

“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.

“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.

“I need you to trust me.”

Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”

His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”

“You–,” Your thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour. Everything is happening so fast, Lex is about to destroy the building, your identity is going to be revealed—, “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”

“But–”

“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.

“I—okay, okay, I will—”

The moment he takes off his glasses, a thunderclap goes off in your mind. You can’t explain it, but something about the man in front of you changes, and you're now face-to-face with Superman. You blink—literally—and your powers stutter-react, popping you five feet away across the office. “You’re…”

Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds. 

Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”

This is your only chance.

Hesitantly, you grab them, then slowly lift them and slip them onto your face. Clark’s eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, there is no recognition clouding them. He blinks, steps back as if seeing you for the first time.

“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room. 

Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.

“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.

“Ten... nine... eight…”

Just as he nears one, Superman slams into the window, barreling straight toward the bald man and knocking him clean off his feet, distracting him long enough to postpone the destruction of the building.

 “Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”

The room clears fast. You spot Jimmy and Lois as they sprint toward the doors, and Cat as she follows, heels off and barefoot. But you stay, watching as Clark and Lex duke it out, the latter being no match for the from Krypton. He’s easily overpowered and tied to a chair with a twist mess of steel piping. 

You reach up and peel the glasses of your face, just as Lex’s head rolls lazily to the side and he spots you. His bloodied lip curls into a smirk the moment recognition dawns on him. “Oh,” he drawls. “Always gotta get Superman to save you, huh?”

In a blink, you’re in front of him. “I’ll kill you,” you snarl, your hand rising. But, before you can land a strike, you feel a firm grasp on your wrist. Behind you, Clark stands, restraining you softly. 

“You can’t.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”

“You know why.” He responds.

With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”

Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”

That makes you lunge at him so fast that this time, you successfully slam your foot into his chest, sending him back into a filing cabinet, and making him grunt loudly. You’re ready to beat the living daylights out of him, when Clark intercepts you fully, body-checking you away from the human with just enough force to stop, but not enough to hurt you.

“Enough.” And that’s an order.

“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”

The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”

Before you get the opportunity to say something snarky, Clark is already moving, pivoting and driving a punch square into his opponent's jaw. He slumps, finally unconscious. Then your coworker straightens up, hand flexing, glancing back at you. “He’ll go to a black site,” he says. “He won’t ever touch anyone again.” 

You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.

—

How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!

Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past two years, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.

This is Clark you're talking about.

Clark, who corrects your grammar when you’re tired. Clark, who listens to your rants like it’s the highlight of his day. Clark, who says corny jokes he knows no one else finds funny but you. Clark, who is Superman.

You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.

You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is. 

“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts. 

God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move. 

“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”

His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”

“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”

“We’re the same person,” he responds.

“Bullshit.”

Clark’s lips form into a tight line, before: “It’s the same for me! You think it’s been easy, knowing that the reason I show up to work every day is the same reason I’m going to go grey early?”

You still. “Don’t you dare—“

“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”

“Do you even know how I felt seeing Lex threaten you in that room? I saw red,” He begins crowding in on you, voice low. “I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel defensive over Blink, but the minute I realized it was you, it made sense.” He’s so close to you now, having you pushed up against the wall.

Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””

He freezes. “Excuse me?”

 “Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”

But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking. 

And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. 

It’s a disaster of teeth and breath and months of buried need clawing its way to the surface. His hands come up—one curling into your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll blink away if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You gasp into his mouth and he swallows it like a dying man. 

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer towards you, matching the force of his kiss with your own. He deepens it further, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrates in your chest, and you whimper — actually whimper — as you wrap a leg around his thigh, and feel his hand move from your neck down to your ass, rubbing it softly before giving it a firm squeeze. 

His lips move like he’s trying to memorize you, like he could spend the rest of his life tracing the shape of you with tongue and teeth. It’s dizzying. Devastating. As if you’re falling off a rooftop and being caught an inch from the pavement.

When you finally break apart, you’re gasping for air, and your hands are still curled in the cotton at his chest—without the anchor, you might actually collapse. His forehead presses to yours, and he murmurs, “Tell me to stop. That you don’t want this.”

You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”

His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.

The room shifts around you with a ripple, and your back hits your mattress. He lands half on top of you, blinking down in dazed surprise. Then he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that vibrates against your ribs.

“Did you just—.”

“I did.”

“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“

You groan over the rest of his confession, chest stuttering in funny patterns. “I kept telling myself I was a bastard,” he says. “Like I was betraying something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I should’ve known,” he adds, lifting his head, staring down at you. “Of course it was you. It could only be you. There’s nobody else.”

Heat travels from your chest down to your core, and your thighs clench involuntarily. “Oh, Clark,” you moan. His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips—low, aching, wanting. You can feel him trembling slightly where his hands bracket your shoulders, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Tilting your neck up, you give him a small peck on the nose. “I admire what you stand for, Supes,” you admit, not missing the shiver that runs through his body when hearing you call him that. “The whole world does. But not when you show up in my business, trying to change me in a way I don’t need changed.”

Clark says nothing, just lets out a breath—and then he leans back slightly, eyes searching your face, before reaching for the hem of your shirt, drawing it upwards. He waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head and casting it aside. When you turn slightly, and his eyes lower to your skin, you see the moment his gaze finds the scar on your back. 

“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”

You feel his hands travel up and down your sides, the warmth of his palms on your bare skin. “I don’t kill because I enjoy doing it,” you say. “I kill because sometimes one life gone is better than two. Or ten. Or a hundred.”

He kisses your collarbone, then his mouth trails lower, dragging along the curve of your neck. “I know it’s not the way you go about things,” you finish. “But I don’t have the same capabilities as you.”

Raising his head at that, Clark’s lips brush your cheeks. “I didn't like what you did because I never understood why,” he says softly. "but I never saw you as my enemy, we fight for the same good."

Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.

Something hot and heavy takes over you, and it manifests by clawing at his still-clothed body. He pulls back just enough to strip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Holy shit. You knew, on some level, that he was built like a Roman statue. When you had to climb on his back, you felt it. But seeing it? An entirely different experience. 

His chest rises and falls, muscles flexing with each breath, and your gaze rakes over the sculpted lines of him, down to the sharp cut of his abdomen and the softness in his eyes that shouldn’t coexist with a body like that.  “That’s unfair,” you mutter, half under your breath, voice gone hoarse.

He smiles like he knows exactly what you’re talking about—and he probably does—but he doesn’t get long to enjoy the moment, because you push him back. He lands against the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes wide as you climb on top of him, straddling his waist and landing on something hard.

You lean down, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down the hard line of his chest, and capture his lips again, while his hands grip your hips. Shifting your weight slightly, you roll your hips forward in a slow, teasing grind.

The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.

“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch. 

His jaw clenches, eyelids drooping down. “Don’t tease,” he warns—but his voice is wrecked and his hips are already arching up into you. You do it again, dragging your hips down harder, grinding against the hardness of him through both your clothes. He curses, head tipping back against the mattress, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans deep in his chest.

“Gah,” he hisses. His hands are no longer just holding but moving, guiding the motion of your hips over his in rhythm with his own, the friction dizzying, maddening. You feel one inch lower, slipping below your pants, grabbing your bare ass. “You’re killing me.”

“I don’t think you’re exactly suffering,” you giggle. Clark’s grip tightens, and suddenly he sits up, chest pressed flush against yours as he kisses you hard, biting at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “No,” his words dying as he reconnects your lips. “I am suffering. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”

He obeys and god, if you weren’t drooling before then you are now. He’s scrumptious. The bed dips again as he rejoins you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, teasing along the waistband of your pants. Then, he slips a finger beneath the fabric and hooks it there, giving a subtle, inviting tug.

“It’s only fair,” he breathes. Using that same finger, he applies a bit more force, dragging your pants, underwear, and himself down your body all at the same time, to the edge of the bed. Then, he spreads your legs apart and pulls you closer, nestling himself perfectly between your legs. As his face dips lower, his nose brushes against your skin, and he inhales deeply, eyes shutting. 

“Let me taste you,” he begs. 

Except, you don’t—can’t—respond in words. Instead, your fingers thread through his dark hair, and being the smart man he is, Clark takes that as the go-ahead. He dives in, gliding his tongue up your cunt, nipping and sucking like a man eating his last meal. The slick, desperate sounds only serve to make you wetter. 

“Oh, god, Clark,” you moan. His hands slide from your thighs to your stomach, splaying wide as he presses down, pinning you to the mattress. You writhe beneath him, gasping as his tongue goes even deeper, your hands tangling tighter in his hair. 

“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you. 

Then his nose nudges your clit, and you nearly lose it, hands flying from his head onto the ones that are splayed across your abdomen and lacing your fingers together, needing something to anchor you in place as your mind turns to mush. 

The intimacy of the action has his gaze lift up to meet yours from his position, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole existence. It’s almost too much, and soon, you start to feel a familiar tightness. Not wanting the pleasure to end, you start to unravel your fingers from his, pressing gently against his forehead. 

He understands, mouth leaving your pussy with a final kiss before he drapes his body over yours, chest to chest, his weight grounding you. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, hot and throbbing. You know for a fact that had you not been so wrecked with need, you’d have taken him in your mouth. Another time.

“Can I–,” he begins to ask. 

“Yes, yes please,” you babble. Then he’s reaching down between you, lining himself up. When you feel him press against you, you clutch at his biceps, holding onto something—anything—as your body adjusts around him. He’s thick, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You feel every inch of him, and still, somehow, want more.

His name on your lips is all it takes.

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then he pulls back, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before sinking back into you with a slow, shuddering thrust. His hips meet yours with a firm slap, and he groans—loudly—head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s starts back up again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.

Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.

Clark’s eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded and wild, mouth open, panting hard. And like he can’t wait another second, he lowers his head and crushes his mouth to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this body since the first time I saw you.” his mouth hovers over yours. “Especially in that suit.”

Then he’s moving. He slides his hands down your sides and under you, shifting your body until you’re on all fours, back arched and waiting.  From behind you, he kneads your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, squeezing firmly. The rough heat of his palms sets your skin on fire. You can hear him pump himself for a moment before he leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he slides the head of his cock slowly, deliberately over your folds.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

You’re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”

He presses in, bottoming out in a single thrust, and you jerk forward, clutching at the bedsheets. The angle from this position makes you cry out, breath catching as a delicious ache curls tight in your belly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—the sharp slap of his thighs, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—

“Supes, you’re—”

A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”

You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.

“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”

He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”

You cry out at the pet name, at the sound of his voice so wrecked and undone. His hand sneaks around you, fingers beginning to work your clit. Your whole body tenses, back arching even more as the pleasure slams into you—sudden and overwhelming and sharp around the edges. You clench around him as you come, pulsing hard, and he feels it. Moans it.

“Jesus fuck,” he chokes, and his rhythm falls apart entirely. You’re almost certain that was the first time you’ve ever heard him curse like that. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, and when it hits him, he’s unable to stop the whine that comes out, his whole body seizing as he spills into you. 

Your body collapses, boneless and trembling, onto the mattress. Every muscle sings with exhaustion and satisfaction, your skin flushed. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him drop on top of you with a heavy exhale. He stays inside you, burying his face in your hair as his chest rises and falls against your back.

“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder. 

You hum something like a yes, too soft and dazed to speak. He shifts a little, propping himself on one elbow, the movement enough to make you twitch from overstimulation. But then his hand is brushing your hair away from your face, careful and tender, so he can lean in and kiss the curve of your cheek. Then the line of your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear.

He keeps going, trailing kisses over your sweat-damp skin. You turn your head to meet him, and your lips lock in a long, languid kiss. He tastes like everything you want to keep. Like warmth and strength and something that feels suspiciously close to love. And not just for Clark, but for the other guy, too. Because he’s right. They are the same person.

Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.

“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper. 

His brow furrows, confused. “What?”

You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”

----

A/N: thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated :)

[tracksidebaby]

Idiot

Summary: Ever since YN joined F1 her and Max's rivalry has been legendary but is there more to them than that?

Requested - Yes / Anon - requests are open

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 792,901 others

f1radiomessages: Some highlights from todays race

username: i love yn so much

username: hes a fucking dickhead, shes so fucking stupid theyre meant to be

username: imagine how over them bono and GP are

Post Race Interview /

CC:

Interviewer to YN: So YN that was...well it was an intense race for us so I can't imagine what it was like for you. There were plenty of near misses out there.

YN: Yeah just a couple but um yeah definitely all worth it to beat Verstappen, you know?

Interviewer: What is it about Max that brings out this side of you? You don't race like this with any other driver.

YN: You know, Verstappen is just an idiot, I have to drive aggressively because he tries to crash into me.

Interviewer: In this race you're the one who made a move on him first.

YN: Yeah well Max was being an idiot.

Interviewer to Max: So you narrowly lost out on P1 to YN there, Max, bad luck. How are you feeling after such a tense race?

Max: You know it's just...she drove like an idiot out there. She is an idiot but the FIA don't want to give her a penalty so that's that.

Interviewer: Interesting, she had some similar words to say about you.

Max: Me!? She really is stupid then

Instagram /

liked by: lando, carlossainz55, georgerussell63 and 5,792,901 others

yn.ln: always good to race here, always better to beat max verstappen ☺️

username: she's so fucking iconic

username: NOT HER POSTING A PIC OF MAX SULKING

username: fuck off this is brilliant

username: this is my first race what is this

| username: so max and yn have been rivals ever since she joined f1

| username: and when they say rivals they mean RIVALS, they play so dirty, they try and crash the other out as a 'if i can't win neither can you', they're the reason the other has so many points on their license and they basically just trash each other all the time it's so good

username: enemies to lovers when

| username: delusional

maxverstappen1: fucking idiot you only won because you nearly ran me out on the last corner

| yn.ln: you tried to run me off several times and I won soooo maybe try being a better driver ☺️👍🏻

| username: best duo on the grid

| username: obsessed with the fact they don't follow each other but they're always in each other's comments

Instagram /

liked by: lando, danielricciardo, charles_leclerc and 6,792,901 others

maxverstappen1: Not the race we wanted because some people are stupid but P2 is not so bad and we'll come back stronger at the next race

yn.ln: not so bad but it's not P1 is it?

| maxverstappen1: I'm going to send you into the wall

username: YN is always here before me wtf

username: 'some people are stupid' 😭 ok max just tag her

| yn.ln: fr at least I full named him in my post

| username: stop she's so funny

username: they're acc gonna kill each other one day

username: it's so hard being a yn and a max fan they never stop fighting

| username: girl pick a side

| yn.ln: yeah pick a side

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: lando, carlossainz55, danielricciardo and 5,792,901 others

yn.ln: starting P9 today, first time in a while we've been this far back but determined to make the places up and hey, it's better than P10☺️

username: penalised and still making a dig at max, i love it

username: better than p10 😭😭

maxverstappen1: Your stupid driving did this

| yn.ln: please it was your fault that's why you're starting behind me, a familiar sight for you isn't it, the back of my car?

| maxverstappen1: Who won the WDC last year?

| username: oooo i love when mum and dad get bitchy

username: anyone else think they just fight for publicity

| username: have you seen max verstappen that man will never do a media stunt, he wants to be as far away from the media as possible

| username: this and i doubt pr stunts would go as far as to have them crashing twice last year and already having to avoid each other like twenty times and it's only race two of the season

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 792,901 others

f1radiomessages: here's some messages from yn and max this race

username: LMAO THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TWO

username: yn absolutely raging and max just so deadpan letting the team know she's an idiot

username: 'stop fighting the idiot so hard' you just know this is a weekly conversation in mercedes

username: GP is so tired of max

| username: Bono is so tired

Instagram /

liked by: lando, charles_leclerc, mercedesamgf1 and 5,792,901 others

yn.ln: another p1!!! it was a tough race, we started p9 but we made those places up as promised. tough race towards the end, the tyres were gone and it felt impossible but we did it

username: no dig at max??

| yn.ln: oh it goes without saying he's fucking stupid right???

| maxverstappen1: I'm the stupid one?

| yn.ln: yep

| maxverstappen1: Absolute idiot

username: considering she wore her tyres out early doors and she was pushing the car harder than ever it's a wonder she finished at all, yet alone in p1

lando: I never want to get caught in the middle of you and Max again

| yn.ln: sorryyyy ☺️

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 1,792,901 others

f1radiomessages: YN and Max's radios from today

username: not yn barely avoiding him 😭

| username: fr i thought we were about to have a big smash

| username: and the FIA just didn't look into it

username: someone tell verstappen he's a fucking absolute idiot - i love her so much

username: mercedes sound so done

username: someone get bono and gp into therapy

Post Race Interviews /

CC

Interviewer to YN: You've never finished less than P1 here in Miami since you joined F1.

YN: Yeah well you know Verstappen is a fucking idiot and he didn't give me a choice between breaking or going into the back of him. It was foul play from him, it's not a proper victory and yeah, he's just a right dickhead.

Interviewer: It was unfortunate. Are you annoyed the FIA didn't look into it?

YN: I mean, yeah? He turned into the corner and nearly took me out but you know, it happened and they clearly deemed it ok so whatever, I guess.

Interviewer: I mean P5 isn't bad at all though.

YN: Well it is though, isn't it? The only way P5 isn't bad is if Max Verstappen is in P6 but unfortunately he wasn't because he's a prick.

Interviewer: And that was YN LN. Unfortunately I can only apologise for the language used but I think we're all used to that when it comes to LN and Verstappen.

Instagram /

liked by: lando, carlossainz55, mercedesamgf1 and 6,792,901 others

yn.ln: Miami, I love you. I've won this race every year but sadly this is the one that got away because Max Verstappen is a fucking dickhead ☺️👍🏻

maxverstappen1: Maybe if you drove better...

| yn.ln: maybe i'll drive you into the wall

| maxverstappen1: You'd have to catch up with me first, what was it? A P5 finish?

username: they're fighting again

| username: they're quite literally always fighting

username: wow once again max is here before me

username: damn they both just keep threatening to crash each other, huh?

Texts /

Twitter /

Texts /

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 1,092,901 others

f1radiomessages: The radio messages after YN's crash.

username: omg her apologising 😭

| username: she sounds like she's crying, I've never heard her sound like that before

| username: no fr she sounds so weak

username: max sounds so worried for her omg

username: he called her yn

username: max did not give a shit about winning

Texts /

Instagram /

liked by: maxverstappen1, lando, charles_leclerc and 15,792,901 others

yn.ln: sooo....we crashed. thank you for all of the support and well wishes this weekend, i've taken a few days but other than a concussion and a few bruises i'm on the mend 👍🏻 it was the result of a decision made that could have happened to anyone, no one is at fault, the team made a decision and it didn't work. no one to blame, thought i probably could find some way to blame it on max if i tried really hard! anyway back this friday for the second race of the triple header. nice to be back in monaco!

username: ummmm wait a minute she called him MAX

| username: and that is news because?

| username: bestie they never first name each other, for as long as she's been in f1 she's LN and he's Verstappen

| username: WAIT BUT ON THE RADIO HE CALLED HER YN!!

maxverstappen1: I'm more surprised I've not been blamed in this post

| yn.ln: i mean i did say if i tried really hard, you want me to give it a try?

| maxverstappen1: Let's just leave it like this for now, yeah?

| yn.ln: boring

| username: what the fuck is this

| username: nope this is weird, they're being??? nice?? to each other

username: mum and dad are...not fighting??

username: who knew all it would take is a crash

Instagram /

liked by: lando, yn.ln, charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 12,792,901 others

maxverstappen1: Quiet days before the Monaco Grand Prix

username: hate to sound like THAT person but is he soft launching at the same time as yn???

| username: you're so right

| username: what the fuck happened in the days after the crash??

yn.ln: i've had a good nurse these past few days so you're going down this weekend max!

| maxverstappen1: A good and handsome one I heard, no? Maybe being behind you isn't such a bad view

| yn.ln: definitely good and handsome ☺️ whatever you have to tell yourself to feel good about losing though

| username: WHAT DID I JUST READ

username: you know what hell yeah I'm here for it

username: you all said we were crazy for shipping it!!!

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 1,792,901 others

f1radiomessages: Messages from YN and Max.

username: well at least whatever the fuck is happening between them hasn't affected radios

| username: they're the highlight of the race thank god they didn't take that away from us

username: get GP and Bono into therapy

| username: they sound so done

username: not GP calling max out for trying to push her off the track two laps before

| username: max didn't do it stupidly tho 😭

Instagram /

liked by: maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, lando and 10,792,901 others

yn.ln: WE WON MONACO!!!!! it's the race we all want to win and i finally did it 😭😭 thank you for all the support, thank you to the team for the car, thank you to Bono for just being so so incredible and putting up with me and thank you to max verstappen for being so stupid!!!! WE WON MONACO!!!!!

username: thought ynmax fans had a win when she thanked him and then realised she called him stupid, not even dating can change them

username: Max was grinning at her from that second step, that never happens

maxverstappen1: Congratulations even if you are an idiot and had to drive like one to win

| yn.ln: just say i'm better than you and leave

| maxverstappen1: When you've got as many WDC'S as me then we'll talk

| yn.ln: wow a guy gets one WDC and thinks he's the shit

| maxverstappen1: Four but who's counting??

| yn.ln: just congratulate me again

| maxverstappen1: Well done, YN

| yn.ln: thank you max ☺️

Twitter /

Instagram /

liked by: yn.ln, lando, charles_leclerc and 15,792,901 others

maxverstappen1: She's an idiot but I guess congratulations for your win in Monaco, schatje

username: OMG IT'S OFFICAL!!!

username: omg omg omg

lando: Not to sound like the fans but finally!!! I didn't know how much longer I could've kept that secret for

| maxverstappen1: You knew for three months??

| lando: three months too long

| yn.ln: ignore him lando he's stupid, thank you for keep it a secret lmaoo

yn.ln: thank you ☺️ driving alongside you makes it all the more worth it

| maxverstappen1: Couldn't imagine doing it without you

| username: omg they're actually in love tho wtf??

Instagram /

liked by: username, username and 1,792,901 others

f1radiomessages: Today's radios.

username: oh I love Bono and GP

| username: they're both so over it

username: I love that on his last post they were like 'driving with you makes it worth it 😍 couldn't imagine driving without you 😍' but get them on a track and they're calling each other names and threatening to crash each other

Instagram /

liked by: maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 15,792,901 others

yn.ln: fuck max verstappen

username: girl you already are

| yn.ln: 10/10

| maxverstappen1: The biggest compliment you've ever given me really

| yn.ln: great it's gone to his head

username: i love them so much

maxverstappen1: Just say congratulations I did when you won

| yn.ln: yeah yeah congrats or whatever

| maxverstappen1: Try again

| yn.ln: well done on winning, it was a brilliant race

| maxverstappen1: Thank you love

username: oh so they're actually in love

| yn.ln: on track he's my greatest enemy 🔪

| maxverstappen1: And off track you're the biggest baby who needs all the attention

| yn.ln: wow wtf am i being exposed for

| yn.ln: i miss when we we're enemies

| maxverstappen1: No you don't

| yn.ln: no i don't

[armpirate]

Like We Were || Jungkook

pairing: JK x fem!reader || Forgotten love

w.c.: 15.6k

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, car sex, protected sex (Minors DNI! Refrain from reading if you're not +18, and ignore if you don't like this type of content), angst

Aprox. time of reading: 40 / 50 minutes

Summary: Jungkook's world turned upside down after the accident, but he felt it completely broke the moment he knew about your state. You forgot everything. Him, your relationship, everything you had built together... For a while, he thought letting go would be the best choice. The thought of him turning into a stranger after you two were each other's lives was something hard to handle. But living without you was a worst kind of pain. That was why, he'd help you remember, without you knowing the cute guy that you met at the bar was the person you hugged to sleep every night.

MASTERLIST || BONUS

The music was loud -some mix of funky beats and synth pop- but Jungkook could still hear the soft clink of the ice in your glass from across the bar. You were seated at the far end, alone, just like that first time. Just like before.

He leaned against the brick wall, half in shadow, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his thigh. The denim of his jacket was worn in all the places your hands used to touch. You always tugged on his sleeves when you laughed, like he was something to hold onto.

You weren't laughing now.

You looked... calm. Pretty. Like nothing was missing.

Except everything was.

You didn't notice him. Not yet.

And just like the first time, some guy, button-down open too far -smile too wide-, saw you sitting there and made his move.

Jungkook stiffened, exhaling slowly through his nose.

He'd timed it. He knew this was when it happened, when you got approached and rolled your eyes so hard he could feel your annoyance from across the room. He'd used that moment to swoop in, smug and playful, pretending to be your boyfriend just to get the creep to back off. It worked like a charm. You laughed, he stayed. And you two talked until the bar closed.

It was the beginning of everything.

So this had to work.

He watched closely now, waiting for the same flicker of irritation on your face, but it didn't come. Instead, you smiled politely at the guy. Laughed, even. Tucked your hair behind your ear like you were actually interested.

Jungkook felt the sharp stab of something he didn't want to name.

The guy leaned in, too close, and Jungkook couldn't stay back anymore. He pushed off the wall and crossed the bar with purpose in his step, heartbeat hammering, sweat pooling at the base of his neck. He rehearsed his lines a thousand times in his head.

Same as before. Same as before. Same as before.

He stopped at your table, resting his hand on the back of your chair like it belonged there.

"Hey, baby," he said, trying to keep it light, teasing. "Sorry I'm late. You didn't wait long, did you?"

You blinked up at him, surprised. The man sitting across from you frowned, shifting in his seat.

"Excuse me?" you said, brows furrowing.

Your voice was soft, unfamiliar even in its familiarity.

Jungkook's smile didn't falter. He had practiced it in the mirror, wanting to do it just like that first night. "You know I hate it when you start drinking without me" he gave the other man a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mind giving us a minute, bro?"

The man looked between you both, clearly annoyed. But you didn't say anything. You just looked at Jungkook like he was an inconvenient glitch in your night, not someone your soul used to orbit around.

"Whatever," the guy muttered, grabbing his beer and walking away.

Silence settled between you and Jungkook, heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls.

He expected you to be angry, confused. Maybe even impressed like last time. But instead, you stared at him with narrowed eyes and a bemused smile.

"That was... bold," you said, tilting your head. "Do I know you?"

The words punched the air from his lungs like a second car crash.

Those were the words he was so scared to hear when he first knew of your state after the accident.

He didn't visit you a single time you were in the hospital after you woke up, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to bear the idea of you not remembering him. He couldn't bear the idea of not being part of your life any longer.

That was why he asked your friends to erase any trace of him from your apartment, from your phone... He was about to let go, until he thought that maybe that was his chance to start it all over again, to live again the beauty of falling for you, and you falling for him.

You in that pub wasn't a coincidence. Not at all.

He chuckled softly, looking down for a second to hide the devastation in his eyes. "Kind of," he murmured. "We've met. Once or twice."

You looked at him for a long beat. Not with recognition. Not with love. But... curiosity.

"Well, if you're going to crash my night, you might as well sit down."

He blinked.

You gestured to the seat across from you, and he moved slowly, cautiously -as if the world might fall apart again if he moved too fast.

He sat.

You sipped your drink, watching him over the rim of your glass. "So... is this a thing you do often? Pretend to be someone's boyfriend to scare off competition?"

Jungkook let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Only when I'm desperate."

There was a pause. You tilted your head. "And are you?"

He met your gaze. For the first time in weeks, you were looking directly at him. Really looking.

His voice was low, gentle. "I lost something important. I'm just trying to find it again."

You didn't answer right away. You just stared at him, lips twitching like they were debating whether or not to smile. And then -unexpectedly, softly- you did. You smiled. Not because you remembered. Not because you knew what he meant, but because something about him felt warm. Like a song you hadn't heard in years but still knew how to hum.

"Okay, mystery man," you said, tapping your glass against his. "Tell me the story of that thing you're missing, then."

He looked at you, breath catching in his throat. And this time, he let himself hope.

You sat across from him, your finger tracing lazy circles against the condensation on your glass, looking at him attentively as he refused to talk about himself, to go deep in anything that wasn't the moment between you two. And it made you suspicious, but also curious.

"So?" you asked, lips quirking at the corners. "Are you gonna tell me your name, or are we doing the whole mysterious stranger at the bar thing tonight?"

He smirked.

God, it was exactly like the first time.

That smug, amused curl of your lips, that cocky tone as you tilted your head. And he tried to mimic the way he reacted to it, mirroring your smirk. Only this time, there was something behind it. Something heavy in his eyes, buried just deep enough that you couldn't quite reach it.

"No names," he said smoothly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "It ruins the fantasy."

You raised a brow, playing along without thinking. "Oh? And what fantasy is that?"

"The one where you fall in love with me for the night," he replied, not missing a beat. "No expectations. No promises. Just... this."

Your heart skipped, maybe from the way he said it, or maybe from the way he looked at you, like he was seeing more than what was on the surface. It was unnerving, but oddly comforting.

You didn't know him. But something about him felt like déjà vu.

"Hmm," you said, swirling the last of your drink. "Sounds like a line you've used before."

He chuckled under his breath. "Once or twice."

You narrowed your eyes. "Do I look like the kind of girl who falls for strangers in bars?"

"You look like the kind of girl who pretends she doesn't," he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Right before she steals the guy's lighter and walks out with his heart."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and it caught you off guard. It felt... real.

"So you think you've got me all figured out?"

"Not yet," he murmured, gaze softening. "But I'd like to."

The words hung between you like a dare.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your legs, testing him. "Then why don't you tell me something about yourself? Something small."

He hesitated. Not because he didn't want to, but because every answer he had was yours. Every story he could tell was tied to memories you no longer carried.

So instead, he reached for a lie wrapped in truth.

"I box," he said.

You tilted your head. "Box?"

"Yeah. Keeps me sane." he looked down, twisting his ring, a nervous habit he didn't even know he still had. "Started when I was fifteen. Got serious around twenty. It's... one of the only things I'm good at."

"That's not true," you said quietly, before your brain caught up with your mouth.

He looked up sharply, for a second, excited about you possibly remembering something. You blinked, confused at yourself. "I mean, you don't look like someone who only has one skill."

A small smile crept across his face. "You think I look talented, huh?"

"I think you look like you think you're talented."

He let out a breathy laugh and pressed a hand to his chest. "Oof. Beautiful and brutal. You really haven't changed."

You froze for a split second.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, waving it off. "Just... déjà vu."

You stared at him, something prickling at the edge of your mind. That look again. Like he knew you too well for a stranger. Like he was holding a secret in his mouth, keeping it safe.

"Alright, mysterious boxer," you said, sitting up straighter. "If we're doing this no-names thing, then I get to make up your backstory."

He grinned. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Let's see..." you tapped your chin, pretending to study him. "You're probably a spoiled rich kid, dropped out of business school, got into the underground fighting for the thrill."

"Interesting."

"You can drive a car" you continued, "but you ended up with a motorbike because it makes you feel free. You say you hate attention, but you love the way people look at you."

He laughed again, but this one hurt a little. Because it was true. All of it. You were remembering pieces without knowing you were.

"And what about you?" he asked, trying to push through the lump in his throat. "What's your story?"

You looked down at your empty glass, suddenly quiet.

"I don't know yet," you said, half-joking. "Still figuring it out."

He swallowed hard.

"Then let me stick around a little," he said softly. "See how it turns out."

You looked at him, eyes searching. Something pulled inside your chest, like the faint echo of a melody you used to dance to in the dark.

"Okay," you said. "But no names. Just for tonight."

He smiled, genuine, heartbreakingly sweet. "Deal."

And as the bartender slid two more drinks toward your table, Jungkook let himself fall into the lie a little deeper. Because if he couldn't make you remember, he'd make you fall in love again.

Jungkook had chosen the same quiet little café for your "first date", the place where you'd spent hours sipping overpriced lattes, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He'd kept it simple, just like that night. The table by the window, the soft hum of the city outside, the warm, golden glow of the café lights wrapping around the two of you like a blanket.

It was perfect, or it should have been.

He'd prepared for this moment. Everything was planned. Even the awkwardness that he had to recreate.

But as soon as the waitress dropped off the drinks and Jungkook reached for his, he fumbled. His fingers brushed against the edge of the cup, and the entire thing tipped over.

Splash.

The coffee spilled across the table, splashing onto his lap and soaking the front of his white shirt. Jungkook pressed his lips together, omitting the huge sigh after he managed to ruin the t-shirt you bought for him.

On your first day, he wore one of his favorite t-shirts before he ruined it by accidentally spilling the coffee over him -which, later, would end up with one of the most touching gifts you'd ever given him: the same shirt, brand new and clean.

He went through the same, although this time, it wasn't accidental. He spilled the coffee on purpose and he was wearing the same t-shirt you bought him.

It had been so embarrassing the first time. The coffee had scalded him, leaving him with a red mark on his skin. You'd laughed so hard that night, teasing him endlessly as he frantically tried to clean himself up.

But now, instead of laughing, you stood up, your face immediately flooded with worry.

"Oh my God, Jungkook, are you okay?" you reached across the table, instinctively grabbing a napkin, your hands trembling slightly as you dabbed at the wet spots on his shirt.

He watched you, caught between confusion and guilt. This was supposed to be fun. This was supposed to be a game.

"You're supposed to laugh," he said with a nervous chuckle, his tone strained as he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "You always laugh when I do this."

But you didn't laugh. You were too focused on him, on making sure he wasn't hurt.

"Jungkook, you're burning up!" you looked down at his shirt and noticed the red splotch from the coffee. The way his face twisted in discomfort made something in your chest tighten.

"I'm fine," he lied, wiping at the coffee stain with his napkin, still trying to brush it off like it was just another part of the act.

But when you kept leaning forward, your eyes full of concern, he felt that same vulnerability creep up on him, the one he tried so hard to bury. The one that always came to the surface when you'd showed him a kindness that had no ulterior motive.

You didn't pull back. Instead, you leaned closer, your fingers brushing against his skin as you carefully checked the burn mark, trying to gauge how serious it was.

"Please, let me take a look at it," you said quietly, your voice shaky with worry.

Jungkook's chest tightened, and his heart hammered in his ribcage. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to make you remember. He was supposed to recreate the fun, the banter, the way things were before.

But instead, he felt like he was falling apart in front of you.

"Hey, it's really nothing," he insisted, trying to pull away, but your grip tightened.

"No, it's not nothing," you said, your voice softer now, almost as if you were reassuring yourself. "This could leave a scar. What if it gets worse? You're not fine, Jungkook."

He finally allowed you to inspect the burn, the cool concern in your touch contrasting sharply with the heat that still lingered on his skin. It made his breath hitch, but you weren't teasing him. You weren't laughing at his clumsiness. You were genuinely worried about him.

It was so... different. It wasn't the playful teasing he remembered. It wasn't the way you used to mock him for every little thing. You were taking this seriously, as though he was the important thing at this moment. Not the game. Not the memories he was trying to recreate.

You met his gaze, your eyes full of something, something close to panic.

"Are you sure you're okay?" you asked again, more insistent now. "Maybe you should go to the hospital and..."

"No," he interrupted, his voice tight. "I'm fine. Really. It's not as bad as it looks."

But you didn't seem convinced, still gently dabbing at his shirt, your touch careful and concerned, the weight of your eyes never leaving him. It made him feel seen in a way he hadn't been before. The memory of that first date -the teasing, the laughter- felt like something out of a past life now, replaced by a deep, undeniable care he didn't know how to handle.

"I think we need to get you cleaned up," you said, standing up. "Come on. I'm taking you to the restroom."

He followed you, unable to hide the tightness in his chest, the way his pulse quickened. This wasn't the same. It wasn't supposed to be like this. And yet, the way you gently guided him toward the restroom made him realize that maybe... maybe this was better. The way you worried about him, your eyes soft but full of something deeper, made him feel like he wasn't a stranger to you. Even if you couldn't remember who he was, the connection was still there. Unspoken, yet undeniable.

When you reached the restroom, you immediately pulled paper towels from the dispenser, and as you handed him a few, your fingers brushed his. The smallest touch sent a shiver through his spine.

"You're not making this easy," he muttered, his voice laced with that same nervous humor he'd used to cover his discomfort, but there was no bite to it now. Just a soft, vulnerable edge.

You gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, but it was warm, and you were still checking him over.

"I know," you said, your voice gentle. "But I need to make sure you're okay, Jungkook."

And for the first time since everything had shifted, since the accident, since the loss of memories, Jungkook wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were remembering him in a way he could never fully understand.

He was disappointed at first, but not anymore.

It was late when you both ended up outside the apartment building. He had to pretend you were guiding him when, actually, he knew the steps there by heart. He could've easily been blinded and he still would've found his way to your door.

The city buzzed quietly around you, muted streetlights casting gold halos across the wet pavement, the air still damp from an earlier drizzle. Jungkook walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulder brushing against yours every few steps.

He was quiet.

You were too.

The kind of silence that felt almost sacred. Like something was waiting to happen.

He'd walked you home. Just like that first night. After coffee and ruined shirts, after shy smiles and missed glances, he'd done exactly what he did all those years ago: offered to walk you back, pretending it was "just in case." Pretending he wasn't already hopelessly caught in your orbit.

But this time, the orbit felt unfamiliar to you. You didn't recognize the gravity between you. Not logically.

Only emotionally.

There was something there. Something unspoken.

You reached the front steps, turning to face him, and he stopped just a breath too close. He looked at you the same way he had back then, like he was trying to memorize your features, like the weight of the moment sat heavy on his chest.

"I'm not gonna ask to come up," he said softly, almost repeating the words he'd used the first time. "That's not how I do things."

You tilted your head. "But you want to come up, don't you?"

A small, surprised smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah. But... Eventually."

"Eventually... That means you're confident on a second date" you teased him.

"I know there will be"

You both laughed, gently, though yours was more confused than amused. Something about that vibe felt familiar, like you had lived it before. Although you couldn't tell. Not clearly. It was like catching pieces of a dream you weren't sure you'd had. But the way your body reacted to him -how your heart raced, how the tips of your fingers tingled when he stepped a little closer- it made it hard to ignore the sense of déjà vu.

He licked his lips, suddenly nervous.

His mind started flooding with memories from that night. He kissed you for the first time there, while you were leaning against the railing, with that half-smile that always drove him crazy. A smile that told him you already knew what was about to happen, but you were just waiting to know if he dared to do it.

He blinked at you, caught between then and now. Because you were the same person, but your eyes were sparkling differently from that night. There was something in your vibe that told him you weren't with him. Not completely.

"I wish I could kiss you right now" he whispered out loud.

And then, softly: "You wish... Is there something stopping you?"

His breath caught.

God, he wanted to. He wanted to lean in and kiss you exactly the way he had that night, slow and reckless, like he had nothing to lose. But this wasn't that night. This wasn't you. Not really. You didn't remember the tension, the stolen glances, the anticipation that had built up between you back then.

You were looking at him with new eyes.

And still...

You hadn't pulled away.

He raised his hand slowly, brushing your hair behind your ear. His fingers grazed your jaw, tentative, reverent, like he was afraid he might scare you off. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and that one simple motion shattered something in him.

So he whispered, "I'm going to kiss you now," and you nodded before he even finished the sentence.

The kiss wasn't like the first time.

It wasn't playful. It wasn't bold.

It was quiet.

Tender.

A question instead of a declaration.

Jungkook kissed you like he was saying please remember me, and you kissed him back like you were saying I don't, but I feel you anyway.

Your hands found his jacket, gripping the fabric just slightly, like you needed something to hold onto. His thumb brushed against your cheek. You melted into him, the city and the night and the world dissolving around the pressure of his mouth on yours.

And when he finally pulled back -breathless, eyes wide and glassy- you stayed close, your forehead pressing against his, like it was the only place in the world that made sense.

"That didn't feel new," you whispered, your voice soft and trembling. "That felt like... like I've done it a thousand times before."

Jungkook let out a broken laugh, one that sounded suspiciously like a choked sob.

"You have," he whispered back. "You have."

And for the first time, he let go of the script. Stopped trying to make you remember by recreating the past.

"I mean, maybe... you dreamed about it" he corrected himself quickly, as soon as he was aware of the confused look.

Jungkook sat at the end of the table, eyes fixed on the untouched glass of beer in front of him. The bar was the same. The booth was the same. Even the playlist hadn't changed much, still throwing out old songs that reminded him of shared nights, loud laughter, your hand under the table laced in his.

But this time... your seat was empty.

"You did it?" Jimin asked quietly from across the table, voice careful not to trigger whatever thread was barely holding Jungkook together. "You brought her here again?"

Jungkook didn't respond right away. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, the breath shaky and uneven. "It's where we used to hang out all the time. If there's a chance it triggers something..."

Namjoon leaned forward, concern etched into every line of his face. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, man."

"I'm not doing this for me," Jungkook said too quickly, then caught himself.

He was. Of course he was.

He needed you to remember -not just for you, but because he didn't know who he was without you. And this version of you, this distant version who looked at him like he was just another charming stranger, it was slowly unraveling him.

"She used to sit right there," Jungkook muttered, tapping the empty cushion beside him with his knuckle. "She'd steal fries off my plate even though she ordered her own. Called it a 'tax for good company.'"

The group chuckled softly, but no one really smiled.

"She used to kick me under the table when I made bad jokes," Jungkook went on, his voice cracking ever so slightly. "And whenever someone flirted with me, she'd hold my hand tighter. Not because she was jealous. Just to remind me she was there. And now..."

He looked up suddenly, eyes rimmed with red.

"She is here," he whispered, "but she's not. She doesn't know she was my everything."

No one spoke. Hoseok reached out first, a quiet hand on Jungkook's shoulder. Jin slid his beer across the table without a word, just as he had the night Jungkook told them you were in the hospital.

"I brought her here last night," Jungkook continued, staring ahead like he was talking to someone far away. "Sat in this exact spot. Tried to recreate the night we celebrated her getting that job at the museum. Even told the waiter it was her promotion night again. He just looked at me like I was insane, and I had to tell her it was an excuse to get a discount."

He laughed bitterly.

"She smiled at everyone but me."

Another beat of silence passed.

"Why don't you just tell her?" Taehyung asked quietly. "Tell her who you are. What you were to her."

Jungkook shook his head violently, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "Because if she really doesn't remember... then it's not her choice to love me again. It's just pressure. A story she doesn't recognize. She deserves to choose me. Even if it means she doesn't choose me."

His voice broke completely on the last word. No one had seen Jungkook cry in years, not like this. Not with his head down, fists clenched, eyes burning with grief that hadn't found closure.

Jimin reached across the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing once.

"We'll help you," he said quietly. "Whatever memory you want to bring back, whatever moment you need to recreate next... we've got you. Even if she doesn't remember yet, we do."

Jungkook swallowed hard.

His voice was hoarse when he whispered, "The picnic. The one in spring. With the wildflowers."

Namjoon blinked. "The one where you both got locked out of the car and had to hitchhike back?"

Jungkook gave a weak laugh through the tears. "Yeah. That one."

The friends all exchanged looks.

"God, she teased you for weeks after that," Hoseok smiled.

Jungkook's eyes turned to the door. "I just need to see her laugh like that again."

The air was soft with spring, the kind of day where sunlight filtered through a pale blue sky and the breeze carried the scent of blooming grass. A wide field stretched out before them, dotted with patches of wildflowers that danced like secrets on the wind.

Jungkook laid the blanket down carefully, pressing the corners with rocks just like he remembered. Every detail had been replicated: the chipped thermos filled with cold brew, the half-burnt cinnamon muffins, the little Bluetooth speaker already playing the playlist he'd made for you back then. Even the weather was working in his favor like the universe just wanted things to work out.

He glanced toward you as you stepped barefoot on the blanket, your shoes left somewhere in the grass. You looked peaceful -curious, but peaceful.

"This is... beautiful," you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Feels like déjà vu."

Jungkook smiled, carefully setting down the sandwiches. "You... I mean, a friend said that exact same thing I brought him here." he lied.

You looked up. "Really?"

"Hmm." he plopped down across from you, legs crossed and heart pounding. "Y.... He also told me I'd probably forget the sunscreen and get a sunburn on just my nose."

You paused. "...Did you?"

He pointed to his nose with a sheepish grin. "Roasted like a marshmallow."

But it wasn't any friend, it was you who warned him, and it was you who started teasing him for looking all red for days.

A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it, and his heart ached at the sound. That laugh. That warmth. It was like watching the sun through fog. But something else was happening too, little things.

You hummed along to a song playing through the speaker, one that wasn't particularly popular. Jungkook had added it to the playlist on a whim, years ago. You shouldn't have recognized it.

For a moment, it felt like everything was working out. Like he was making a good job on just reliving everything that happened.

But then... the keys.

He was about to whine about the car being locked out, but you stopped him before he could, swinging the keys in your hand up in the air.

As he stood to throw away a crumpled napkin shortly after you arrived, you casually reached into the open car door and plucked the keys from the ignition where he'd left them hanging. You didn't even look twice. Just dropped them into your bag like it was second nature.

Jungkook froze, confused about the sound. Confused about the fact that you had picked them up.

"Hey," he said slowly, cautiously, "why'd you grab the keys?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"The keys," he repeated, nodding toward your bag. "You took them out of the car."

You hesitated, frowning faintly. "Oh. I don't know. Just... reflex, I guess."

Jungkook's chest tightened.

Because last time -back then- you hadn't grabbed them. He'd left them in the ignition, and you'd both realized hours later, after the car locked itself automatically. It was the beginning of a mini-disaster -your phone was dead, his had no signal, and the two of you ended up hitchhiking back with a couple of old farmers and a trunk full of potatoes.

It had been the most ridiculous, uncomfortable, hilarious afternoon of his life.

And now -this time- you had stopped it from happening. Without realizing. Without remembering.

Something in you had changed the outcome.

"Are you okay?" you asked suddenly, your eyes scanning his face.

Jungkook quickly shook himself back to the moment, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I just... I was kind of looking forward to getting locked out again."

You tilted your head. "Again?"

He grinned, half-teasing, half-choked with emotion. That was the first time you held his hand for more than five seconds without making a joke about his rings. But now that chance was gone.

"I mean... getting locked out. That's it. Not again"

You stared at him, lips parted, like you didn't know whether to laugh or ask questions.

But you didn't ask. Not yet.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed his hand, quietly, gently. No jokes. No teasing. Just fingers threading through his, like you'd done it a hundred times before.

Jungkook swallowed hard and looked away, blinking back the sting behind his eyes.

"I really like being around you," you said softly, thumb brushing over his knuckles. "It's strange... but comfortable. Like... like I've missed you, even though I don't know you."

And with that, the tension in his shoulders gave out.

He didn't say anything.

He just nodded, eyes closed, clutching your hand like it was the only tether he had left.

"You don't need to lock us out of the car for us to spend more time together" and there it was, the teasing. "You should just... ask".

The sun had dipped below the hills after they both had finally chosen to stay there, painting the sky in deep purples and sleepy oranges. What began as an afternoon picnic had slowly turned into an evening spent inside the car, warm and close, with music playing softly in the background and empty snack wrappers strewn across the dash.

Jungkook sat in the passenger seat, one leg propped up, his shoulder brushing against yours every time he shifted. Outside, the air had cooled, the windows fogged slightly with your breath and the temperature drop, casting a soft haze over the world beyond.

You were both laughing, genuine and unfiltered.

"I still can't believe you tried to impress your professor with a meme," you giggled, hugging your knees to your chest.

Jungkook groaned, burying his face in his hands. "It was intellectual humor. I was ahead of my time!"

You nudged him, and he looked over -smiling, disarmed.

He knew all your stories by heart, he swore he could tell them by himself. But he just loved hearing them from you again.

There was something different in the air now.

The kind of quiet that only comes after hours of sharing too much. The kind where words run out, and the silence doesn't feel awkward. It feels close.

The car had grown dark. Only the faint glow of the overhead light lingered, and the soft ambient music, now long into the playlist's more intimate side, filled the small space with low, lazy beats.

Your gaze lingered on his profile.

Something in the way he looked that night -quiet, open, raw- pulled at something deep in you. Maybe it was the soft rasp of his voice. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he'd seen this moment before, and had been waiting for it to happen all over again.

You didn't speak as your hand reached for his.

He took it like he always had -with ease, like it was second nature. Like your fingers belonged between his.

"I don't really understand what's happening between us," you whispered, voice barely audible over the music. "But I don't want it to stop."

Jungkook's breath caught.

He turned toward you slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment -like he was caught between joy and heartbreak.

"You don't have to understand it," he said softly, "just... stay in it."

You nodded. "Okay."

And then you kissed him. Not like strangers. Not like it was new. But like your mouth remembered the shape of his. Like your body leaned into his not with curiosity, but with longing that had been stitched into your bones.

Jungkook sighed against your lips, his hand cradling your face like he was scared you might disappear if he let go. The kiss deepened slowly -lazy, warm, like hours of conversation had been leading to this single moment of surrender.

Without a word, he climbed into the backseat, pulling you gently with him. Limbs tangled, laughter hushed as you maneuvered into the cramped space. The cold pressed against the windows while your bodies grew warmer.

Clothes slipped away in pieces, not rushed -felt. And you didn't feel shy, you didn't feel nervous when his eyes fell over your bare breasts, because the comfort mixed with a familiarity you weren't sure how to handle.

Good lord, he loved the way you always arched for him.

Jungkook cupped your breasts, his thumbs momentarily twirling around your nipples as he leaned down to kiss you again. Your tongues tangled together, and the taste was so intoxicating but pleasant that you could only find yourself holding onto him even tighter.

"It's the first time I like the taste of cigarettes so bad" you admitted out of breath with a smirk.

His hands mapped your skin like it was familiar ground, his mouth following with reverence. He didn't worship you like someone new -he remembered you, in every soft kiss down your neck, every pause where he just looked.

His lips went back to yours, crashing against your mouth as he dragged you on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

His mind kept screaming, but he kept his lips sealed, forcing the kiss to grow even rougher as a way to keep those words from slipping and scare you away.

"Wait... Let me..." you broke the kiss, trying to readjust yourself on top of him.

Neither of you could help but giggle the moment you looked into each other's eyes as you shifted on his lap.

With a hand on your neck, he pulled you into a new kiss, making sure his arms around you kept your bodies glued to each other. He groaned into the kiss when he felt your hand slipping in between your bodies to redirect him to your wet channel, both of you moaning as you pushed him into you the moment you lowered your hips.

You weren't in love with him. Not yet. But your body moved like it still was.

Your hips met his with the perfect depth and synch, like the two of you were dancing to a dance you had practiced several times before.

And you had.

Jungkook couldn't move his eyes away from you. His arms remained wrapped around your waist, just enough to pull your torso close to him and have his lips closing around one of your nipples, one hand teasing the other, while his free hand squeezed a spot below your ribs that made you squirm and moan.

It was like he had studied your body, like his only aim was to make you feel good.

"Jungkook" you moaned with a cracked whine.

He swore he was going insane. He flipped the two of you over the backseat, resting his body in between your legs to pound into you, to angle his hips and make you lose control of your own body. One of your hands was on the window, the other on his shoulder. Yet he needed more.

With a rough movement, he moved your hand away from the window to place it over his face. "Touch me, Y/n. I need your hands on me" he almost begged.

And for that one night, in the backseat under a thousand quiet stars, Jungkook let himself fall again. Silently. Without hope or demand. Just the sweetness of closeness, of skin on skin, of your breath in his ear whispering his name like it still meant something.

When it was over, tangled together under the soft cotton of his jacket, you fell asleep on his chest, heart steady against his. Jungkook didn't sleep. He just held you, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the car, wondering how long he could keep pretending that fate would give you back to him.

For the first time, Jungkook didn't feel like recreating everything that happened between you two. It wasn't necessary. He was so caught up in taking the old you back, that he forgot about the possibility of him falling for you all over again under a whole different circumstance.

Your relationship was bound to happen again.

The next morning, the sun rose quietly. It didn't burst into the sky -it crept. Gentle and gold, seeping through the fogged windows of the car in soft beams that filtered across tangled limbs and rumpled jackets.

You stirred first.

Your cheek was pressed against the bare skin of Jungkook's chest, rising and falling with every slow breath he took. His arms were still around you, protective and steady, and his heartbeat -low and calm- drummed beneath your ear.

You didn't move.

There was something safe about this. About waking up here, wrapped in a warmth that didn't feel foreign. Even though it should have.

Your fingers shifted slightly, brushing against his ribs, and he tightened his hold just a little, as if even in sleep, he was scared you'd slip away.

Jungkook was awake.

He had been for a while.

He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. Just breathed you in and let the silence hold him. Let the weight of your body against his lull the ache in his chest to something soft, something tolerable. But even in this dreamlike calm, he knew it wasn't real.

You didn't know him.

Not really.

Not the way you used to.

Still, when you tilted your face up and blinked sleepily at him, your mouth barely parted, skin still kissed by the warmth of last night, Jungkook let himself pretend. Just for a second.

"Hi," you whispered.

His heart squeezed. "Hey."

A quiet smile tugged at your lips. "Did we actually...?"

He gave a soft laugh. "Hmm. We did."

You leaned back slightly, your eyes scanning his features. The messy hair. The tired eyes. The little indent on his lower lip where he always bit when nervous. "I don't usually do that."

"I know," he said gently, gaze never leaving yours.

There was something in the way he said it -too sure, too knowing-, but before you could question it, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips lingered on your cheek.

"You're cold," he murmured.

"I'm not," you replied, but you didn't stop him when he pulled his hoodie over your head and helped you into it, even though it was far too big and still smelled like him.

You let yourself curl into his side again as if you'd done it before. Like you knew how.

Outside, the world was waking up: birds calling through the trees, the breeze rustling through tall grass. But inside the car, time was still. The windows glowed softly with morning light. Neither of you spoke for a long while.

Eventually, you tilted your head toward him again. "I feel like I'm always a step behind around you."

Jungkook swallowed. "What do you mean?"

You shrugged, fingers absently tracing the tattoo on his arm. "Like you know something I don't. Like... I'm supposed to understand all this, and I just... don't."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his face toward the window, eyes catching the sunlight like it might burn away the truth if he held it too long.

"I guess," he said slowly, "some things just need time."

You nodded, even if you didn't really understand. "Is it crazy that I trust you?"

"No," Jungkook replied, his voice so soft it could have shattered. "Not crazy at all."

And in that moment, you reached out and laced your fingers through his again.

No questions. No demands.

Just skin on skin. A touch that said, I don't remember, but this feels right.

Jungkook closed his eyes and let himself stay in the dream for one moment longer.

The theater was quiet.

Not empty, just quiet. One of those midweek showings where only a handful of people were scattered across the seats, too far to hear or care what anyone else was doing.

You sat next to Jungkook with a bucket of popcorn balanced between you and the sleeve of your drink pressed against your thigh. The previews flickered across the screen, too loud, too flashy, but neither of you really cared what movie was playing.

He'd picked the film. Something fun. Light. Familiar. But you kept sneaking glances at him instead of watching.

He looked different in the darkness. More relaxed. A little slouched. His beanie pulled low and a soft flannel shirt hanging open over his tee. It was almost domestic, comforting, the way he sat beside you like he'd done it a hundred times.

Maybe he had.

You just didn't know it.

While the next trailer blared on screen, Jungkook leaned forward, checking his phone. Probably a text from a friend -you hadn't met any of them yet, but he talked about them often. Warmly.

He always spoke like there were pieces of you in his stories, but never named them.

You glanced over casually... and paused.

His phone was dim, but not enough to miss it. There you were, on his screen. His lockscreen. It was a photo of you in the sun, squinting at the camera, wearing sunglasses perched lazily on your nose and a soft smile playing on your lips. You looked free. Happy. Head tilted back slightly like you'd just been laughing at something he said.

But you had no memory of it.

You didn't remember the shirt you were wearing. Or where you were. Or him being there.

Your chest tightened, breath caught somewhere high in your throat.

It was just a photo. But it was proof of something bigger, something you couldn't quite reach.

"You okay?" he asked suddenly, turning to look at you.

You blinked, startled. He must have seen your face. Or maybe the way you were staring at his phone a second too long.

You nodded quickly, brushing it off. "Yeah. Just... tired."

He didn't press, but you could feel it. That slight shift in his posture. That tension in the air like he knew you'd seen too much. Or maybe... not enough.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and reached out, his hand brushing yours between the armrests. When you didn't pull away, he linked your fingers gently, grounding you with the warmth of his palm.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He smelled like something soft and earthy. Familiar. Like you'd worn his hoodie once, weeks ago, and the scent had never left your skin.

"I like being with you," you murmured, almost a whisper.

Jungkook's grip tightened ever so slightly.

"I like being with you too," he said, voice hushed, almost cracking.

Neither of you watched the movie. You just sat in the dark, wrapped in something fragile and unnamed, with your face on his lockscreen and a hundred memories you couldn't see, but were somehow starting to feel.

After the movie ended, you both chose to take your love somewhere else.

You were back at your apartment now, Jungkook leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping on that awful canned iced coffee he swore by, while you sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone.

He was telling you a story, something about a prank his friend -Taehyung- had pulled at a wedding. It was strange, telling you a story you were once part of, as if you had never been there. But he had grown used to it.

But your mind wasn't really on it, because the image had stuck with you.

The lockscreen.

That photo of you on his phone.

You chewed your lip and finally cleared your throat. "Can... can I ask you something?"

Jungkook stilled, the can pausing mid-air. "Sure."

You stood, walked to him slowly, and held out your hand. "Your phone."

His brows lifted. "Why?"

"Just wanna see something."

He hesitated, just for a second, before unlocking it and handing it over. You navigated to the lockscreen, pulling it up again. Your heart gave a strange little flutter.

"This picture..." you started softly, holding it out between you. "Where did you find this?"

Jungkook looked down at the screen like it was something fragile. His thumb twitched against the seam of his jeans.

"That was... I scrolled through your social media, and I found it" his voice was careful while he came up with a lie. "I thought you looked great, so I just... took it. I can change it if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, it's just... I was surprised after seeing myself on your phone" you admitted. "I didn't expect it".

He nodded. "You don't mind it?"

You frowned slightly. "No. I actually look good" you teased with a chuckle. "I look happy there".

Jungkook swallowed hard, his gaze lowering as he murmured. "You were."

You studied his face for a long moment. Then your lips curved upward, just a little. "Your taste in screensavers is nice, I guess."

He let out a soft chuckle, but the sound didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Funny, though," you added, unlocking your own phone. "Mine's kind of similar."

You turned your screen toward him. It was a photo of a man's back -broad shoulders, hair messy in the wind, walking just ahead of you. The setting sun behind him made it hard to see clearly, but the place... it was the same river. The same wildflowers. The same time of year.

Jungkook stared at it. Everything in him stilled.

"That's... a coincidence," he said, voice almost too calm.

You nodded slowly. "Guess so."

But neither of you said anything for a while.

You left the photo up a little longer, as if trying to feel something stir in your chest. Some sense of connection. But all you felt was the silence between you -quiet, waiting, fragile.

Then Jungkook smiled softly, stepping forward and brushing your hair behind your ear.

"Maybe we just like the same places," he said gently.

You tilted your head, searching his face. "Maybe."

But as you leaned into his touch, your hand brushing lightly against his chest, you couldn't shake the strange flutter in your ribs, like a memory had tried to surface, only to slip beneath the water again.

"It was the lockscreen I had when I woke up" you frowned.

Jungkook froze when he heard that confession, but he remained silent, waiting for you to speak, waiting for the next thing you'd say.

"I haven't told you before... Well, it isn't something I go around telling" you nervously chuckled. "Some months ago... I had an accident. A pretty bad accident. I was in a coma for a few weeks, and when I woke up my mind was completely blank from the past five years and on. I didn't recognize my friends, or my workplace... I didn't even expect to be living here. But, somehow, that lockscreen was the only thing that made sense and gave me calm when everything was upside down. And it's ridiculous, because I can't see his face, or know who he is, but it just makes me... feel relaxed. Like nothing will be wrong".

Jungkook felt his lip trembling. For the first time in weeks, he felt guilty. Because he left you alone when you needed support, because he abandoned you when you needed guidance, only because he was scared of his own feelings when you looked at him differently. And now, he was scared of how you'd react when you remembered things.

"Why are you crying?" you scoffed, feeling your own eyes filling up with tears.

"Oh?" he asked, brushing the reverse of his fingers against his cheeks, finding them wet.

"You aren't feeling sorry for me, aren't you?" you asked, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Never, bunny".

The nickname slipped from his lips before he could hold it back. And he noticed, the flash of surprise, the sparkle in you eyes under the tears.

That nickname stirred something in you.

"Bunny?"

He remembered the way you'd always jump around when excited, the way you'd make small jumps instead of just walking or running, and that nickname made complete sense for him back in the day.

"It's a nickname. It just... slipped out"

"I like it" you confessed with a giggle.

The sun was dipping low behind the skyline as Jungkook waited outside your office building.

He leaned casually against his Jeep, black hoodie pulled over his head, one boot crossed over the other as he scrolled through his phone. To anyone passing by, he looked like someone killing time -apathetic, detached.

But his thumb hadn't moved in two minutes, because his entire body was tense. Stomach in knots. Eyes flicking toward the doors every few seconds.

You were running late.

Again.

Which gave his mind far too much time to spiral.

He hadn't expected this part to hurt so much. Watching you build new routines that didn't have him in them. Smiling at strangers, coming out of buildings he'd waited for you a hundred times before -when he was your boyfriend, your ride home, your safe place. Now he was just... someone you were getting to know. And that should've been enough, except today, it almost wasn't.

"Jungkook?" a familiar voice called.

He stiffened. His eyes snapped toward the sound, heart dropping like a stone.

It was one of your coworkers. Julie, maybe? He vaguely remembered her from a few parties, or maybe your birthday dinner. The two of you had once danced together after too much wine. She had no filter and a memory like a vault.

She approached, smiling wide. "Oh my God, it is you! Wow. It's been a while. Y/n didn't say you were picking her up today... Are you two back together?"

Jungkook felt his blood turn cold.

His mouth opened, then closed again. "I... uh..."

"She looked so lost after the accident," Julie kept going, oblivious. "But I always had a feeling you'd come back. You two were like..."

"Hey, sorry," Jungkook cut in suddenly, eyes locked on the entrance.

You were walking out. Right. Now.

Shit.

"Can we not... talk about this right now?" he muttered, voice urgent but polite, already stepping away.

Julie blinked, confused. "What? Wait, aren't you...?"

"I'll text you," he said quickly, already turning his back.

And then he was moving, crossing the pavement fast, intercepting you before your eyes could sweep over to Julie's side of the street.

"There you are," he said with a practiced smile, pulling open the passenger door. "Rough day?"

You blinked at the sudden warmth, distracted by the way he touched your lower back, guiding you gently into the car like he'd done it a thousand times.

"Exhausting," you muttered as you slid in.

He rounded the Jeep fast, hands tight on the steering wheel by the time he started the engine. You didn't notice the way he was breathing just a little too fast. Or how he double-checked his mirrors like he wasn't just looking for traffic, but watching to see if someone was still standing nearby.

"How was your day?" you asked casually.

Jungkook gave a small, breathless laugh.

"Almost perfect."

The drive was silent for a few minutes, until you broke the silence again, curiously looking at him while turning your body to him.

"Do you know Julie?"

"What?" he nervously eyed you, his glance on you lasted less than two seconds.

"Julie, you were talking to her before I got out"

Jungkook sighed, trying to come up with an explanation. "Oh, yeah. She's a friend of a friend. It's been a long time since I saw her last".

Before you could ask more about it, he rushed to come up with a new topic that would distract you from the fact that he knew your coworker. And he breathed out, relieved, when you didn't fight back as you played along with his conversation.

Three weeks slipped by like honey in warm tea -slow, golden, and somehow too sweet to be real. You and Jungkook weren't official, but something between you had rooted itself deep. You texted constantly, called often. He picked you up from work most days. You spent weekends together now: grocery shopping like old lovers, laughing too loudly in parks, falling asleep on his shoulder without even realizing it.

And still... you never asked. Never pried about the way he knew exactly how you liked your coffee, or how his hand found yours in the dark before you could even reach. Just like you didn't ask why he was so against you meeting his friends, or how he didn't want to meet yours. At some point, you just assumed he didn't have any, and he just was too embarrassed to admit it. Just like you accepted he was more of a homebody than someone who went out and about, since most of your dates were either in places with barely anyone around or in either of your houses.

You didn't know why you didn't ask, maybe you were afraid of the answer.

That night, and after too much arguing, you finally managed to convince Jungkook on going out. The pub looked just like you remembered it: old brick walls, low golden lights, the constant hum of music and conversation thick in the air.

"Déjà vu," you said, stepping in beside him. "This place feels... familiar. And I don't mean it because of the day you brought me here a few weeks ago."

Jungkook smiled, a little sad, a little hopeful. "It should."

You glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

He shrugged like it didn't matter. "It's just the kind of place that feels like a memory."

You were led to the same table. Same corner. Same view of the bar. Jungkook even ordered the same drinks for you both, though you didn't notice that part. You were too busy scanning the room, trying to place this strange pull in your chest.

"Have you been here a lot?" you asked.

He took a sip of his beer, staring at the spot where, once upon a time, he'd stepped in to save you from a stranger's wandering hands. "A few times before" he said "and it kind of stuck with me."

You smiled. "Because of the atmosphere?"

He met your eyes. "Because of the person I came with."

Your gaze faltered at the heat behind his words. You swallowed hard, suddenly shy. "She must've been special."

"She still is."

You laughed awkwardly, not sure how to reply to that -if you were misreading the moment or if he meant exactly what your gut whispered he did.

"Hey," you said, trying to shift the tone. "You keep saying all these mysterious, romantic things and then changing the subject. Should I be worried you're secretly married or something?"

Jungkook grinned, but it was the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not married."

"But?"

"But some things are hard to explain."

You nodded slowly, reaching for your drink. "Well... I guess I don't need everything explained. Not if it keeps feeling like this."

He looked up sharply at that.

"Like what?" he asked.

You hesitated.

"Like I've done all this before," you said quietly. "With you."

And Jungkook -heart breaking and healing all at once- only whispered back:

"You have."

But you didn't hear it. Or maybe you just didn't let yourself.

So you smiled again, tilting your glass toward his with a playful smirk. "To familiar strangers."

Jungkook clinked his glass against yours. And for a moment, everything in him screamed to tell you the truth. But instead, he just said:

"To second chances."

As the night went on, you had shifted in the booth beside Jungkook, your hand brushing his every now and then, and neither of you moved it away. The world felt slower tonight, like it was holding its breath around you.

The conversation had dipped into quiet comfort when a voice sliced through it, casual and familiar:

"Jungkook?"

He turned quickly. A tall man with honey-blond hair and a denim jacket was approaching with a grin, Mitchell. You didn't recognize him, but the smile on his face said he recognized you.

And worse, he knew you.

"Dude! I didn't know you two were back together!" Mitchell laughed as he reached them, clapping Jungkook on the shoulder before turning toward you. "Y/n, you look good! How's your head, by the way? That whole accident thing was a shock for everyone..."

"Hey," Jungkook said sharply.

His voice was low. Controlled. But his hand gripped Mitchell's arm with a pressure that meant stop talking now. He blinked, confused.

You glanced between them, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Sorry, do I... know you?" you asked, trying to place the man's face.

Mitchell looked stunned for a beat. Then opened his mouth again to speak, but he was interrupted before he could make a sound.

"She's not who you think," Jungkook cut in, voice firmer now. "You're probably confusing her with someone else."

Mitchell's eyebrows shot up.

"What? Jungkook..."

Jungkook stepped closer to him, almost blocking you from view. "Drop it," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Please."

Mitchell froze.

And in that moment, something passed between them -something heavy, like grief and fear woven together. Then, after a pause too long to be casual, Mitchell gave a tight smile.

"Oh," he said finally, turning toward you. "My bad. You just... reminded me of someone. Sorry about that."

You laughed softly, but something about the exchange had stiffened your spine. "No worries. I get that a lot, apparently."

Jungkook's hand slid to the small of your back. Warm. Protective. A silent plea not to ask more.

You didn't.

Not really.

But as Mitchell waved goodbye and disappeared into the crowd, you glanced up at Jungkook with a quiet curiosity in your eyes.

"Is he an old friend?"

Jungkook smiled gently, like nothing had just happened. "Yeah. Known him for a long time."

You nodded slowly. "He seemed... surprised to see us together."

There was a pause. Just for a breath.

"Guess I surprise people sometimes."

"How did he know... about the accident though?" you furrowed your eyebrows, looking at him cautiously.

"It's... that other person had a light accident, too. It's just a coincidence".

A coincidence, again.

You watched him a second longer before looking away. The conversation moved on, but the moment stayed with you. Like a thread you weren't quite ready to pull.

Actually, neither of you brought up that conversation for the rest of the night, not even when you were back in his place, like you always did with all the small details. You usually shrugged them off, swiped them off the carpet and forgot about them. But there were too many coincidences not to notice the huge bulge under the carpet in the middle of the living room.

The room was quiet, too quiet.

Jungkook's arm lay across your waist, his breath feathering warm against your shoulder, the rhythm steady, soothing. But your mind was anything but.

Even in the dark, the memories -or lack of them- pulsed behind your eyes. You could feel the shadows of things just out of reach, a phantom touch on your hand before you moved. The way he smiled when he thought you weren't looking, the moments where you caught him watching you like you were something lost and he didn't know how to let go.

Your fingers grazed over the sheet as you slowly shifted his arm off your waist. He mumbled something incoherent, but didn't wake.

Barefoot and quiet, you slipped out of the bed and stood in the middle of the room, arms crossing over your chest, heart pounding like a second heartbeat.

Mitchell's voice rang in your ears."That whole accident thing was a shock for everyone..."

Another accident, where the main person also got hit on the head.

"Back together".

And Jungkook's eyes, how fast they had darkened. How quickly he had shut it all down.

The question you'd buried for weeks finally pushed its way to the surface: Was he hiding something? Or someone?

Your stomach churned. What if he had a girlfriend he wasn't telling you about? What if this whole time, this strange intimacy you'd fallen into with him wasn't yours to fall into?

You were pacing in the dark before you realized it, your steps soundless on the cool floor. Back and forth. Breath uneven. Thoughts louder than your heart could handle. And then... thud.

You stumbled as your foot collided with something under the edge of the shelf in his living room. Bending down, your fingers found the edge of a small wooden box: worn, heavy with the kind of weight that wasn't just physical. There was something sacred about it. You shouldn't have opened it, but you did.

Inside were pieces of a life that didn't belong to you. And yet, they did.

A photo lay at the top. You, smiling in a way you'd never seen in the mirror. Your cheeks flushed, your hands cupping Jungkook's face like he was the only thing that existed. His eyes were shut in the photo, a smile tugging at his lips. Pure joy.

Your breath hitched.

Beneath it were dozens more. A photo booth strip of four blurry, laughing frames, a candid of you asleep against his shoulder, a selfie with his nose pressed to your neck, his eyes closed, and a faint lipstick mark on his cheek, you found one where your friends where also in the picture -and, by the way Taehyung was hugging Jungkook, you could tell they were close. And then, at the bottom, you found a familiar photo that made your stomach turn. You were wearing the exact same outfit of the picture he had as his lockscreen, and he was wearing the same clothes as the man in yours, same background... The only difference was that, this time, you two were together, kissing.

You didn't remember any of them. But your heart... did. Then, tucked beneath the photos, letters.

You picked up the top one. Unfolded it with trembling fingers. It wasn't long.

You forgot me.

I smiled through it. You said "nice to meet you" like it was nothing.

It almost killed me.

But I'll wait.

I'll wait forever if it means you'll smile at me like you used to.

Your vision blurred. You blinked quickly.

There were more. Pages of thoughts, of love, of ache. Some had dates, weeks ago. Some looked like they'd been written the day of your accident. One had a smear in the ink. A tear, maybe.

Day 9.

They said you might be able to hear me. So I'm here. Again.

I haven't left, not really. I go home to shower, sometimes. Eat if I remember. But I'm always back before sunset, just in case you wake up and wonder where I am.

I should've driven slower. I should've seen the turn. I should've...

You wouldn't be here if it weren't for me.

I replay it in my head every time I close my eyes. Your voice. The sound. The silence after.

I hold your hand and pretend you're just sleeping.

I talk to you like you'll answer.

Sometimes I pretend you do.

Everyone says to give it time. That you're strong.

But I know you're tired.

If you hear this, if anything inside you still remembers me, please, just come back.

I'll start everything over. I'll do it right this time.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Come home.

Your breath came in shallow bursts. Your knees buckled. It was like everything was turning around you the more you read.

Day 37.

You opened your eyes today.

I should be there. God, I want to be there. But I can't. Not yet.

They told me you didn't ask for me.

That you didn't recognize anyone.

And I know it's not your fault.

I know it's the injury, the trauma, the healing.

But it felt like the last piece of me cracked open when I heard it.

How do I look at you and pretend we're strangers?

How do I sit beside you and not touch you the way I used to?

How do I call you Y/n when every part of me still aches to say baby?

I've spent weeks memorizing our history in case I had to remind you of it.

But now... I don't know if you even want to remember.

I'm scared. Not of losing you.

I'm scared you've already let me go.

Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe I'll walk past your door and keep going.

But I'll always be waiting, just in case something in you still knows me.

The box fell from your hands as you lost the last bit of strength to keep reading, the pictures scattered at your feet like a life spilled out.

You were the girlfriend.

You had been his.

He hadn't just found you by coincidence. He had been waiting. Recreating. Hoping.

A quiet sound behind you broke the silence. Then his voice -rough with sleep, confusion curling in its edges.

"Y/n...?"

You didn't turn around, you couldn't. Not yet.

Jungkook stopped, reaching for the switch to turn on the lights, wishing he had never done it in the first place. All the pictures he tried to hide were around your feet, all the contents of the box were exposed. "Baby?"

Your fingers curled around the corner of a photo -your face in it, laughing so hard your eyes had shut. Jungkook had his arm around your neck, tugging you against him like he never wanted to let go. The kind of moment that couldn't be staged.

Slowly, you turned. He was halfway inside the living room, shirtless, hair tousled, his eyes going from sleepy to wide open the second he saw what you were holding.

His mouth parted. But no words came out.

And then you whispered: "...It was me."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at you like everything he had worked so hard to bury had been laid bare, and now, there was nowhere left to hide.

You looked down at the photo again, your fingers brushed the smile you didn't remember, but somehow still felt.

"I was the one you were waiting for."

His throat bobbed. You were crying now, but it didn't feel heavy. It felt like truth cracking open, like light breaking in.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" you whispered.

Jungkook swallowed hard. And finally, he stepped forward -eyes burning, voice trembling, as he stopped right in front of you.

"Because if I told you the truth..." he reached for your hand -hesitated- then wrapped his fingers around it, pressing it to his chest. "...I was terrified you wouldn't want to come back."

You didn't look at him. You couldn't. Your chest felt tight, each breath shallow and sharp.

"Why?" you asked, your voice low and sharp like a blade.

He sat up, the sheets slipping from his torso, pooling at his waist. "Y/n..."

"Why did you lie to me?"

Silence.

You finally turned, eyes wide and brimming with betrayal. "You were my boyfriend. Before the accident. Before I lost everything. You were my life, and you let me believe you were just some guy at a bar?"

Jungkook's throat bobbed as he swallowed. The guilt had already settled deep in his face.

"I didn't know how to tell you," he admitted. "I didn't want to scare you off."

"Scare me?" you repeated, voice cracking. "You didn't want to scare me, so you thought pretending none of it happened was better?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You could see the words scrambling in his brain, but none of them made it out.

"You thought it would be better to lie to me? To manipulate me into remembering you? Not even to remember you, but to force your way back into my life" your hands were shaking now. "You robbed me of my own story, Jungkook. You made me feel crazy every time I caught something familiar in you."

"I was terrified," he said finally. His voice broke around the edges. "You looked at me like I was no one. You smiled like we'd just met. And I... I was scared you wouldn't want to come back."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"That wasn't your decision to make," you said, each word clipped, each syllable deliberate. "You should've told me the truth. You, my friends... someone should've told me."

"They wanted to," he said quietly. "I asked them not to."

You laughed bitterly. "Of course you did". You stopped for a second "Why don't I have anything about you in my h...?"

But you didn't need to finish the question to know that he and your friends had something to do with all of that.

"My social media?" Jungkook just looked down at your question, knowing one of your friends also managed to delete the two years of relationship off the Internet. "Of course..."

"I didn't do it to hurt you," he rushed to explain, eyes pleading. "I just wanted to be near you. I thought if we could do it all again, if I could just feel you again, maybe you'd remember. Maybe your heart would recognize mine, even if your head didn't."

You stared at him, so many feelings surging at once it made you dizzy.

"I've been falling for you," you whispered, your voice tight. "Thinking this was new, something just beginning. I let myself believe I was starting something real with you. But it was just... a copy. Shit, Jungkook. Can't you see how fucked up all of this is?!"

He stepped forward slowly, as if afraid to shatter what little remained between you. "Y/n..."

"You let me doubt myself, Jungkook. Let me question why everything felt like déjà vu. You watched me struggle and said nothing"

He looked like he might fall apart right in front of you.

"I didn't need to be protected," you said, softer now. "I needed the truth. I needed support, help."

Jungkook's expression twisted with grief. "I didn't know how to live in a world where you didn't remember me. I didn't know how to be near you and not be yours."

"You know, there's something I remember..." your voice wavered.

He looked at you hopefully.

"And it's that you always will choose the easy path. Working with me to remember you meant patience, dealing with frustration and obstacles, while just living this lie was quick and fast. You just needed to do absolutely everything you did the first time, and it was done. You didn't give a fuck about my recovery, but about having me in your life in the way you wanted"

It crushed him. You saw it happen. You watched his shoulders fall, his chest cave.

You shook your head, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Now all I feel is that every moment between us lately was a lie. And I don't know how to trust anything you say anymore."

He reached for you, but you stepped back.

"Don't," you whispered.

The distance between you stretched, heavy with the things he never told you. You went back to the bedroom, and when you walked outside, you were already dressed with your bag hanging on your shoulder.

"I need time," you said, already walking toward the door.

"Y/n..." he called after you.

But you didn't stop, and you didn't look back.

The café was quieter than usual, the kind of silence that didn't come from a lack of noise, but from something heavier. The clinking of cups, low chatter, even the hum of the espresso machine, it all faded beneath the weight of everything Jungkook hadn't said out loud in days.

He sat across from Jimin, shoulders hunched over a cooling cup of black coffee, staring blankly at the chipped ceramic like it held the answers he couldn't find in himself.

Jimin didn't speak right away. He never rushed Jungkook in moments like this. Just sat there, sipping from his own cup, watching him with that steady, quiet patience that only came from knowing someone too well.

"She's stopped talking to all of us," Jimin finally said, his tone low but careful. "You know that, right?"

Jungkook gave a tired nod. "Yeah."

"She won't answer my messages. She ignores Hobi. I think she even blocked Tae."

Another nod.

Jimin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You think she hates us?"

"No." Jungkook's voice was rough. "But she doesn't trust us. And I don't blame her."

Jimin stared at him. "She trusted you, though."

A muscle in Jungkook's jaw jumped. "Until she found out."

"She found out because she tripped over a box full of the truth," Jimin said, more gently this time. "Not because you told her."

Jungkook rubbed at his face, hands dragging over tired eyes. "You think I don't know that?"

"I think you do," Jimin said. "I just don't know if you've let yourself know it."

There was a long pause.

"She asked me once," Jungkook said quietly. "If I had a girlfriend."

Jimin didn't respond.

"I told her no." his voice broke a little on the word. "I was lying straight to her face, and she looked at me like I was the safest place she'd been since the accident. And I just..." he swallowed, hard, "kept pretending I didn't know what that meant."

Jimin looked away, lips pressed into a thin line. "You were scared."

"I was a coward," Jungkook corrected. "I thought if I could just make her fall in love with me again, I wouldn't have to tell her how much it wrecked me to lose her. But she's not stupid. She noticed everything. The bar, the photo, the letters... and then I watched it all snap together in her eyes."

Jimin was quiet for a moment before he asked, "What did she say?"

Jungkook's laugh was low and sharp, completely humorless. "She asked me why everyone lied. And I said... I told her I was terrified she wouldn't want to come back."

He paused. Swallowed again.

"And the worst part?" he looked up, eyes wet, voice shaking. "She didn't deny it."

Jimin exhaled, leaned back in his chair. "She's hurt. Give her time."

"What if time's the thing that takes her even further away from me?" Jungkook whispered. "What if every day she spends without me is a step closer to forgetting everything we were?"

Jimin reached across the table, gripped his wrist. "Then you wait. You wait for as long as it takes. You loved her enough to lie, fine. But now, love her enough to let her be angry, let her feel what she needs to feel. That's the only way this ends in something real."

Jungkook didn't answer. He just nodded once, slow and hollow, like his body had finally caught up to the weight his heart had been carrying all along.

Meanwhile, you weren't able to go on.

Just after you had asked, you had all of the memories from your relationship back in your house. Although they were inside a box you didn't dare to open yet. His words were enough to haunt the silence: "I was terrified you wouldn't want to come back."

The worst part was... he wasn't wrong.

You didn't dare to open the box and dig in those memories because you were scared the feelings from the past wouldn't align with the feelings you had. What if you didn't love him back then? What if your relationship wasn't good shortly before the accident? What if...?

You stood in the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in one of his hoodies that had been on the back of a chair, too tired to care if it still smelled like him. You hated that it did. That your body leaned into it, even as your heart tried to push away.

Your phone buzzed once. His name.

You stared at the screen until it faded back to black. A few more minutes passed before you turned it off completely.

You had trusted him.

From the first moment he sat across from you at that bar, with his cocky smile and flirty banter, you had leaned into the connection like you were meant to. And it felt like fate, hadn't it? The easy rhythm, the way he knew how to make you laugh, how he always knew just when to reach out or fall quiet. But it hadn't been fate. It had been a plan. His plan. A play-by-play reenactment of a life you'd already lived, without even knowing it. You'd fallen for him thinking it was new. Thinking you were choosing him, but he'd already had you. And he didn't tell you. He couldn't risk the chance that this version of you wouldn't pick him again.

That was the ache now, the hollow pit in your chest. Not just the lie, but the feeling that he'd stolen your choice.

You pressed your forehead against the cold glass of the window, blinking past the tight sting in your eyes. The street below was quiet, golden with morning light, like the world didn't care that everything inside you had shifted. Like nothing had changed at all.

You should have felt anger. And you did. But beneath it was something deeper and more painful: grief.

Because now every memory you'd made with him -every laugh, every kiss, every moment where your heart had fluttered- was tangled with the question: Was it ever really real?

And still, your body remembered the shape of his arms, the warmth of him in the middle of the night, the softness in his voice when he whispered your name like a prayer. You'd fallen in love with him again. That part was real. And maybe that was the cruelest truth of all.

Unable to keep that pain on your own, you finally called her. Jazmin picked up on the second ring. "Y/n?"

You didn't say anything at first, just breathed, your voice caught in the place where pain sat too deep to speak.

"Are you okay?" she asked, softer now, like she already knew the answer.

"I need to talk... Can you come?"

"I'm coming."

You didn't argue. Didn't try to sound fine. You just hung up and curled into the corner of the couch, knees to your chest, staring at the ghost of yourself in the dark TV screen. The reflection of a girl who didn't know who she was anymore. Not really.

When Jazmin arrived, she didn't knock, just stepped in like she used to, like her body still remembered where the spare key was and how your apartment smelled in the morning. She looked at you, standing there in Jungkook's hoodie, eyes rimmed in red, and said nothing at all, just wrapped her arms around you. And for a second, you let it break. The dam. The wall. The composure.

You sobbed into her shoulder, and she didn't ask questions. Not yet.

"I thought I was going crazy," you finally said when the tears had dulled to hiccups. "I kept thinking, maybe I was the other woman. Maybe he had a girlfriend he hadn't told me about."

Jazmin pulled away just enough to look at you, brushing your hair from your face. "You were the girlfriend. You are the girlfriend."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

She hesitated. "He asked us not to. Said he wanted you to come back to him on your own. That if it wasn't real, if you didn't choose him, it would crush him."

"But what about me?" Your voice broke again. "What about what it's done to me?"

She flinched, and you hated that you made her look like that. Like this pain had spilled over into someone else's bones too. But you couldn't take it back. Couldn't shrink it.

"I needed to know the truth," you whispered. "I needed someone to tell me. Instead, I was just... living in this version of a life that had already happened. Like a puppet on strings I didn't even know were there."

"I know," she said, pulling you in again. "God, I know, Y/n. I wanted to tell you so many times. But he looked so lost. So afraid. We all thought he'd break if you didn't come back to him."

"Maybe I needed to break too," you murmured, pressing your forehead to her shoulder. "So I can figure out who I really am without everyone else deciding it for me."

Jazmin nodded. Her fingers carded gently through your hair. You stayed there, the two of you curled into a silence that felt like a bandage over an open wound.

It had started to rain before you even realized where your feet had taken you.

You hadn't planned on going anywhere after work, just a walk to clear your head. No destination, no headphones, just the kind of silence that city noise couldn't reach. And yet, somehow, you were standing in front of a café you didn't recognize... or at least, didn't think you did. Still, something about it felt familiar. Not in the "I've-been-here-once" kind of way, but in the way a smell can unravel a dream, or a song can feel like a memory even when you've never heard it before.

The little sign above the entrance read Moka, the white paint faded into soft gray along the edges, weathered but charming. Your fingers curled around the brass door handle before you could talk yourself out of it.

The bell chimed above your head as you stepped in.

Soft jazz drifted from speakers hidden somewhere behind the plants and bookshelves that crowded the walls. The scent of roasted beans, vanilla, and something faintly citrusy wrapped around you like a warm coat. It felt like stepping into someone's living room, like a place where stories had been left behind, carefully folded into the creases of napkins and coffee sleeves.

You let your eyes scan the space and saw it: the corner booth near the window with the chipped table and the crooked lamp above it.

It called to you.

You didn't know why you sat down. You just... did.

You took a breath, your fingertips tracing over the wood. A divot near the corner snagged your nail, like muscle memory. You pulled your hand back.

A minute later, the bell above the door chimed again. You glanced up casually, and froze.

Jungkook.

He stepped inside, brushing rain off his shoulders, his hair damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. He looked like he hadn't expected the weather to turn on him so suddenly. He looked like he hadn't expected you, either.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his eyes widened, and yours did the same.

"I didn't know you came here," you said, unsure why that was the first thing that came out.

He blinked, stepping in further. "I didn't think you even knew this place."

"I didn't," you replied. "I was just walking and... I don't know. My legs brought me here."

He gave a small, breathless laugh. Not mocking, just stunned. "Yeah. That... that sounds about right."

You both hesitated, hovering in two different worlds that used to be the same one. Then, without asking, he crossed the room and sat across from you. You didn't stop him.

You ordered two coffees, as if your hands remembered what your head didn't. Yours with oat milk and cinnamon. His, black with one sugar. You didn't realize what you'd done until the waitress left and Jungkook looked at you like he'd been struck.

"What?" you asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just... you remembered."

You frowned. "I didn't. I guessed."

He didn't argue. Just gave a tired, tender smile and murmured, "Good guess."

The silence stretched between you. Not tense, exactly. Just... full. Like everything you hadn't said was sitting in the space between your cups, waiting for the right moment to rise.

You looked at him carefully. His eyes were heavier than you remembered. The curve of his mouth pulled more at the corners now, like he smiled less often. There were shadows beneath the tattoos on his arm, and tension in the way he gripped the edge of the table.

You stirred your coffee even though it didn't need stirring. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He stared at the chipped edge of the table. "Because I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of ruining everything," he said. "Of trying to hold on to something that wasn't mine anymore. I kept thinking: what if you remembered and didn't want it? What if you didn't remember and I pushed too hard and it felt like I was trying to trap you in something you couldn't feel?"

Your heart twisted. "That doesn't make what you did okay."

"I know," he said instantly. "I know that. I lied to you. I took away your choice. I tried to rewrite something instead of... letting you read it again. On your own."

You watched him closely. There was no act. No polished version of himself. Just the raw, tired ache of someone who had held his breath for too long.

"And the accident?"

His eyes flicked to yours, and something flickered through them, shame, mostly. Pain.

"We were fighting. Some months ago, you started thinking of publishing the comics you had been working on, but I wasn't... supportive enough. I said they were a cute side thing, and it all blew after that" he said. "I... we started arguing, we weren't listening to each other, and the fight seemed to keep getting worse. It was raining. I slipped off the curb and..." he exhaled sharply, voice breaking. "The car didn't stop in time, I crashed against a tree, and you were the one who received the worse end"

You swallowed. "And after that?"

"I came to see you," he whispered. "Every day. For weeks. I sat beside you, read to you, talked to you even though you couldn't hear me. I brought you the cactus from your studio. I..."

You looked away, eyes stinging. "But when I woke up..."

"I stopped coming," he said, his voice barely audible now. "Because I thought... it would hurt less to disappear than to watch you forget me."

The words settled between you like ash.

"I didn't forget you," you whispered. "Not really. You were everywhere. In things I didn't understand. The way I reacted to you. The way I looked for you even when I was mad at you."

He watched you like you were saving him and tearing him apart at the same time. You exhaled, slow and unsteady. "You weren't a stranger, Jungkook. Not really. I didn't know why, but I kept choosing you anyway."

His lips parted, but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just gratitude.

The rain outside began to lighten, softening into a misty hush. Inside the café, the world had folded in around you: warm, quiet, intimate. Like the past and present were finally speaking to each other in the same room.

"Let me take you home," he said gently.

You didn't respond right away. You just nodded, slowly, carefully, like your body was making a decision your mind still hadn't caught up to.

He opened the door for you, and the wind brushed past you both. For a moment, you stood under the awning, watching the city blur behind rain. And then you turned to him and said, "You'll answer everything, right? If I ask?"

He looked you dead in the eye. "Anything. Everything."

And for the first time in a long time, when you both stepped into the rain and toward his car, it didn't feel like running. It felt like returning.

"What were we like... before the accident?"

He didn't answer right away.

You watched the side of his face, the soft twitch of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed locked on the road a second too long, like he was organizing memories in a drawer he hadn't opened in a while.

Then, slowly, he reached toward the glove compartment and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook, its corners frayed from use. He held it out to you without a word.

You looked down at it, frowning as you took it in your hands. The leather was warm, familiar. There was a tiny sketch of a cat doodled in the corner of the cover. Your sketch. You flipped through the pages.

Your handwriting.

Your drawings.

Short, messy notes written in blue pen. Dialogue bubbles. Storyboards. Scenes about a couple waking up late, arguing over grocery lists, dancing in the kitchen in their socks. Pages where the girl looked suspiciously like you, and the boy... well.

"Is this mine?" you asked.

He nodded. "You were working on it all the time. You said you wanted to make a comic about a normal couple. No drama, no perfect endings, just real life. Ours."

You flipped through the pages, stunned. You had no memory of drawing these, but the style was undeniably yours. Every detail made your chest ache with something you didn't know how to name.

"I don't remember any of this."

"I know," he said softly. "But you loved this project. You were going to publish it. You even had a name for it."

You looked at the front page. In your own messy cursive: "Monday Mornings."

A breath caught in your throat. You didn't even know why, but that title felt like something you'd once whispered in someone's ear, laughing under the covers.

"I didn't support you enough," Jungkook said suddenly, voice low and raw. "You wanted to take it public. You had this pitch ready, you were so excited. And I... I said we should wait. That, maybe, it wasn't the right time. I thought I was protecting you. I didn't realize I was just making you feel small."

You didn't answer, you just kept turning the pages.

A drawing caught your eye: the girl kissing the boy's shoulder while he made coffee. A heart drawn above them. Underneath, you'd scrawled:

"You always said mornings were cruel. So I made us soft."

Your fingers trembled.

"You said something before the accident," Jungkook continued quietly. "You said, 'Why does it feel like you're always patting my head instead of holding my hand?'"

You looked out the window. The trees blurred past in green shadows. Your heart thudded somewhere in your stomach.

"I never forgot that," he said. "I never stopped hearing it."

You closed the notebook and held it close to your chest.

He glanced at you, uncertain. "Are you okay?"

You nodded. But you didn't feel okay. You felt like you were standing at the edge of a memory that had just started to turn around and look at you.

The days blurred.

Not in the romantic way people talked about when they were in love, not in the way that made time feel like honey or sunsets. No, those days blurred like ink in water, like memory diluted until it left only a pale ghost of what used to be.

You tried.

God, you tried.

You woke up each day with hope clawing its way up your throat, searching the mirror for a spark, a flicker, something familiar in your own reflection. And sometimes, there were moments. A smell, a certain playlist, the way Jungkook's fingers traced lazy circles against your wrist when he thought you weren't paying attention. Sometimes it hit you like déjà vu, but soft, like the memory itself was holding its breath.

Other times, though, it felt like you were pretending to live someone else's life. Walking through a home filled with photos you couldn't remember taking, laughing at inside jokes you didn't really get, wanting to reach for Jungkook, only to stop midway, unsure if the heat in your chest was real... or borrowed from a version of you who no longer existed.

Jungkook didn't push. Not in words, anyway.

But sometimes you felt the weight of his gaze. Quiet desperation woven between the lines of his patience. And that's when it got hard. When it hurt the most, when you felt like you were failing both him and yourself.

That morning, you'd had another flash.

You had opened a kitchen drawer, reaching for a spoon, and your hand landed on a small, yellow plastic ring. The kind you get from a vending machine. For some reason, your breath caught. You had no idea why, but your fingers trembled.

You sat on the floor and cried.

Jungkook had found you there, and he didn't ask questions. He just sat beside you and held you close until your breathing slowed.

But he didn't say anything, either. And that was almost worse.

You both had grown used to that type of scene, where you just broke down and he held you until he made sure you were breathing properly again.

Now, in the car, your fingers fidgeted in your lap. "I hate this."

He blinked. "Hate what?"

"This... in-between. Not remembering. Remembering too much. Never enough. It's like I'm stuck between two mirrors, and I keep seeing myself, but never fully."

He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I'm trying," you added, barely a whisper.

"I know you are," he said.

Silence again. Just the tires splashing over wet asphalt.

"But it's hard," you admitted, voice cracking. "It's hard needing space from someone who makes you feel safe. It's hard needing time from someone who clearly never stopped loving you."

He didn't answer right away. Just exhaled, slow and careful. "Do you know how many times I've almost told you everything again? How many times have I looked at you and wanted to say 'Just come back'? But I couldn't. Because if I pushed too hard, I'd lose you all over again."

"Sometimes it feels like you expect me to be her again. That girl I was."

"I don't," he said quickly, sharply. "I just miss her. That's different."

"Is it?" you asked. "Because it doesn't feel different when I look into your eyes and all I see is disappointment every time I get something wrong."

"I'm not disappointed in you..."

"Yes, you are!" you snapped. "Every time I forget something, you look away. Every time I hesitate, you sigh like it's breaking your heart."

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Because it is. But that's not your fault" his jaw flexed. "I know it's hard, but I never said you had to be her, that version of you. I love you. Now. Not just the version of you I lost."

You laughed bitterly. "But it's not that simple. You can say that all you want, Jungkook, but I see it. I see you looking for her in me. In every little gesture. Every place we go. You're always chasing the past. And I'm scared I can't give it back to you."

The air in the car turned cold.

He stared at the road, eyes dark. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you look at me like I'm a stranger, when I know what your laugh sounds like when you do something you like? When I still hear your voice every night in my head, begging me not to let you go?"

That silenced you.

His voice cracked. "I would give anything to forget how you used to love me, because maybe then, this wouldn't feel like being stabbed in the same place over and over."

You turned to him slowly. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His shoulders were tight with things he wasn't saying.

You stared at him. "I don't know who I am anymore. What if there's nothing to go back to?"

The words cut deep. You hadn't meant for them to come out like that. But now they hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.

His jaw tensed. "So what, Y/n? You want me to let go? To pretend none of it ever happened?"

You pressed your lips together, looking away again, knowing there was something cooking in his brain before he happened again.

"I'm not some villain in your story. And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm pushing you, but..." he stopped for a few seconds, getting some air back in his lungs "I'm trying to love someone who doesn't remember loving me. Do you know how hard that is? To have all these memories, all this history, and none of it matters unless you feel it too?" he took another deep breath, gulping down the knot in his throat. "But I'm not letting you go, I won't give up and I won't let you give up, because I'll be on every fucking step of the way. And if you don't remember me, then fuck it. We'll make new memories together that will be just as meaningful. But I'm not giving up on you, Y/n. I refuse to".

You hesitated, but you were thinking of the best answer to that. And just as you were ready to turn to him to speak again. It happened.

CRASH.

The sudden screech was the only noise in your ears for a few seconds, the blur of headlights the only thing you could see.

Your body snapped forward, seatbelt biting into your chest. Jungkook's arm instinctively flung in front of you, shielding, even as the car spun once and thudded to a stop against the guardrail.

Silence.

Rain tapped against the cracked windshield.

You gasped, chest heaving, eyes wide as your hands scrambled to reach him.

"Jungkook..."

"I'm okay," he croaked, already undoing his seatbelt. "Are you hurt? Look at me, are you okay?"

Your lips trembled, but you nodded.

He exhaled in shaky relief. His forehead had a small gash, bleeding into his eyebrow, but he was alert. Breathing.

"I'm fine," you whispered, touching his face. "You... you're bleeding."

He gave a strained laugh. "You should see the other guy."

You let out a sob that was half a laugh, half terror. Outside, the driver of the other car was already stepping out, waving, checking his own vehicle. No one was badly hurt. It was a scrape, a scare, not a tragedy.

But to you, it felt like an echo. Like lightning returning to the same scar in the ground. Your fingers trembled as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Jungkook looked at you, and for a second, neither of you moved.

"God, I thought..."

Your fingers trembled against his jacket, clutching him like you might lose him again. And maybe it was nothing. Just a fender-bender, but something inside you had shifted. A pressure in your chest, the sound of his voice, the flash of memory, your fingers curled around his wrist, and for a split second, you remembered.

A birthday.

Candles.

His laugh in the dark.

His hand brushing your cheek.

A yellow plastic ring.

It was small, barely a second, but it hit you so hard you flinched.

Jungkook caught the look in your eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, still breathless.

You shook your head slowly. "I... I think I remembered something."

He paused.

You closed your eyes.

"I think... you asked me to marry you once."

Jungkook's heart stopped. And then he smiled. A fragile, aching smile, like something inside him had cracked open.

"You said no," he whispered. "And then you made me ask again with a yellow plastic ring."

Your hand trembled over your heart. The ring in the drawer, the one that made you cry without knowing why.

You looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, he didn't feel like a stranger.

After a few months, spring returned to the city in full bloom -and so, in your own way, did you.

After the second accident, everything shifted.

You didn't lose any more memories that night. If anything, something inside you cracked open, like a door that had always been there, waiting to be found. After that, you worked harder than ever. Not just because you wanted your memory back, but because he never stopped fighting for you, even when you didn't feel like the same person he loved.

You dove into it: the photographs, the journals, the smell of his cologne on your pillow, the comic sketches you once hid inside an old shoe box. The coffee shop, the places you used to go, the food he said you hated, but you found yourself ordering just to see.

Little by little, pieces returned.

Not all of them. You still forgot some dates. You still couldn't remember why Yoongi always called you "Captain," or what made Taehyung cry-laugh the first time you met. But the important things? You held onto those with everything you had.

You remembered how Jungkook's hand fit at the small of your back, the way he used to hum when he thought you were asleep, the soft way he'd whisper your name when he was half-asleep and needed to make sure you were still there.

And now, months later, you were there.

The bar buzzed with warmth and celebration, full of your friends, full of light. Outside, fairy lights glittered across the rooftop. Someone had already smashed the cake. There was a karaoke battle happening in the corner. Jin had taken over the music, and Jimin was trying to get everyone to pose under a banner that said you were celebrating the publication of your comics.

Your first printed volume. A comic book. A real one.

And even though you smiled at everyone and thanked them with full sincerity, there was only one person you were truly looking for in the crowd.

You spotted him on the couch near the edge of the room, nursing a drink. White shirt, rolled sleeves, his chain catching the light. He looked impossibly soft in the chaos, like a quiet moment wrapped in a person.

He was watching you, eyes half-lidded, that little smirk on his lips he didn't even realize he had when he looked at you.

You didn't overthink it. You just walked across the room, climbed right into his lap like you'd done a hundred times before, and leaned in close, so close your breath hit his ear. "Don't think I forgot the first night you let me draw you naked."

He choked.

You could feel the sharp inhale beneath your palms as his hands gripped your waist, stunned. "What... what did you just say?"

You pulled back slowly, watching his face twist with disbelief.

"Bedroom floor," you said. "You were freezing but you wouldn't move until I got the curve of your shoulder right. You were so dramatic."

His eyes filled with something raw.

"No one else knew that," he said hoarsely.

You shrugged softly, nose brushing his. "I told you I'd come back to you. I'm not all the way there yet, but I'm close. I feel it."

He stared at you like you were the answer to every prayer he'd never spoken out loud. Like you were a miracle wearing your own skin.

And then he kissed you.

There, in the middle of the rooftop, with music in the background and your friends around you and the stars blinking quietly above, he kissed you like the world had finally come back into focus.

"You remembered the sketch," he whispered against your mouth.

You smiled. "I remembered you."

And as his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you as if afraid to blink, you knew one thing for sure:

You weren't just returning to your old self, you were becoming more, you were rewriting everything with love in your hands.

The apartment was quiet, washed in golden lamplight and the soft shuffle of sheets.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook in your lap, pencil smudged between your fingers. Jungkook lay beside you, one arm bent under his head, the other lazily tracing patterns along your thigh, like he couldn't stand to stop touching you, even for a second.

"Is that me again?" he asked, voice low and a little sleepy.

You smiled, not looking up. "No. It's us."

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to peek. The page showed a messy panel -your typical style- drawn in soft graphite. Two figures sitting in bed, one sketching, one watching. Simple. Intimate.

"I look good," he said, grinning.

You rolled your eyes. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true." he leaned in, brushing his lips over your shoulder. "But also... because you draw me the way you see me. And that version of me? That's my favorite."

You paused, pencil hovering mid-air.

Then, quietly: "I think I'm happy again."

His smile faded into something softer. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "Not just because I remember things now. But because I feel like myself again. Like... we're back. But not just back... better."

Jungkook turned onto his side, pulling you into his arms until your cheek rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

"You know," he whispered, "you could forget everything all over again, and I'd still find my way back to you."

You pulled back slightly to meet his eyes. "You don't have to."

"I know." he kissed your forehead. "But I would."

The sketchbook slipped from your lap, forgotten. The city murmured outside the windows, but inside -here, in this room, in his arms- you had everything you needed.

You curled into him, your breathing syncing with his. And as the night folded around you like a favorite page in a well-loved book, you knew you'd never forget this feeling again.

Home.

Him.

You.

[jeon-ify]

- 𝘫𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘰 - 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 ! ⋆·˚ ༘ *

synopsis: in which the way you look after showering gets your husband worked up.

genre: romance, smut, 18+. mdni.

warnings: dilf yunho!!!!!! yunho is in his late 30s-early 40s here, nudity implied, kitchen sex, swearing, breast play, making out, female reader, big!dick yunho, hand kink, finger sucking (yunho AND reader!!) tit sucking, cervix fucking, choking kink, breeding kink, if i missed anything let me know ! :3

song for the chapter : into it - chase atlantic

happy reading !

the coconut and lime scent of your conditioner floods the first floor of your home, sending your husband into a faint distraction. the scent runs up his nostrils, up to his brain, and straight down his cock. the music you’re playing blares through your phone in the shower, your husband hearing it through to the second floor.

“I BEEN CATCHIN’ PLANES FOR THE FUN OF IT,”

you sing out extra loud, your husband pausing his speech to apologize for the background noise.

you took an everything shower today, so you already made dinner before showering— considering you’d be exhausted.

somehow, yunho put the pieces together, finishing dinner and making it the right way. you didn’t expect yunho to be so generous tonight— but here you are, standing over the stove and nibbling little pieces of the food while you waited for yunho to finish from a call he was wrapped up in.

you looked around the kitchen out of boredom, looking for things to do before you dived into the food. the way yunho’s shirt sat so pretty onto your body, riding up your thighs as your pink panties peak through the ends of the tee made your man so painfully distracted— holding himself back from fucking you over the piping hot stove.

yunho watched how the ends of your hair weren’t fully dried and how it dripped onto the back of your calves, dripping down your shiny legs. he also watched how your— his— tshirt rode up your legs anytime you reached up somewhere or bent to get something. his eyes did not leave your body.

you were still stood over the stovetop, taking little bites of the greens. you moan in how good the food is, a blend of paprika and garlic seasoning, along with the sweetness of the teriyaki sauce that yunho drizzled everywhere.

but even through the layers of seasonings he put into the food, your scent still broke through it all.

“yeah, sounds good. i’ll put in the CRA request like we mentioned previously, and i’ll email you the forums. just let me know when you need it. was there anything else i could assist you with today, mr. song?” the man on the computer responds and the call comes to an end.

you stare at how attractive he is when he’s working— all the business talk that made no fucking sense to you, but he understands it like his own language, and that in itself makes you weak.

“doll, what do you have on? it smells good.” he finally decides to speak after what felt like hours of him admiring from behind his computer screen.

a much older man admiring your hygiene is something you never thought you’d see, but yunho was drooling on the laptop beneath his fingertips.

“it’s your favorite lotion,” you look up at him through damp eyelashes and flushed cheeks, watching how his nostrils flare with every breath he takes.

it takes yunho everything in his body to not pick you up and throw you over the counter and pound a baby into your small belly. he’s much older than you are, but when he met you, he knew you’d be his companion.

“yu, this smells really yummy. you did a great job, baby.” you walk over to yunho on the other end of the table, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind him. he holds onto your hands and throws his head back onto your stomach, looking up at you.

“sweets, the last thing on my mind is dinner. let me taste you, little girl,” his soft and mature voice makes your legs quiver with excitement as yunho takes your hands in his, bringing your middle and ring finger to his mouth, sucking on the digits. you gasp in response, watching how desperate the middle aged man underneath your touch grows weak at your feet.

“i can never get enough of you. wanna fuck you all day.” he stands up to face you, bringing his lips to yours. he sucks and nibs at your bottom lip to gain quicker access to explore the rest of your mouth. you deepen the kiss, the faint taste of cigarettes cloud your small mouth, making you whimper in desperation. he slides a hand between your thighs, thumb rubbing against your clit. you’re not sure if your juices make a patch on your panties or if its from your shower. nonetheless, you are so fucking turned on right now that the last thing on your mind is dinner.

“what have you done to me, pretty girl?” he feels as though you’ve casted a spell on him. everything you do makes him feral; weak in the knees. but somehow, you make him a man.

“i’m just here, yunho. don’t give me all the credit,” you gasp at the feeling of his long fingers pushing into your tight wet cunt. he gasps in sarcasm, exploring your face as he uses your cunt to soak his fingers— bringing them up to your mouth.

you feel his fingers curl into a ‘come here’ motion, your breath hitching as he pushes against your walls. your eyes roll, grasping his forearm as he speeds up his motions. you cry out and beg for him to slow down, but he doesn’t listen.

“so pretty. look at these lips, let me kiss them.” he brings his lips to yours in an open mouthed makeout, gasping for air as he pulls away with a deep-dimpled smirk. your pussy convulses around his long fingers, as your husband groans in response.

your thighs clamp shut in an attempt to calm yourself down from how aggressively his fingers ruthlessly ravish your cunt. yunho, reaching your cervix from how long his fingers are, takes in a deep breath at how fast he’s been moving. “yu- ohh— fuck! please— i’m cumming, please i’m gonna cum!” you chant begs along with his name as if it were a mantra, feeling the way his hard cock presses into your backside.

“yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, baby? now let me feel you cum on my cock.” he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking himself dry of your juices. you whimper in need of him inside of you. he lines himself up with your entrance as you’re bent over the counter across from the stove.

he pushes into your soaked pussy deeper, feeling his dick throb ruthlessly inside of you already. lucky for him, he was able to hold himself for almost half an hour on end while he fucks you.

“s-sir, it’s so big! i don’t think i can take y-“ you pull away from his length, feeling like you’re being ripped in half by what feels like 12 inches. he runs his hand along your back from underneath the t-shirt, in an attempt to calm you down and keep you around him.

“tiny girl, you can take me. you’ve let me fuck my cum into you hundreds of times. what’s changed, dollface?” he almost makes you cum from his voice in itself, but you decide to push back while he stays still, waiting for you to adjust to his size for what feels like the millionth time throughout your relationship.

he begins pounding into you at a quicker pace, pulling and tugging at your bare nipples from underneath you. your mouth hangs open as yunho brings his large hand to your throat to wrap itself around it. you grit through your teeth, wishing you could just cum.

you don’t feel like you want to cum, you feel like you’re going to squirt all over his body. “talk to me, baby. what’s it feel like?”

he’s being so fucking annoying and making you focus on anything else other than your orgasm, but you only moan and cry in response.

“i— ‘s too much.” whimpering and shaking in a headlock, you grasp onto yunho’s arm to get a breath of air. from the way his muscular arm wraps itself around your throat makes you cum over, and over already.

yunho gets another quick scent of your lotion and conditioner, making his cock twitch in your cervix.

“i’m almost done baby, give me another one— fuck, you smell so good. the fuck are you doing to me, baby?”

he pounds into you again, harder this time— tugging at your panties to pull you back onto his hips, planting himself deeper in you.

“nngh, oh my god!”

“oh, but i’m the one making you cry like this. give it to me, fucking milk me dry. gonna spill all my cum into your tiny stomach. let me give you my babies, hm? how’s that sound?”

he bends over so his chest is against your back as he nips at your ear. his tongue licks up your tears, planting a kiss on the end of your right eyebrow. his thrusts slow down as he holds you in place to shoot his load right into your baby maker.

“oh my— fuck! yes, so good!”

you cry out in relief that you finally got to spill out your cum onto yunho’s still cock. he lands a sharp slap on your ass before pulling you back up and planting a kiss on your forehead.

“so pretty when you cry for me. should keep a picture in my wallet.”

yunho gets down on his knees before you, licking up your thighs where your juices dried. your fingers run through his pretty softly gelled black hair.

he licks up all of your juices near your heat, using his fingers to push back the cum that threatens to drip from your pussy. your eyes roll to the back of your head as yunho places a kiss on your lower stomach, traveling up beneath your shirt to suck a generous amount of skin on your tit.

“yun— you’re sucking too hard, fuck!” he sucks and bites your nipples as if you were his lifeline,

he slaps the area he sucked on, making you gasp out in surprise. “keep my cum in you until after dinner, i’ll fuck more into you.”

so you sat at the other end of the table with your thighs clenching and unable to think about anything other than your husband pounding a shit ton of babies into you.

————————

🌷🤍🎀

well? dilfyunho anyone?????

[avengxrz]

what the sky didn't say ; robert "bob" floyd [part two]

pairings: robert "bob" floyd x reader (callsign: blitz) word count: 20.3k words (omg) synopsis: you were sent away for a year with no contact, no promises, just silence. you left your squad, your skies, and the boy who had your heart without ever needing to ask for it. but now you’re wondering... when the silence lasts this long, is anyone still listening on the other end? warnings: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, memory loss (brief), hallucinations, mentions of injury and trauma, isolation, long-distance tension, slow burn, found family vibes, happy tears, mild language, bittersweet themes, eventual comfort and healing, soft boy bob floyd being your anchor in a storm. flight log: i honestly didn’t expect anyone to ask for a part two since this was supposed to be a one-shot and then suddenly y’all appeared in my inbox with feelings and chaos, so here we are. thank you for screaming with me, crying with me, and letting me write blitz’s story all the way through. you have no idea how much it means. disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason.fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist part one

It was strange, the way your body kept forgetting he wasn’t there.

The first week on base at Kadena felt like a fever dream. Long days, longer briefings, a new rhythm you couldn’t quite fall into. You moved through it all like muscle memory gone wrong — reaching for things that weren’t there, waiting for voices that would never crackle through your comms. The humidity clung to everything, from your flight suit to your eyelashes, but even the oppressive heat couldn’t chase away the cold you felt at night. A kind of emptiness that started at the sternum and worked its way out.

You kept turning your head like you expected someone at your shoulder. Someone with a calm voice and steady hands. Someone who had always been there, in one way or another — through drills, through downtime, through every quiet moment when you didn’t even know you needed him. Bob Floyd had been your constant, your tether, your lighthouse when the skies got rough. But here? On the other side of the world? There was no tether. Just static.

It wasn’t just the distance that hurt. It was the silence.

Because this mission — Operation Sable Crest — was sealed tight. Classified. No phone calls. No letters. No coded emails. No harmless check-ins. Nothing. Not even a voice over a scrambled line to remind you that the world you came from was still there. That he was still there. You had signed papers. You had nodded at risks. You had sworn yourself to silence. But you hadn’t realized until now that the real danger wasn’t death — it was the forgetting.

Forgetting the way he leaned in when he talked to you. Forgetting the sound of your name in his mouth. Forgetting how it felt to sit beside him on the tarmac, shoulders brushing, warmth lingering long after you both stood. That was the part no one warned you about — the cruel way memory starts to blur when it has nothing left to hold on to.

The squad here wasn’t Dagger. They didn’t know the inside jokes. They didn’t tease you like brothers or challenge you like Phoenix did when she was trying not to cry. They weren’t family. They were professional, efficient, and impossibly distant — soldiers, not squadmates. You answered to new names, sat at new tables, flew with new shadows behind you. Every moment felt like a test you hadn’t studied for, and no one was going to grade on a curve.

But the worst was the night.

The nights were too still, too quiet, too full of ghosts. You used to fall asleep with his hand brushing yours on the couch, or his laugh still ringing in your ears from some dumb story Fanboy told. Now, the only sound in your quarters was the buzz of the overhead fan and the soft crackle of a base radio three rooms down. You woke up more than once thinking you'd heard his voice, and every time it wasn’t real, it cut a little deeper.

You stopped wearing the hoodie he gave you after a week. It smelled like home. And that just made everything worse.

You didn’t cry. Not because you didn’t want to. But because the second you let it out, it would all become real. Final. You weren’t ready for that yet. You weren’t ready for this mission to become your whole identity — not when you’d just barely learned what it felt like to be his.

And you were. His.

You just couldn’t tell anyone. Especially not him.

By the second month, it became painfully clear: the captain wasn’t Maverick.

He didn’t smirk at you from behind his sunglasses after a long flight. He didn’t tell stories with too much detail and not enough truth. He didn’t challenge you like he wanted to see you fall — just to see if you’d rise again. No, this captain — Captain Elias Ward — was precise. Sharp. Efficient. He ran briefings like courtroom interrogations and missions like chess games, eyes always scanning for weakness, even in his own squad. You respected him. You had to. He was good at what he did.

But he wasn’t Maverick.

And this wasn’t Dagger.

You were the team lead now. The one everyone looked to. The voice on the comms they followed without hesitation. And you did your job. Every mission, every formation, every inch of airspace you carved through — you led them. You played the part well enough to earn your silence. No one questioned you. No one doubted you. But sometimes, you wished they would.

Because this team? They took everything too seriously.

They triple-checked checklists that didn’t need checking. They talked in tactical brief instead of banter. They didn’t laugh. Not really. Not the way Yale used to when Harvard flubbed his landing and blamed the wind. Not the way Phoenix leaned back in her chair with a beer and dared you to outfly her. They didn’t know how to relax. How to trust. How to fail and still be family.

You understood it, of course. This wasn’t Top Gun. This wasn’t a training exercise or a contest of pride. This was real. Dangerous. Classified. Every mission report came with the potential for a body count. So yeah — you understood why they were the way they were.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

There were no callsigns here. No stories about stupid bets or who could run push-ups drunk. Here, they called you “Lieutenant.” Even the ones who outranked you gave you that look — the one that said you were useful, not known. You were a tool. A resource. Not a person.

Sometimes you caught yourself talking like you used to — cracking a joke before a flight, tossing a grin over your shoulder — and all you’d get were puzzled looks. Like they didn’t know how to respond. Like joy had to be processed and filtered before it could be understood.

You missed the rhythm of chaos. Of imperfect, messy, loyal people. You missed Bob. God, you missed Bob.

But you didn’t have time for that. You were leading now. And leaders didn’t get to miss people. Leaders kept the pieces moving.

Still, some nights, you looked at the stars — Okinawa had clearer skies than North Island — and wondered if he was doing the same.

If he missed the way your voice used to crack when you were exhausted. If he missed the quiet between you. The kind that felt like peace, not absence.

You’d never felt more alone surrounded by a team.

And yet, when the mission alarm sounded — when boots hit the ground and engines started screaming — you moved like you were part of the machine. Because here, in the silence between who you were and who you had to be, that was all you could do.

Be the ghost of the girl who once made Bob Floyd smile like he’d found home.

By the third month, you stopped waiting to feel like yourself again.

It was subtle, at first — the way your voice dropped a register in briefings, the way your posture never relaxed even off-duty, the way your name sounded strange when someone said it without a callsign. You didn’t notice it until one morning, brushing your teeth in the dim mirror light, you caught your reflection and didn’t recognize the eyes looking back. Too quiet. Too sharp. Too tired.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped speaking unless you had to. You stopped trying to inject levity into the silence. You stopped laughing when the new guy on the squad tripped over his gear and swore like a cartoon character. You just offered him a nod and moved on.

Because by now, you’d learned: this wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a phase.

This was the job. This was you. Now.

And part of you hated how easily you’d slipped into it.

You used to be loud. Not in volume — in presence. In chaos. You used to wear your sarcasm like armor and your recklessness like wings. But now? Now you moved with clinical precision. You ate what was given. You flew what was ordered. You reported what was required. You became exactly what this mission asked of you — obedient, efficient, and quiet.

Because that’s how ghosts stay alive.

You told yourself it wouldn’t be forever. That it couldn’t be. That black zone ops didn’t last longer than necessary, and eventually, someone would sign the paper that sent you home.

But even that word — “home” — started to feel theoretical.

Because if home was a person, then Bob was it. And you hadn’t heard his voice in ninety-two days.

Not once.

No letters. No calls. No stolen seconds over a secure line. The mission was too deep. The risk was too high. You weren’t even allowed to know if he’d tried.

So you carried him in silence.

Some nights, you lay awake under the buzz of fluorescent light, hand flat over your chest like you were trying to press the memory of him deeper into your ribs. Some mornings, you woke with his name on your lips and bit down hard, swallowing it like it might poison the day if you said it out loud.

You missed him in small, cruel ways. In the way no one walked beside you with perfect sync. In the way no one filled the coffee pot after taking the last cup. In the way no one called you on your bullshit with that patient, careful tone — the kind that cut through you without ever raising its voice.

You wondered if he’d started forgetting. Not on purpose, but just… slowly. Naturally. The way time does. The way it wears away at memory until the shape of someone fades, leaving behind just a feeling you can’t quite name.

You didn’t blame him if he had. You knew how grief worked. Even when no one had died.

So you did what you always did — you buried it. All of it. The longing. The ache. The fear. You tucked it away behind mission reports and briefings and flight prep. Because if you stopped long enough to feel it all, you weren’t sure you’d survive it.

You weren’t yourself anymore. But at least you were still alive.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Five months.

A hundred and fifty-three days.

And you were still breathing, still flying, still leading. But somewhere between Kadena airspace and the last classified run over contested waters, something inside you had gone quiet.

It wasn’t burnout — not yet. Burnout meant you had something left to burn. This felt more like erosion. Like you’d been sanded down into something smooth and sharp and unrecognizable. A blade instead of a person.

Your team followed you without question now. You gave orders, and they listened. You gave silence, and they never dared to fill it. In the field, they moved like a single unit behind you — surgical, professional, clean. And when they spoke of you behind your back, they used words like “disciplined” and “precise” and “cold as hell.”

You didn’t mind.

Respect was efficient. Emotion wasn’t.

You didn’t joke anymore. You didn’t flinch when the new recruits whispered about you like you were a myth wrapped in a uniform. You didn’t argue when the captain — not Maverick, never Maverick — called you the most stable leader they’d seen in the Pacific theater in years.

And maybe that should’ve made you proud.

But it didn’t.

Because pride was something you used to feel back when you were still a person. Back when you were sitting at the Hard Deck with Bob and the Dagger Squad, feet kicked up on the table, sunlight warm on your face and salt air curling in your hair. Back when your victories came with laughter and your failures came with someone waiting to pick you up off the floor.

Now your victories were silent. Now your failures were fatal.

You started avoiding mirrors. You didn’t like how hollow your eyes had gotten. How tight your jaw always looked. How even your posture had changed — straighter, harder, like the tension had fused into your spine and refused to leave.

Five months without Bob.

Five months of silence where his voice used to live. You stopped expecting him to break protocol. You stopped hoping there’d be a letter hidden in your locker or a message slipped through secure comms. He wouldn’t risk it. You knew him too well.

And it hurt more because of that.

You still thought about him every night, though. Not always consciously. Not always clearly. But in flashes. In half-dreams. In the moments right before sleep where your brain stopped obeying your orders and your body remembered how it felt to be touched like you mattered.

You missed his voice. His steadiness. His warmth. You missed the way he looked at you — like you weren’t a weapon, but something worth saving.

No one looked at you like that anymore.

And maybe you didn’t deserve it.

Because five months in, you weren’t sure who you were anymore.

You were effective. Unshakable. Commanding.

But you were also tired. Angry. Lonely.

And underneath it all — somewhere deep, buried so far it barely had a voice — you were scared. Scared that when this mission ended, there’d be nothing left of you to go home.

Because how do you go back to being human after being a ghost this long?

You didn’t know.

And the worst part was... no one was asking.

By the sixth month, the ghosts started talking back.

Not the ones in your head. The ones around you. The ones you were stationed with — the eleven pilots and WSOs who made up the current rotation of Sable Crest’s classified deployment, buried so deep in the Pacific theater you weren’t sure if you belonged to the world anymore. You’d led them for months now, and for months, they had treated you like what you were: a legend, a shadow, a tactical specter who never joked and never cracked. Blitz.

But eventually, even ghosts have to breathe.

It started with the small things. A WSO named Splice started leaving an extra protein bar by your locker. Marrow, one of the quieter pilots, offered you the front seat in the ready room once without comment. Echo, the youngest in the squad, asked what your first kill felt like, eyes wide with something between fear and reverence.

You didn’t answer at first. Just gave them a tight nod and moved on.

But that was the thing about teams — real ones. They didn’t let silence last forever.

Twelve total. You’d memorized their files before you’d even touched down in Kadena, but you hadn’t really seen them until now.

The WSOs were sharp — precise. Splice, Grin, and Mako. Splice was older than the others, had been in Korea before the blackout pulled him south. Grin was fast with comms and faster with sarcasm, the only one brave enough to poke fun at you early on (you hadn’t smiled, but you remembered it). Mako was fresh out of advanced, nerves like wires, but clever — calculating. She sat beside you often in the command room, eyes scanning the maps even when she wasn’t on rotation. She reminded you of yourself. Or at least, who you used to be.

The pilots were a mixed bag of brilliance and chaos.

Marrow flew like a scalpel, all angles and clean cuts. Ash was temperamental but effective — always first in the air, last to land. Riot and Spanner worked best as a pair; they were textbook dogfighters, symbiotic in the sky but always arguing on the ground. Echo had potential, though he second-guessed everything, and Tusk — the biggest, loudest, boldest of the bunch — made it his mission to get under your skin from the day he realized who you reminded him of.

"You're like him," Tusk had said one night, unprompted, as the two of you sat on the barracks roof in the dark. "Hangman. That cocky bastard Maverick trained. You got the same fire in your blood."

You almost laughed — almost. “He’s a showboat.”

“Yeah,” Tusk grinned. “And so are you. Just quieter about it.”

He was the first one to say your name like it meant something personal. Not just a callsign. Not just Blitz, the Captain. But Blitz, the pilot. Blitz, the person.

Tusk started hovering after that. Not in an annoying way — not really. He’d fall into step with you on the way to morning briefings. Ask dumb questions he already knew the answers to just so you’d talk. He kept trying to make you laugh — stupid jokes, half-impressions of Cyclone, dramatic reenactments of your first mission like he hadn’t nearly blacked out from Gs. He looked up to you, plain and simple. Wanted to be like you.

And you didn’t hate it.

It was dangerous, letting your guard down. You knew that. But maybe — just maybe — it was more dangerous to keep pretending you didn’t need them. Because at some point, these strangers had become yours. Your team. Your people. You still held yourself apart, yes. You still kept things close. But you found yourself listening more. Watching more. Caring, even when it hurt.

You started correcting Marrow mid-briefing and got a half-smile in return. You let Riot and Spanner pull you into a card game during a thunderstorm lockdown and didn’t even pretend to be annoyed when they cheated. You ran drills with Mako and complimented her turn radius. You sat beside Echo at dinner once and watched his shoulders straighten when you didn’t move away.

You never talked about home. You never said Bob’s name out loud. But he was everywhere in your silences. Every time your hand hovered too long over your dog tags. Every time you watched Tusk grin and remembered how Bob used to tilt his head when he laughed. Every time someone handed you coffee and you remembered the exact way Bob liked his — two sugars, no cream.

Six months without him, and it was starting to hurt differently.

It wasn’t sharp anymore. Not the kind of grief that cut like a broken bottle. It was duller now — deeper. Like pressure under the surface. Like being underwater for too long, lungs starting to forget how to expand.

You’d stopped dreaming about him. That scared you most of all.

Because the longer you stayed here — in Kadena, in the Pacific, in the dark — the more the edges of your old life blurred. You were still you. But not completely. You moved with a weight you hadn’t earned before. You spoke like a soldier who didn’t expect to be heard.

You were proud of your team. And they trusted you now — more than they had any right to.

But that didn’t stop the ache.

The ache for something soft. Something simple. Something that smelled like engine grease and old leather jackets and that damn soap Bob always used.

The ache for a name whispered in the dark. For a hand at your back.

You were still leading. Still flying. Still surviving.

But God, you missed him.

And that part? That hadn’t dulled at all.

By month seven, your body knew the Kadena airspace better than it knew rest.

You flew every morning. Not because anyone ordered it. Not because command demanded drills. But because flight was the only place you still felt real. Because the cockpit was the only place your silence didn’t echo.

You trained them hard. Not out of cruelty — but because you knew what waited outside the borders of briefings and maps and base lines. You knew the weight of a lock tone in your ears, the split-second decision between climb and dive, the nightmare geometry of heat-seekers and human breath. You knew what it cost to hesitate.

So you made them better. Every last one of them.

Tusk was reckless, so you gave him structure. Forced him to fly low-level terrain maps at sunrise, hugging the jungle line just shy of stall. Over and over again until his wildness burned into control.

Echo hesitated — too afraid to call plays, to trust his own gut. So you pushed him into lead, over and over, shadowing his wing but never correcting him mid-air. He messed up plenty. But he learned. He started banking harder, trusting angles, trusting you. One day, he cleared a canyon run with a time nearly matching yours. He didn’t say anything when he landed — but you saw the way his fingers trembled, the way he looked at his hands like they belonged to someone else. Someone braver.

Spanner and Riot were already solid, but cocky. They relied too much on each other’s patterns. So you split them. Put one with Mako, the other with Grin. Forced them to adapt. The results were jagged, messy. But eventually, they figured it out. And when you finally put them back together, they flew tighter than before. Sharper. Like iron that’d been snapped and reforged.

You didn’t spare yourself. You trained with them, on the ground and in the sky. You led canyon runs through rain, orchestrated night intercepts with zero visibility, ran scramble drills where the goal was to lose you in under three minutes.

No one could do it.

Not yet.

“You’re impossible,” Marrow grunted one day, pulling off his helmet after a mock engagement that ended with your nose-to-tail lock in under twenty seconds.

“No,” you said, stepping onto the tarmac beside him. “I’m practiced.”

You didn’t smile — but he did. And somehow, that meant more.

Grin kept a tally board in the ready room now. “Kills by Blitz” versus “All of Us Combined.” They’d started writing your number in red just to make it worse. You never corrected them. But you did start marking their progress in the debriefs. Short notes. Honest praise. Quiet encouragement that made Splice’s eyebrows raise more than once.

Mako finally spoke up in a post-flight one evening. “You don’t let us win.”

You looked up from your clipboard. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“But you think we will?” she asked, arms crossed. Defiant, but not hostile.

You met her eyes. “I know you will.”

That was the first time she nodded back.

Flying felt different now. Not easier. Not lighter. But fuller. The formations started syncing. Echo stopped doubting. Marrow flew closer, cleaner. Riot stopped rolling out early. Grin learned to read your silence. Tusk… still pushed buttons. Still grinned like the sky belonged to him. But when you pulled into a vertical loop on a training run, he didn’t just follow — he anticipated it. Beat for beat. For once, he didn’t try to race you. He tried to match you.

And it worked.

Your team was starting to fly like a unit. Not twelve solo pilots. Not misfits. Not numbers on a board.

A team.

In the sky, you didn’t talk much. But they started to. Chatter filled the comms during flights. Short jokes. Status checks. “On your six.” “Covering you.” “Missile lock, dive now!” And it wasn’t just noise. It was communication. It was connection.

They were talking to you now, too.

“Nice break, Blitz.”

“You’re faster today.”

“Tell me you trained Maverick like this — ‘cause damn.”

And sometimes, you respond. Not much. But enough. A clipped “Good run.” A rare “Clean dive.” One time — just once — you told Echo “Nice work, Lieutenant,” and the kid didn’t speak for the rest of the flight, probably because he was having an emotional breakdown behind his oxygen mask.

You didn’t mention it. But you saw it. And for the first time in months, you felt… proud.

Not of yourself.

Of them.

You still missed Bob. That hadn’t changed. Every afterburner roar still echoed like a memory. Every time someone called you “Skipper,” your heart twitched toward San Diego. You still dreamed in static. Still woke sometimes half-sure his hand would be on your back, steady and warm and quiet like his voice always was when you needed anchoring.

But your soul had stopped bleeding.

And somehow, your heart was learning to beat without bruising itself against the absence.

They weren’t your old team.

But they were yours now.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The eighth month arrives not with a thunderclap or a warning—but with a shift. Subtle, slow, almost invisible at first. But you feel it in your bones. In the way the air tastes different. In the silence between comms transmissions. In the way the stars over Kadena seem colder now, more distant than before. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s you.

You don’t notice it right away. Not until you sit in the briefing room with your team one morning and realize no one’s laughing. The usual banter is gone. Riot is studying the mission slate like it’s a death sentence. Tusk’s cocky grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Even Grin has stopped humming while she straps into her gear. Something’s changed. And you know better than to ignore it.

The missions are longer now. Not just recon or flyovers, but escorts and silent intercepts along coastlines that have gone from “unfriendly” to “increasingly hostile” in the space of two weeks. The black zone has shifted. They don’t say it aloud—command never does—but you’ve seen it in the briefings. The words change: escalation, territorial friction, satellite losses. They don’t say “conflict,” not yet. But the edge is sharper. Everyone feels it.

Your squad looks to you more often now. Not for praise, not even for orders. For certainty. And you give it. Because you have to. Because it’s your voice in their headsets, your signature at the bottom of the flight logs, your name on the top of the casualty forms if this ever goes wrong. You’ve never carried command like this before. Not really. Maverick was always the final wall back home. But here? Here, it’s you.

And you don’t sleep anymore.

Not really.

Nights have turned into simulations. You spend hours reviewing flight data, checking weather streams, rewriting route projections until your eyes blur. You run through every possible malfunction scenario in your head until your dreams echo with engine failures and weapon lock warnings. You think about Tusk. About how he pulls up too late when he’s tired. About Marrow, who second-guesses every target confirmation. You think about them all. Over and over. Because you have to be two steps ahead. Because you’re the one who keeps them alive now.

You still haven’t heard from Bob.

Seven months of silence, and it never got easier. But now? Now the ache is sharper. Lonelier. You used to pretend he was just on the other side of a message, waiting for the right window. But even those illusions have started to feel brittle. You stopped expecting a letter weeks ago. You deleted the unsent messages from your tablet. You don’t let yourself say his name anymore—not even in your head. Because saying it feels dangerous. It opens a door you can’t afford to walk through.

But you still think about him.

God, you still think about him.

Sometimes, after a mission, you’ll step into the locker room and catch yourself expecting to hear his voice—soft and steady, asking if you’re okay, if the sortie went clean. You’ll turn around too fast, half hoping he’ll be there, leaned against the doorframe with that look in his eyes—the one that meant he saw all of you, even the parts you kept hidden. But he’s never there. Just shadows. Just ghosts.

It rains more this month. Okinawa’s skies open in thick sheets, drenching the tarmac until the whole base smells like wet metal and oil. Your boots are always soaked. Your flightsuits never quite dry. The whole world feels damp and grey and suffocating. And somehow, it suits the mood.

The first real close call comes on a Tuesday.

You’re running a patrol sweep with Spanner and Mako when the tone hits your headset—short, shrill, unmistakable. Lock. Unfriendly jet, zeroed in, trailing heat. You bank hard, pull into cloud cover, but the bastard follows. You call a scatter. Mako peels. Spanner flares. You dive. It works. You lose him. But the ride back is silent. No one says a word. Not even you.

That night, Mako comes to your quarters, her voice low, her knuckles white.

“I thought I was gonna die up there.”

You don’t lie to her. You just nod. And when she leaves, you stay by the window, watching the storm roll over the sea. You press your fingers to the glass like it’s a lifeline. And in the silence, you whisper one word into the dark. Not a prayer. Not a plea. Just a name.

“Bob.”

No one hears you.

But maybe the ocean does.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

You stop counting the days sometime in the ninth month. Not because you’ve forgotten—but because it starts to feel like time no longer obeys the rules you once knew. Some days stretch like lifetimes. Others vanish before you’ve even realized they began. You wake up disoriented, your body moving before your mind catches up, every motion muscle memory, every breath a demand instead of a choice. The base feels smaller. The sky feels lower. And everything—every mission, every hour of sleep you don’t get, every smirk you fake in the mess hall—is beginning to scrape away at something inside you that used to feel strong.

You used to be the fastest pilot in your squadron. Back at Top Gun, you danced through the air like you belonged there—like the sky was yours, and everyone else was just borrowing space. But now, your flying is sharp. Controlled. Dangerous. There’s no poetry in it anymore. No edge-of-your-seat thrill. Just math and muscle and a clenched jaw behind the mask. You don’t soar—you execute. Your team notices. You can see it in the way Tusk flinches when you snap an order mid-air, or how Riot has stopped cracking jokes even after a clean landing. They’re still with you, still loyal—but the awe has bled into caution. They trust you with their lives. But you don’t know if they like you anymore.

You’ve stopped caring about being liked.

You fly clean. You hit your marks. You bring them home.

That’s all that matters now.

You don’t have time for softness. Not when the black zone is lighting up more frequently. Not when the encrypted maps shift twice a week and two of your pilots—Gale and Monarch—narrowly dodge a lock-on that never makes it into the official report. You get the memo, though. Things are worse than command wants to admit. They brief you on new protocol in the dark of a half-empty conference room, eyes darting, voices low. You nod, absorb, never ask questions. They like that about you now. You don’t ask. You act.

But at night?

Night is when it hits.

The silence after a mission. The way your bunk feels too big, too cold, like it’s waiting for someone who never got the coordinates. The way you wake up at 0300, heart pounding, hand reaching for a comms panel that won’t ever light up—not for him. Not for Bob. Not for the boy with the steady voice and the blue eyes and the promise he whispered against your skin the night before you left.

You try not to think about it. You try harder not to need it. Because needing hurts. Needing opens the wound that hasn’t closed since Okinawa swallowed you whole.

But you still see him.

Not really. But in flashes. In the silhouette of a maintenance tech walking past the hangar. In the way Wrench tilts his head when he asks you a question mid-flight. In the color of the ocean on a rare day when the sun breaks through the clouds and lights up the water like melted steel.

You see him in everything, and it breaks you just enough to remind you that you’re not made of stone, no matter how many layers of armor you wear. You haven’t cried since month four. You haven’t smiled without effort since five. But in month nine, something gives.

It happens on a training mission. You’re in the air with Tempest and Juno, running a drill through simulated hostile airspace. Standard stuff. Clean run. Good weather. But then Juno misjudges a turn—barely—and clips your tail with his jetwash. Nothing catastrophic. But it shakes your frame, rattles your nerves, and for the briefest second, your body freezes. Not your hands. Not your voice. Those keep moving. But you, inside your skin—you freeze.

And you hear him.

Not in your ears. In your memory.

“Breathe through it, Blitz. One second at a time.”

You breathe. You land. You debrief. You don’t say a word to anyone.

But when you get back to your room, you sit on the edge of your bunk, fingers gripping the edge like it’s the only thing holding you in this world, and you feel it. That fracture. That break.

You don’t cry. But you almost do. And that scares you more than any mission ever could.

The worst part?

You’re getting used to it.

This version of you. The quiet one. The razor-edged one. The pilot who doesn’t laugh anymore. Who doesn’t speak unless it’s mission-critical. Who walks past mirrors and barely recognizes the person staring back. This is who you are now. Blitz, the ghost. The shadow in the sky.

You miss Bob like a phantom limb.

But you don’t let yourself reach for him anymore.

Because ghosts don’t get to ask for love.

They just remember it.

And fly on.

By the tenth month, it isn’t just the silence that claws at you—it’s the noise. The grinding edge of voices that never stop. The sharp bite of footsteps behind you when you just want to be alone. The constant barrage of reports, updates, briefings, drills. They come faster now, back-to-back, shadowed by the increasing volatility in your mission range. The maps change again. Your airspace window tightens. There’s another close call with an unidentified aircraft that doesn’t answer hails and disappears before you can intercept. Command calls it a ghost signature. You call it a warning.

And your squad?

They’re getting sloppy.

Riot and Spanner bicker so loudly in the hangar that it echoes into your quarters. Echo hesitates during a flight sim and nearly crashes into Grin’s wing. Ash takes a calculated risk in a training loop and cuts it too close to Tusk, who laughs it off—but you don’t. You don’t laugh at anything anymore.

You try to correct them, over and over, calm and clear at first. But it’s like shouting into the wind. They're still good. They're still yours. But they don't get it.

They don’t know what it costs to be you.

And Tusk?

Tusk has decided he’s the unofficial morale officer. Which, in his head, apparently means poking you until you explode.

“C’mon, Blitz,” he drawls after a post-flight review, leaning on the edge of the table like he owns the room. “You fly like a legend but lead like a ghost. Lighten up, huh? We’re not in a warzone. Yet.”

You stare at him. Your jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

“We’re close enough.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, louder now. “Even Hangman cracked a joke now and then. Don’t tell me he was more fun than you.”

And just like that—everything inside you snaps.

You don’t yell. Not at first. But you stand, slow and deliberate, the chair scraping back with a shriek that cuts through the room. Everyone freezes. The table full of banter, noise, and lazy grins goes dead silent. Tusk’s smirk falters—but only slightly.

You take a step forward, your voice cold and sharp enough to draw blood.

“You think this is a game?”

Tusk blinks. “I—”

“You think because we haven’t buried someone yet, it means we’re safe? You think because the air’s quiet today, it won’t be screaming tomorrow?” Your voice rises now, fury barely caged. “I’m the one who signs the reports. I’m the one who gets the briefings they don’t want you to see. You want to play Hangman, Tusk? Fine. But remember how many times that cocky bastard almost died.”

Nobody moves.

“I am not your cheerleader,” you spit. “I am not your friend. I am your captain. And every single one of you is alive because I’ve been too exhausted to let you die.”

Spanner shifts. Riot swallows hard. Even Ash—who’s never flinched in her life—stares at the floor.

Tusk opens his mouth again, but you’re not finished.

“You don’t get to mock what you don’t understand. You didn’t see what I saw. You weren’t there when we lost two jets in the black zone and command scrubbed it from the record. You weren’t there when I watched an op go sideways and had to lie to the squad about it because they couldn’t handle the truth. So if you’ve got something smart to say—don’t.”

The air is heavy. Thick with everything they didn’t know you were holding in.

You’re breathing hard now. Shoulders tight, fists clenched. And your squad—your squad of twelve reckless, brilliant, frustrating pilots—stares at you like they’ve never really seen you before.

Because maybe they haven’t.

Maybe you’ve been so good at wearing the mask, they never realized what it was costing you.

You don’t apologize. You don’t explain.

You turn on your heel and walk out.

The door slams behind you.

Outside, the sky is dimming. Dusk in Kadena. And for the first time in months, your hands are shaking.

Not from fear.

From fury.

And from the loneliness of knowing that even after ten months, even with a squad who follows your every order, no one here understands the weight you carry.

Not like Bob did.

And the ache of missing him feels sharp again—razor-sharp. Like maybe this deployment isn’t turning you into a ghost.

Maybe it’s just stripping you down to what was always under the surface.

Fire.

And fractures.

It’s November in Okinawa, and the rains come harder now. Typhoons skirt the edges of the coast. The sea churns like it knows what you’re feeling, like it’s trying to reflect you back at yourself. You wake up most days before dawn, not because you have to, but because the dreams won’t let you sleep. Not anymore.

Month Eleven hits you in the softest places—the ones you thought you’d armored up. You don’t break this month. You unravel, quietly. The thread doesn’t snap. It frays. And what’s worse is how normal everything looks while it happens.

The squad’s better now—tighter. Tusk keeps his comments to himself. Spanner and Riot save their bickering for when they think you’re out of earshot. Marrow’s started stepping up more, helping Echo through his doubt spiral. Ash is still reckless, but she waits for your nod now. And Splice? She flies like she’s auditioning for a legend. You’re proud of them. You’re furious that you’re proud of them. Because they are not your home.

You take to the skies to remember who you are.

The jets are sleeker here, stripped of frill, every inch built for speed and silence. There’s something brutal in the way they handle, the way the yoke responds to every twitch of your hand. It’s like flying a weapon made of your own thoughts. You run drills until you’re dizzy, refuel in mid-air just for the challenge, pull vertical climbs until the edges of your vision start to blur.

Because the sky still listens to you.

Because it’s the only thing that does.

Somewhere over the South China Sea, you fly so high the world goes quiet. You cut the comms. No chatter. No reports. Just the scream of the engine and your breath in your helmet. And for a second, you can almost pretend that Bob is flying on your wing. You picture him there. Can almost see the tilt of his jet. The way he used to watch your six without needing to be asked.

You talk to him sometimes now. Not out loud. Just in your head. Missed you today. Told Tusk he’s nothing like Hangman—he looked genuinely offended. You’d have laughed.

You don’t get responses.

But you do it anyway.

Some nights, you sit outside the hangar after lockdown. Just you, a cracked thermos of instant coffee, and the planes. You stare at the stars until your eyes blur. You wonder if Bob’s looking at the same sky. If he still thinks about you. If he’s flying at all, or if they grounded him again. You wonder if he’s mad. If he’s moved on. You hope he hasn’t.

You don’t cry. You just get quieter.

You send a single message to Cyclone—through an encrypted line, through the right channels. You ask if you can send a comm back to Top Gun. A message for Bob Floyd. Something simple. Just so he knows you’re alive.

Cyclone replies the next day: “Request denied. Maintain radio silence.”

You don’t reply. You just close your laptop and sit on the edge of your bunk with the kind of silence that tastes like metal.

At the end of Month Eleven, you log another twelve flight hours into the system. They call it flawless. They give you a commendation for leadership.

And that night, you sit in your bunk with the lights off and whisper one sentence into the dark:

"I don’t know who I’m going to be when I get back."

Because you’re not Blitz anymore. Not really.

You’re something else now.

Something harder. Something quieter.

And God, you just hope Bob will still know you when you come home. If you come home.

The Mission

It begins at 0430.

You’re already awake when the alert sounds—strapped into your flight suit, lacing your boots with the kind of calm that only comes when you’ve already imagined every way the day could go wrong. Outside, the air smells like salt and ozone. The typhoon season’s been relentless, but this morning the clouds hang just high enough to give you a window. One shot. That’s all you get.

Mission brief: covert intercept near contested airspace. An unauthorized drone convoy’s been rerouted toward allied waters, masked under civilian codes. Command wants proof, not war—visual recon, live comms, no hard engagement unless absolutely necessary. You don’t believe that part. Neither do your pilots.

You go wheels up at 0523.

Tusk and Ash take point. Spanner and Riot fly left wing, you on the right. Splice rides shotgun behind you—her eyes sharp, her voice steady in your ear. Below, the sea stretches out in all directions, endless and blue-black and glassy. You fly low, fast, under radar, watching the altimeter like it owes you something. Every move is rehearsed. You’ve run this op in the sim six times this week. But real air doesn’t forgive hesitation. And today, something’s already off.

Mako’s voice cuts in first. "Movement at three o’clock. Fast. Not tagged." Spanner confirms it a second later. "That’s not one of ours."

Then it starts.

The convoy isn’t unarmed. Two drones break off formation and engage without warning—maneuvering fast, military-fast. The kind of AI that doesn’t wait for confirmation before lighting up a target. Riot takes the first hit—non-fatal, but enough to cripple their stabilizer. She drops altitude hard, trailing smoke. You shout commands, banking sharp to draw fire, making yourself a better target.

Splice swears behind you. “Blitz, we’ve got lock-on.” “Deploy flares. Stay sharp.”

Echo pulls out wide to cover Riot’s descent, but it leaves you exposed. You take a hit to the tail—minor, barely a scratch—but it rocks you enough to make your teeth click. Your jet screams in protest. Systems blink. You keep flying.

“Tusk,” you bark, “cover Echo. Spanner, push left. Mako, you're with me.” You cut up, hard and fast, into the belly of the chaos.

It’s thirty minutes of pure hell. Dogfighting against drones means no emotion. No fear. No hesitation. They don’t back down. They don’t miss. But you do what you do best—you adapt. You outfly. You survive. You always have.

Until something goes wrong.

Ash gets clipped trying to shield Marrow. Their wing tears mid-roll. You watch the tail spin out, the jet losing altitude faster than the backup chute can deploy. There’s no time. None.

You don’t hesitate.

You dive.

Nose-first. Into the slipstream of Ash’s descent. Warnings flash across your HUD—altitude, velocity, structural integrity. You ignore them all. You push your jet so hard the frame shudders around you, metal groaning like it might give way. You force the nose under her tailspin, use the lift to tilt her just enough for the chute to catch.

"Blitz, PULL UP!" Splice is screaming. "YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST—"

But you’re not listening. The Gs slam into you like fists. Blood rushes to your head. Vision narrows. You whisper a curse, something half-prayer, half-swear, and pull.

The world rips sideways. The horizon vanishes. Your jet levels just above sea level, skimming the ocean like a skipping stone. Your control stick jerks in your hand—rudder’s gone. Left wing bleeding. You’re flying a dying bird now.

You cough. Taste copper.

You hear Splice’s breath hitch. “Blitz—are you hit?”

You can’t lie. Not now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice raw. “But she’s safe. Get her out.”

You don’t know how long you’ll stay in the air. You don’t know if you’ll make it back. Systems are failing one by one—electrical, pressure, nav. You’re flying blind. And the ocean’s rising.

“Blitz, copy—do you copy—” “I’ve got it,” you whisper. “Get them home.”

The last thing you see is the endless blue beneath you. The last thing you hear is Splice calling your name.

And then—

Silence.

Top Gun, North Island

The room had been loud five minutes ago—chaotic, even. Phoenix and Hangman were arguing over call sign stats again, something about who had the higher confirmed intercept rate, while Fanboy was mid-rant about a sandwich he’d lost to Payback’s “accidental theft.” Rooster had been leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, playing referee with minimal effort. And Bob? Bob had been quiet, like always, chewing the end of his pen and pretending to be interested in the logistics map Warlock was pointing at.

Then the door opened.

Maverick walked in. Or started to. He barely made it two steps past the threshold before Warlock appeared in his wake and said, voice tight and low, “Captain Mitchell, with me. Now.”

No one questioned the tone—not even Maverick, who simply stiffened, turned on his heel, and followed.

No explanation. No detour. Just… gone.

The door clicked shut behind them, and silence bloomed in their absence. Heavy, like fog on the runway.

Phoenix was the first to speak. "What the hell was that?" Her voice was sharp, but her eyes didn’t leave the door.

Hangman shrugged, but the gesture lacked its usual flair. “Maybe he’s in trouble. What’d he do this time—steal another F-18 for a joyride?”

No one laughed.

Payback frowned. “That didn’t feel like trouble. That felt like something else.”

Bob hadn’t moved. His pen was still between his fingers, hovering over the page of scribbles he hadn’t updated in five minutes. “Something’s wrong,” he said quietly.

Rooster sat forward, hands resting on his knees. “Yeah. I felt it too. You see Mav’s face? That wasn’t his usual guilty smirk. That was… different.”

Fanboy tapped his fingers against the table, fast and jittery. “Warlock looked spooked. He doesn’t get spooked. I don’t like this. I officially don’t like this.”

Coyote, who hadn’t said a word since the interruption, leaned back and exhaled slowly. “No one else is getting called in. That was for Mav. Whatever it is—it’s high up. Real high.”

Phoenix stood, pacing now, arms crossed tight over her chest. “You think it’s about her?”

No one had to ask who her was.

Blitz.

The ghost in the room. The absence they’d all been dancing around for months now.

The briefings still had her chair. No one sat in it. It wasn’t even a rule. Just instinct. And no one ever mentioned the empty spot on the tarmac during warm-ups, or the silence that fell whenever someone said the word “Kadena.”

Hangman rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tense. “She’s still out there. We’d know if she wasn’t.”

“But we don’t,” Bob said, voice quiet, almost too quiet. “We haven’t heard anything since the day she left. And now they’re dragging Maverick out of a briefing like the building’s on fire?”

Phoenix turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You think she’s hurt?”

Bob didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because even the thought of her—of Blitz—going down, of something happening to her out there with no one around but call signs they didn’t know and a war they weren’t allowed to talk about… it twisted in his chest like a blade.

Rooster stood up too. “Look. We can’t jump to conclusions. It could be anything. Could be some other op. Hell, maybe someone higher-up found out about Mav’s little low-altitude stunt last month.”

“You don’t believe that,” Fanboy said.

“No,” Rooster admitted. “I don’t.”

They waited another minute. Another five. No Maverick. No Warlock. No Cyclone.

Outside, jets took off like nothing was wrong. The walls didn’t shake. The lights didn’t flicker. But the Dagger Squad sat in that briefing room like they were in a bunker waiting for impact.

No one cracked a joke. Not even Hangman.

Bob sat back in his chair, gaze fixed on the door, knuckles white against the pen in his hand. He hadn’t blinked in a while. He didn’t move when Phoenix gently nudged his arm.

“Hey,” she said.

He blinked. Turned to her.

She didn’t say anything else. Just held his stare. He nodded once, the smallest motion, but it was enough.

Because the silence was back again.

And this time, it felt like the beginning of a storm.

Secure Conference Room, Top Gun – North Island

The door didn’t slam open. It clicked. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of sound you don’t hear unless you’re listening. But they all heard it. Because they'd been waiting for too long, in that thick, awful stillness that comes after a gut-punch with no explanation.

Maverick walked back in first. His face was unreadable—stone. Cold eyes, clenched jaw, the kind of look he only wore when something hurt. Not pain he could talk about. The kind you had to carry.

Behind him, Warlock. Just as tight-lipped.

Still no word. No answers.

Bob stood before he realized it. Chair screeching behind him, boots scuffing the floor, heart in his throat.

“Where is she?”

No one had said her name. Not once. But he did now. Didn’t care how reckless it sounded. Didn’t care if he got chewed out.

Maverick’s eyes flicked toward him. And for a second—just a second—something shifted behind the wall.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Every pilot in the room inhaled like they'd just broken the surface of deep water.

Rooster let out a low breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“She’s alive,” Bob repeated, but quieter. Not relief, not yet. More like… disbelief. A hope he’d been starving so long he forgot how it tasted.

“Why the cloak and dagger, then?” Phoenix asked, stepping forward. “Why call you out like someone died?”

Maverick hesitated. Warlock didn’t.

“Because Lieutenant Callahan has gone completely off-comm. Her last scheduled report was missed. The unit she was stationed with last logged a return to Okinawa air base without her.”

The silence this time hit like an avalanche.

“What do you mean without her?” Hangman snapped. “You just said she’s alive.”

Warlock’s face didn’t move. “We intercepted a rogue transmission. Off-grid. Not from Kadena. Not from any known base. Low-frequency signal, encrypted. Authenticated with her callsign. Her voice.”

Bob's heart dropped into his shoes.

“What did she say?”

Maverick answered this time, voice low. “Just five words: ‘I’m alive. Tell Floyd everything.’”

Something like a punch hit Bob in the chest. Everything? Everything? What did that mean? What the hell had she been doing out there?

Phoenix stepped closer to Warlock, eyes narrowed. “So where is she?”

“We don’t know.” Warlock’s answer was ice. “The signal bounced three times before we caught it. But it didn’t come from Japan. It came from somewhere deeper.”

“Deeper where?” Fanboy asked.

Maverick shook his head. “That’s classified. What matters is: she’s not dead. But she’s in deep. She went dark for a reason. And now? She wants someone to know she’s still out there.”

Bob’s breath was shaky. He sat down hard, hands in his lap. “Why me?” he asked no one in particular. “Why not you? Why not command?”

Rooster looked at him. Soft. Quiet. “You know why.”

Because it was always him.

Because even when they didn’t talk, even when she pushed him away, even when the distance became unbearable—he was still the one who knew how she flew, how she thought, how she bled.

“Are we going after her?” Coyote asked, standing now too. “Please tell me we’re not just sitting here.”

Maverick’s jaw clenched. “We’ve requested intel clearance. But if she’s where we think she is, this isn’t a standard retrieval.”

“Then make it nonstandard,” Hangman snapped. “She’s one of us.”

Warlock looked at him evenly. “She’s also not under Dagger jurisdiction anymore. She was operating in black zone airspace under direct DoD contract. That means her location, her mission, and her extraction plan are all above your clearance.”

“That’s bullshit,” Phoenix muttered.

“No,” Maverick said quietly. “That’s war.”

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He could still hear her voice. Five words. That was it. Not “I’m safe.” Not “I need help.” Just: “I’m alive. Tell Floyd everything.”

Everything.

He didn’t know if that meant love or guilt or a goodbye she never got to say.

But one thing was clear.

She wasn’t done fighting.

And neither was he.

Cyclone entered like a storm that had forgotten how to thunder—no loud steps, no orders barked, just that heavy weight of authority that settled over the room like a curtain being drawn. The Dagger Squad stood a little straighter as he crossed into the space, but no one saluted. Not this time. Not when all their hearts were still lodged in their throats and their skin felt one word away from splitting.

He stood beside Warlock and Maverick at the front of the room, glancing once over the gathered pilots. His expression was unreadable. Sharp, measured, and cold—not cruel, but clipped with that familiar, sterile control only commanders learned to master. The kind of tone that didn’t entertain emotions because it couldn’t afford to.

“I know you’ve all been waiting for answers,” Cyclone began, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Lieutenant Callahan has not been declared KIA. But she has violated protocol by going dark without authorization or scheduled check-in. We do not know her current location. We do not have visual confirmation of her condition. The last ping came from outside any U.S.-controlled region, and her current status remains non-operational.”

“She’s not a goddamn laptop,” Phoenix muttered under her breath.

Cyclone didn’t flinch. “No. She’s a highly skilled pilot who made a conscious choice to engage in a mission classified above even Top Gun’s pay grade. That means retrieval is not an option. Not yet. Not for any of you.”

The silence that followed was a different kind now—not fear, not even confusion. It was rage. It was betrayal.

Bob stood slowly. His voice, when it came, was calm. Respectful. But behind the words, every syllable cracked under the weight of the storm swelling in his chest.

“Sir, I understand that you’re following protocol,” he said, eyes locked on Cyclone. “But with all due respect, she’s one of us. She’s not a ghost, she’s not a name on a briefing folder, she’s Blitz. And she’s out there, sending signals. Asking to be heard. And I don’t think she did that just so command could file it under ‘inconclusive intel’ and wait for a report that may never come.”

Cyclone met his gaze without blinking. “Lieutenant Floyd, I understand your concern—”

“No, sir,” Bob cut in, carefully. “With respect, I don’t think you do. She didn’t send that message for you. She sent it for me. And I can’t just sit here knowing that while we’re sipping coffee and running drills, she’s somewhere out there with no backup and no way home.”

The room held its breath.

Cyclone’s shoulders shifted, just barely. And for the first time since he walked in, his tone softened—not much, but enough to let something real flicker underneath.

“You think she didn’t know what she was walking into?” he asked. “She knew, Lieutenant. She knew better than anyone. That mission was volunteer-only. No one forced her. She took it because she knew she could handle it.”

“She shouldn’t have had to handle it alone,” Bob said, voice quiet again, but raw.

“Maybe not,” Cyclone replied. “But she chose to. And I will not risk a team, an entire squadron, or an international incident trying to chase after a pilot who knew the rules before she broke them.”

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Hangman looked like he was one second away from throwing something. Rooster sat with clenched fists, knuckles white against the table. Phoenix had her arms folded across her chest, like she was trying to physically hold herself together. Coyote just shook his head slowly, jaw clenched.

Bob didn’t sit back down. He couldn’t. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw locked like it was the only thing keeping him from saying something reckless.

“She’s not just another pilot,” he said quietly.

Cyclone nodded once. “No. She’s not. That’s why she was chosen. That’s why she’s still alive.”

And then he turned toward the door again. Just like that. Statement closed. Mission ended. Silence left in his wake.

When the door shut behind him, the room didn’t move. No one said a word. They just sat—or stood—in a silence that wasn’t confused anymore. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t even helplessness.

It was fury.

Because somewhere out there, Blitz was alive.

And no one would let them bring her home.

The cold woke you before your eyes even opened. It wasn't the kind of cold you were trained for—the calculated kind in air-controlled environments or the chill that bit through your flight suit at high altitudes. No. This was bone-deep, vicious cold. The kind that reached in and coiled around your lungs, greedy and cruel. Snow drifted over your face, settling into your hair, and for a moment, you couldn’t remember where you were.

And then your body reminded you.

Pain came rushing in like a wave. Your ribs ached with every shallow breath. Your shoulder screamed when you tried to move. And your left leg—somewhere between numb and shattered. Your tongue tasted copper. There was a ringing in your ears that could’ve been memory, concussion, or maybe just the wind screaming across the mountainside.

You opened your eyes.

White. Blinding, endless white. A snowstorm was sweeping across the terrain, flurries thick as smoke, swallowing the trees that towered in crooked silhouettes around you. The sky above was a sheet of dull gray, and the sun was nowhere to be found.

The crash site lay just behind you—your jet, or what was left of it, split in two like a broken spine. Smoke curled faintly from the twisted wreckage, heat struggling against the storm. Your hands, bare and trembling, were scraped raw. Your helmet was gone. Probably in the trees. Your earpiece? Dead. Comms? Buried, crushed, or fried. There was no signal here anyway. You were in the middle of an enemy-controlled island somewhere north of hell, and no one knew where you were.

You blinked through the snow, trying to focus, but everything felt distant. Slow. You remembered the moment it happened—the hard lock tone in your ear, the evasive maneuver that came a second too late, the way the world turned sideways as your jet took the hit and plummeted into hostile territory. You remembered the G-force stealing your breath, the scream of metal, the canopy ripping free just before you ejected.

And then?

Nothing.

Just cold and dark and falling.

You forced yourself upright with a ragged breath, gasping as pain flared through your ribs. You needed to move. You had no idea how long you'd been unconscious. Hours? A day? Long enough for the storm to bury half your jet and make you feel like a corpse waking up in a grave.

You scanned the horizon. No patrols. No movement. Just woods, wind, and the sharp howl of winter. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought of Bob. Just a flash of him—laughing at some dumb joke, nodding across the hangar, brushing his fingers against yours like it was muscle memory. The memory hurt worse than the crash.

You were alone. For real this time.

No comms. No teammates. No orders. Just you, your training, and whatever willpower you hadn’t burned through in the last eleven months.

Your fingers fumbled at your harness, digging out the emergency pack—what was left of it. A flare. A knife. One energy bar half crushed beneath a busted med kit. You gritted your teeth and pulled the straps tighter around your waist, using a scrap of your parachute to wrap your bleeding hand. The snow had no intention of letting up, and neither did you.

You were going to survive this.

You didn’t survive eleven months in a black zone op to die face-down in the dirt of a nameless island.

You thought of the last thing Bob ever said to you—his forehead pressed to yours, voice low, trembling.

You come back to me.

You clenched your jaw.

Yeah, well.

You were going to try like hell.

It didn’t take long for the adrenaline to wear off. Maybe it was an hour. Maybe less. The pain was patient, relentless. The kind that didn’t scream—it just sat there, grinding its teeth against your bones, whispering every few minutes that this was how people froze to death.

You kept moving. Because you had to. You dragged your body from the wreckage, boots crunching through the snow like your own death march, every step a negotiation between your will to live and the sharp, nauseating pain in your leg. You had no idea where the hell you were going. Just away from the crash. That was Rule One. Enemy tech would be scanning for the wreckage. Rule Two was don’t bleed out. You weren’t doing great on that one either.

The storm made everything worse. Snow fell in angry bursts, the wind turning sideways and slicing through the fabric of your flight suit like it wasn’t even there. Your teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. Your fingers were going stiff, your breath a ragged steam cloud you could barely keep up with.

And yet—you kept going.

Somewhere between the broken trees and the slope of the ridge, your legs finally gave out. The snow cushioned your fall, but not by much. You didn’t even have the strength to cry out. You just... laid there, blinking up at the storm. You wanted to curse. To scream. But all that came out was a bitter puff of air that immediately froze against your lips.

The dark started creeping in around the edges, slow and quiet. You knew what that meant. You weren’t stupid. Hypothermia wasn’t cinematic. It was silent, disorienting. Like slipping beneath a frozen lake with your eyes open.

But you weren’t dead yet.

Your eyes fluttered, half-lidded. Snow gathered in your lashes. And then—just as the dark pulled a little closer—you saw him.

Bob.

Not in uniform. Not in his flight suit. Just him. A hoodie, jeans, bare hands shoved into his pockets. He knelt beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world and tilted his head, that quiet concern in his eyes.

“You’re freezing,” he said softly.

You wanted to speak, but your lips were numb. Still, your heart lurched painfully at the sound of his voice.

“You can’t sleep yet,” he told you gently, brushing snow from your cheek. “You promised me, remember?”

You blinked at him, tears freezing at the corners of your eyes. His face was so clear, so real—right down to the little scar near his temple. His breath fogged the air as he leaned closer.

“Come back to me.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words weren’t working. Your body wasn’t listening anymore. Your chest rose and fell in short, panicked stutters. You couldn’t feel your hands.

“You’re not done yet,” he said, voice cracking now. “Don’t give up. Not like this.”

You tried to nod. You really did. But the cold had threaded its way through your spine, through your lungs. You wanted to scream. To beg him not to go. But your vision swam, your heart slowing like it had forgotten how to beat. The hallucination—his image—began to fade, blurred by the snow.

Still, you held on. Because somewhere, deep in the ruined mess of your mind, you believed he was coming. Not the ghost version. The real one. You clung to that hope with the rawest part of you. That stubborn, reckless, Blitz-core part that didn’t know how to die quietly.

You didn’t remember passing out. The world just... stopped.

But two days later, it started again.

Voices in the wind. A shout. The mechanical whirr of a drone. The unmistakable thud of boots breaking through snow and the low static of a field comms unit crackling to life. Hands—real ones this time—tugging you up, checking your pulse, wrapping you in thermal blankets. You couldn’t see them clearly. The snow hadn’t let up. But someone was yelling coordinates. Someone else was calling for evac.

“Pilot’s alive! She’s alive!”

You couldn’t respond. Not even as your body was lifted, loaded into a carrier, the heat lamps blasting your frozen skin until it burned. The pain was unreal. But it meant you were still breathing.

They didn’t know who you were at first. Just that a downed jet matched the signature of an off-grid black zone op. That a captain had gone dark. And then, the callsign—Blitz—painted in chipped letters on what was left of your wing.

As the rescue team lifted off, the island growing smaller below, you stirred once. Just enough to open your cracked lips and whisper through the haze.

“I told you,” you said to no one. To Bob. To yourself. “I’m coming back.”

And then everything went black again.

The hangar doors hissed open as the Dagger Squad coasted to a stop, canopies lifting in slow succession. Sunlight bounced off the jets, the salt air thick and humid, the kind of afternoon where the heat clung to your flight suit and exhaustion settled behind your ribs. Engines whined low before fading into silence, the after-hum of adrenaline still buzzing in Bob Floyd’s veins.

It had been a routine test flight. Clean. Technical. Precise. But none of that mattered now.

Because the moment he stepped down from the ladder, boots hitting the tarmac with a hollow thud, he saw them.

Cyclone and Warlock, standing just beyond the yellow safety line. Not inside the hangar. Not in the control tower. Out here. Waiting.

Bob’s chest tightened instantly.

They weren’t speaking. Weren’t waving. Just standing, still as statues, their faces unreadable under the midday sun. Cyclone’s arms were crossed; Warlock’s hands were clasped behind his back, his expression the calm kind of solemn that never meant anything good. They weren’t just here for show.

Bob’s heart started to pound.

He swallowed hard and adjusted his helmet under one arm, falling into step beside Rooster and Hangman as the squad moved toward them. Every inch of him screamed to turn around. To stop walking. To not hear what was about to be said. But he couldn’t slow down. Couldn't stop the ache rising in his throat like a tide.

He watched Cyclone’s gaze sweep over the group, sharp and clipped, then land—solid—on him.

Oh God.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

He glanced at Phoenix. She was frowning. Payback’s jaw was set. Rooster’s brow creased deeper with every step. Even Hangman had gone uncharacteristically quiet, his usual swagger dulled into something heavier.

Bob’s mouth felt dry. His lungs fought to expand.

They reached the two admirals and stopped, forming a loose semicircle, boots scuffing against concrete. Warlock looked between them with that calm, unreadable gaze, but it was Cyclone who spoke first.

“Stand down, lieutenants,” he said. “We’ve got news.”

Bob braced himself. It felt like someone had hooked a wire behind his ribs and yanked.

“We recovered the wreckage of a downed jet off the grid two days ago,” Cyclone continued. “The signature matched a black zone pilot.”

The world slowed. Blurred. Bob could barely hear anything else.

“A recovery team found the pilot alive. She was in critical condition, suffering from exposure and blunt trauma. No ID initially. But after confirming the call sign—”

His knees nearly gave.

“—the jet belonged to Captain Callahan.”

Phoenix let out a shaky breath. Hangman cursed under his breath. Rooster’s head snapped toward Bob so fast it was a blur.

But Bob—he didn’t move.

He couldn’t. He just stared at Cyclone, a roaring in his ears drowning out everything but the name. Callahan. Blitz. The woman he’d dreamed about every night for eleven months. The one he’d seen in every quiet moment, heard in every silence.

She was alive.

She was alive.

But Cyclone wasn’t finished. “She’s being airlifted to a secure base for stabilization. She hasn’t regained full consciousness yet. We’ll keep you updated when we know more.”

Warlock finally spoke, voice low. “You can’t contact her. Not yet. She’s still considered classified until she’s fully cleared for intel debrief.”

And then he looked directly at Bob.

“We know this hits harder for some of you. But she knew what she signed up for.”

Bob’s breath caught in his throat. Something sharp bloomed in his chest—pain or rage, he couldn’t tell. It clawed up his spine and pressed hard against his ribs, but he forced it down. Swallowed it whole. He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He was shaking. Not from fear this time, but from the brutal, unbearable pressure of holding everything in for nearly a year. Of imagining the worst. Of never knowing. Of waiting.

“She’s alive,” Phoenix said, barely above a whisper.

Bob finally found his voice. “Where is she?”

Cyclone raised an eyebrow. “I just told you—”

“Where?” Bob’s voice didn’t crack, but it was damn close. Still respectful. Still controlled. But underneath it was a tremble that could have shattered steel.

Cyclone looked at him for a long second. Then, quietly: “Somewhere safe.”

Bob nodded. Just once. It was the only thing he could manage without falling apart.

She was alive. She wasn’t here. But she was alive.

That had to be enough.

For now.

The first few days after they told him you were alive passed in a blur, like someone had hit pause on the rest of the world while Bob was still stuck in motion. He walked through the hangar like a ghost, hearing conversations he couldn’t hold onto, answering questions he couldn’t remember being asked. You were alive. But no one would say where. No one would say when you’d be back. If you’d be back. Just “classified,” “under observation,” and “secure location.” Words that meant nothing and everything. Words that told him she was somewhere on the other side of the damn planet, alone, recovering from a crash that almost killed her, and he couldn't even hear her voice.

He flew harder. Cleaner. Like the sky was the only place he could breathe. The moment he stepped off the tarmac, though, everything caved in. He found himself staring at the lockers too long, lingering by the seat she used to claim in the briefing room. Her callsign, Blitz, still scratched into the chalkboard. The coffee she liked still stocked in the breakroom fridge. No one dared touch it. Not because they were waiting for her—but because they couldn’t admit she might not come back to drink it.

Some days, he hated her for going. Not really. Not in his soul. But in the raw, bitter parts of him that hadn’t healed right since she left. She went without saying goodbye. Not properly. And when the reports came back after her jet crashed, detailing everything from exposure injuries to frostbite and blood loss, all he could think about was how close it had been. Minutes. Maybe less. The idea of her bleeding out in snow, hallucinating alone on enemy soil, made him physically sick.

He dreamed of her almost every night. Not always soft dreams. Not always peaceful. Sometimes she was falling, and he couldn’t catch her. Other times she stood in front of him, face pale, eyes wide, and she asked, “Why didn’t you come for me?” And he never had an answer. He’d wake up in a sweat, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He never said any of it out loud.

Phoenix asked once, quietly, after a debriefing. “How are you holding up?”

He just nodded. Said, “Fine.” Didn’t even try to fake a smile. She didn’t push.

Even Hangman stopped joking. That was how Bob knew they were all waiting too. Waiting for word. Waiting for a miracle. And day after day, it didn’t come.

The worst part wasn’t not knowing where she was.

The worst part was knowing she was out there and still unreachable. It was worse than mourning. With mourning, you could grieve. You could move forward. This? This was purgatory. A waiting room with no windows, no clocks, no light. Just silence and the memory of her hands, her voice, the fire in her eyes when she challenged him, the softness in them when no one else was looking.

Every time Warlock stepped into the hangar, Bob’s heart stopped. Every time Cyclone walked past with a file in his hand, Bob’s pulse stuttered. Hope was a cruel, sharp-edged thing, and he clutched it so tightly it might as well have drawn blood.

You were alive. That was the only sentence that mattered.

But you weren’t home. You weren’t his. Not yet.

And some days, he wasn’t sure which one of those truths hurt more.

It had been seventeen days since they told him you were alive. Seventeen days since the words "she’s stable" were tossed out like a life raft and Bob had grabbed it with both hands, knuckles white, heart hollowed out from everything that came before. But seventeen days without seeing your face or hearing your voice? It felt worse than the silence before. At least then, grief had structure. Now all he had was the jagged, restless ache of hope.

He kept checking the damn flight schedule, like your name might magically appear on the arrivals list. He'd never been that guy before—waiting by a phone, staring at a clock—but here he was, pacing the hangar like a dog waiting at the door, ears pricked for footsteps that never came. And every time someone mentioned Kadena, or ghost missions, or the word “debrief,” he tensed like it might mean something. It never did.

Even Hondo gave him a look the other day. Not pitying—no one on base had the nerve to pity Bob Floyd—but quiet. Knowing. Like maybe Hondo had seen too many pilots wait for someone who didn’t come home in time.

The squad felt it, too. The shift. Everyone had tightened around Bob without saying it out loud. Hangman didn’t needle him. Rooster offered to fly his route when Bob stayed late, checking the diagnostics for the fourth time. Phoenix started lingering in the ready room just a little longer. They never said it, but they were bracing for something. Either the return or the collapse.

Bob wasn’t collapsing. Not yet.

He spent more time in the air than anywhere else now. The cockpit was the only place he didn’t feel like he might unravel. Up there, he could breathe without thinking. Without remembering the way your laugh used to echo in his headset, or how you always bumped his shoulder before takeoff, like it was your version of a hug.

He missed you so fiercely it was starting to hurt in his bones.

They said you'd crashed on an island no one could name. Said you hallucinated. Said you'd spoken to the snow like it could answer back. Bob knew what that meant. He’d studied trauma responses. Knew what the cold did to the mind. But he also knew you. And if you’d held on that long—if you survived snow and silence and the twisted remains of a jet—you hadn’t let go of him. Not entirely.

Still. It haunted him. The thought of you curled up in the wreckage, whispering to a ghost of him you hoped would save you. And he hadn’t. Not really. He’d been grounded. Helpless. Another pilot with clipped wings.

He’d kill to be able to say something to you now. Anything.

Even just, “Hey, you’re not alone anymore.”

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was wait. And hope that wherever you were, you were healing. Breathing. Remembering the sky. Remembering him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t pray often. But lately?

He prayed every night for your return.

And not just to the base.

To him.

The twenty-third day hit him like turbulence he hadn’t seen coming.

There was no announcement. No coded alert. No page across the base. Just a whisper from a passing technician near maintenance, low and urgent: “She’s inbound.” Bob had been reviewing diagnostics on a training sim, half-tuned out, barely listening—until those two words crashed through his system like an emergency alarm. His pen dropped. His knees nearly buckled.

She’s inbound.

He didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. He knew.

He was already out the door, sprinting down the corridor like his boots were on fire, mind racing faster than his feet. The tarmac was silver under late afternoon haze, the hangar humming, but all Bob saw was the pale blur of a medevac jet landing on the secondary strip, too small to be routine, too quiet to be for show. His lungs burned. His chest ached. And still he ran.

The rest of the Dagger Squad was already there—Phoenix, Rooster, Hangman, Yale, everyone. All of them hovering near the fence line like ghosts too afraid to hope out loud. Cyclone and Warlock stood farther back, watching in silence as the jet doors opened and the ramp descended.

And then—

Then he saw you.

You weren’t standing. Couldn’t. They wheeled you down on a stretcher, IV clipped beside you, blanket tucked tight around your frame like you’d been carved from snow and couldn’t risk melting. Your skin was too pale. Your hair stuck to your forehead. And yet—your eyes opened, just enough to see the crowd, just enough to search for him.

He didn’t breathe again until they landed on his face.

Even then, it didn’t feel real.

He didn’t push forward. Didn’t run to you. That wasn’t what you needed right now. But God, everything in him screamed to close the distance. Instead, he stood just outside the boundary, fists clenched so tight his fingers ached, watching as you blinked—slow, sleepy—and your lips moved around a word that might’ve been his name.

The medics moved fast. Your stretcher disappeared through the base doors. They didn’t stop. Didn’t offer explanation. They didn’t need to. She was home. That was all Bob could hear, pounding in his brain like a second heartbeat. She’s home. She’s home. She’s home.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Phoenix touched his arm.

He didn’t even look at her. Couldn’t. His eyes were still locked on the hangar doors where you’d vanished.

“She looked at you,” she said quietly, voice tight.

“I know,” he whispered.

His voice cracked around it.

They didn’t let him see you the first night.

Too many things still had to be monitored. Your vitals were steady but your oxygen levels were inconsistent, and your system was still flushed with the last traces of whatever you’d been given by the local med team before the Navy found you. He’d argued—politely, but firmly—and Warlock had pulled him aside.

“Floyd,” he said, quiet but sharp, “you want to be the first face she sees when she wakes up for real, right? Then give her one more night. Let her body do the work.”

Bob didn’t sleep that night. Not really. He laid on the rec room couch with a blanket over his legs and your dog tags wrapped in his fist like a rosary. He kept hearing the snow in his head. Seeing your blood-slicked boots, your frostbitten fingers, your cracked lips murmuring into wind that didn’t answer.

He could imagine it too clearly. He had imagined it—on the worst nights, the ones where the stars felt colder and the hangar lights buzzed a little too loud.

But you were here now. That should’ve been enough to let him rest.

It wasn’t.

The next morning came in slow layers of grey. The sun barely broke through the clouds when Warlock gave him the nod. No words. Just a look. Bob was up before the door closed.

The walk down the corridor to the medical wing was the longest damn walk of his life.

Every step felt like it echoed. Every sterile white tile reminded him that this wasn’t just a dream you got to wake up from. This wasn’t one of those nights where he could roll over and convince himself your laugh would be waiting on the comms tomorrow.

You were here.

But broken.

And he didn’t know what version of you would be left when he opened that door.

The nurse smiled gently at him and stepped aside. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. They all knew who he was. Who you were to him.

And there you were.

Lying in the hospital bed like something out of a war poem—fragile, beautiful, and weather-worn. You had more color in your cheeks today. Your hand twitched when you heard the door. There were no machines breathing for you anymore. Just you, tucked under too many blankets, with your face turned slightly toward the window, watching the sky like it held secrets.

His voice caught. For a second, he couldn’t even say your name.

Then, finally—soft. Barely above a breath.

“Hey.”

You turned your head.

It was slow, like the effort still cost you something. But your eyes met his and widened—barely. Just enough to burn him alive.

“Bob,” you rasped. Your voice cracked like ice under pressure.

He stepped closer, barely keeping his hands at his sides. “Yeah. It’s me. You’re home now.”

You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your chin trembled. “I saw you,” you whispered. “Out there… in the snow. I thought it was real.”

He let out a shaky breath. Sat down at the edge of the bed. He didn’t touch you yet. He wanted you to lead. “It wasn’t. But I wish it had been. I wish I’d found you sooner.”

Your hand reached out, slow and trembling. He caught it in both of his.

And that was it.

You didn’t sob. He didn’t crumble.

You just held on.

Longer than necessary. Tighter than before.

“I thought I’d never get back to you,” you murmured, eyes closing.

“You did,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “That’s all that matters.”

And for the first time in over a year, something in Bob Floyd finally let go.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even when your fingers shook. Even when the IV line tugged slightly as you shifted to see him better. Your grip was weak, but it was yours — real, alive, warm — and Bob held it like a lifeline, like if he let go for even a second, you might disappear back into the snow that still haunted his sleep.

“I kept thinking of you,” you whispered, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but open just enough to let the truth bleed through. “Even when it hurt to stay awake. Even when I wasn’t sure if I was still alive. I just… I kept hearing your voice. Kept seeing your face.”

He swallowed hard. “I should’ve been there.”

“No,” you said immediately, firm in the way that cost energy. “Don’t do that. Don’t carry that. You weren’t supposed to be there, Bob. That wasn’t your mission.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “But you were mine.”

Silence fell, soft and heavy.

“I thought I lost you,” he said quietly, voice cracking at the edges. “And the worst part wasn’t not knowing where you were. It was thinking I’d never get the chance to tell you what I should’ve said months ago.”

Your eyes flickered to his, soft with something you hadn’t let yourself feel in too long. “Then say it.”

He took a breath, held your hand tighter, and leaned closer — like he couldn’t bear even the space of air between you. “I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t polished.

But it was true.

Your chest hitched, the first real breath you’d taken in days. “Bob…”

“I was so damn scared,” he whispered, voice raw. “You left and I was mad, but really I was just afraid. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you didn’t come back. But it didn’t help. It just made it worse.”

You blinked quickly. The tears came slow, but once they started, they didn’t stop. They trailed down your temples, caught in your hairline. You didn’t sob. You just cried like someone who finally felt safe enough to.

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “Not of the mission. Not even of dying. I was scared of leaving and never knowing how you really felt. I thought maybe it was just me. That maybe we were almost, and that’s all we’d ever be.”

Bob brushed his thumb over your knuckles gently, reverent. “No. Not almost. Never almost.”

He leaned in, kissed your forehead like a promise.

“I’m here now,” he murmured, lips pressed to your skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You were still exhausted. Your body needed rest. Your mind was still clawing its way back from survival mode. But his presence — his hand, his breath, his words — they felt like a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying finally being set down.

“I don’t want almost anymore,” you whispered. “I want us. Whatever that looks like.”

Bob smiled, soft and breaking. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

He stayed there until you fell asleep — your fingers still wrapped around his, his head resting on the edge of the bed like he couldn’t stand to be more than inches away. He watched your chest rise and fall and swore, right then, that he’d never take another moment for granted.

Not another laugh.

Not another fight.

Not another day.

You came back to him.

And now, finally, he could start coming back to himself.

He didn’t move for a long time after you fell asleep.

His hand stayed in yours, his thumb brushing gentle arcs across your knuckles like he was tracing constellations. You looked peaceful — more peaceful than he'd ever seen you, even before the mission. Even back when you were all laughter and reckless charm and biting wit, before you’d vanished into the shadows of black ops, there had always been something behind your eyes. A weight. A watchfulness. A kind of quiet you wore like armor.

Now, even in sleep, you looked softer.

But it broke him a little, too.

Because he knew the softness came from exhaustion. From nearly bleeding out into snow. From dragging your body through enemy territory, waiting for help that came too late and just soon enough. From being alone in a way most people could never comprehend. He hated that you had to do that. Hated that he wasn’t there. Hated that it changed you, even though it had always been a risk.

He shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to wake you, and looked at your face like it held answers to questions he never had the courage to ask. How many times had he stared at your side of the ready room after you left, telling himself it was fine? That this was your job. That you could handle yourself.

You had handled yourself.

But you shouldn’t have had to do it alone.

Bob exhaled slowly, dropping his forehead to your joined hands. He stayed like that, curled into the edge of your bed like a man anchoring himself to something real. He could still feel the cold of your absence in his chest — the months where every flight felt wrong, every mission too quiet without your voice crackling over comms. He'd memorized the echo of your laugh and the way you tapped your boot against the hangar floor when you were impatient. He hadn’t let himself forget.

Now, here you were. Breathing. Warm. Yours.

And still, somehow, out of reach.

You stirred in your sleep, a small whimper escaping your lips — not loud, not desperate, just broken enough to make his stomach twist. He sat up instantly, squeezing your hand, whispering your name like a grounding thread.

“Hey. I’m here. You’re safe.”

You didn’t wake. But your breathing evened out again, and your fingers twitched tighter around his.

He stayed like that for hours.

At some point, a nurse knocked softly and offered to bring him a blanket, a cup of coffee. He declined both. Nothing mattered more than being here.

Eventually, you woke again — not with a start, not in a panic, but slow and disoriented. Your eyes found his face, and for a second, they lit up like they always used to. Like the world had rearranged itself into something familiar.

“You’re still here,” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep and healing.

Bob smiled, small and raw. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed. “Good.”

And then, without hesitation, you lifted his hand and pressed it to your cheek. You closed your eyes and just breathed.

“I missed this,” you said.

He didn’t ask what you meant. He knew.

The quiet moments. The safety. The feeling of not having to be the strong one all the time. Of being seen, not just watched. Of being loved, not just followed into battle.

Bob leaned forward, his forehead brushing yours. “I missed you.”

Your nose brushed his. Your breath hitched. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to say it,” he murmured.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It was too big, too heavy. There were still things between you — walls built out of grief and time and stubborn fear — but they were starting to crack. You could feel it. Every second you were near him chipped something away.

“You can say it now,” you said, soft. “If you mean it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

It wasn’t new. Not really. But hearing it out loud — hearing it here, in this room that smelled like antiseptic and survival and the faintest trace of snowfall on his jacket — it cracked something wide open.

“I love you, too,” you breathed.

And that was it.

No dramatic swell of music. No declarations shouted from rooftops.

Just the slow, unflinching return of a love that had never left.

Just you and Bob — two broken people learning to be whole again, one heartbeat at a time.

It started with the unmistakable sound of someone arguing with hospital security.

It was loud, unapologetic, and definitely Texan.

“I know she’s not technically accepting visitors,” Hangman barked, voice unmistakable even through the wall. “But I didn’t fly halfway across the damn planet to wave through the window like a sad divorcé!”

“Jake,” a very exasperated Phoenix hissed, “let the poor man live.”

“Stand down, Hoss,” Rooster added, muffled through what sounded like a scuffle. “You can’t just charm your way into the ICU!”

“I’m not charming— I’m insisting.”

Bob barely had time to glance at you before the door slammed open so hard it nearly bounced off the stopper.

There they were.

The whole damn squad, spilling into the room like a pack of badly behaved puppies who’d been kept too long in the crate. Hangman was in front, already halfway through a dramatic point-and-accuse gesture. Phoenix trailed behind him, rubbing her temples like this wasn’t even the worst thing he’d done this week. Rooster looked tired but relieved. Coyote had tears in his eyes and a protein bar in one hand. Payback was muttering “I told you she’d be okay” while Fanboy filmed on his phone and tried not to cry. Omaha and Fritz were shoving each other out of the doorway like they weren’t full-grown men, and Harvard and Yale were already sniffling.

Halo entered last, sunglasses indoors, visibly shaking, trying very hard to play it cool and absolutely failing.

“Okay,” you croaked, blinking at them all. “Are you crying?”

“I’M NOT CRYING,” Hangman barked, already halfway to your bed, “YOU’RE—okay, I am crying, but I’m doing it hotly, so shut up.”

“Don’t yell at her!” Phoenix snapped, elbowing him aside as she leaned in. “Are you okay? You look like crap.”

“Thanks,” you rasped, smiling anyway. “You look like an unpaid intern at a dive bar.”

“That’s fair.”

“She’s joking,” Rooster said, laughing wetly as he stepped closer, knuckling at his eyes. “She’s joking, that means she’s fine. Jesus, Blitz.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Coyote said softly. “They wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“Didn’t even know you were alive ‘til yesterday,” Fanboy added, lowering his phone and wiping his face with his sleeve. “This is the worst surprise party ever.”

“I made banana bread,” Fritz announced, holding up a Tupperware container like a trophy. “But we ate it. So… moral support?”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed — or tried to. It came out more like a wheeze, but they took it like gospel.

“I missed you guys,” you whispered.

“You better have,” Hangman muttered, wiping at his eyes aggressively. “After pulling that snow-crash-disappearing-act like you’re goddamn Maverick in the third act. Do you know what this did to Bob?!”

He gestured dramatically at Bob, who had not moved from your side.

Bob blinked. “I’m fine.”

“HE CRIED INTO HIS CEREAL.”

“It was oatmeal,” Bob corrected.

“Emotional oatmeal,” Fanboy whispered reverently.

Harvard and Yale were fully crying now. Together. Holding one tissue between them like it was a sacred relic.

“Okay, you guys need to leave,” the nurse said suddenly from the doorway, scandalized at the human traffic jam clogging up your IV drip line.

“No,” you croaked, grinning.

“Absolutely not,” Hangman said.

“We just got her back,” Rooster added.

“Yeah, and Blitz owes me like four bucks,” Payback said.

“You owe me therapy,” Fanboy said through a sniffle.

“You owe me an explanation for why I cried at a vending machine thinking about you,” Coyote added.

“You owe me a rematch,” Fritz grinned. “Also the banana bread I gave up for you.”

“And you owe me a hug,” Halo said simply, voice shaking.

They all fell quiet at that.

You blinked slowly at the chaos around you, your fingers still locked in Bob’s, your body aching, your heart full. They had come. All of them. Across the world, through the snow, across every barrier that should’ve kept them away.

You hadn’t realized just how much you needed them until they were here.

Until they were whole again.

Until it felt like home.

“I said I was going to sit next to her first,” Hangman growled, elbowing Payback not-so-gently in the ribs as he tried to wedge himself closer to your bedside.

“She’s not a carnival ride, Bagman,” Phoenix hissed, physically dragging him back by his collar. “You can wait your turn.”

“I brought her banana bread,” Fritz argued from the foot of the bed, voice rising indignantly. “That gets me VIP access.”

“You ate the banana bread,” Rooster countered, crossing his arms. “The only thing you brought is crumbs.”

“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t show up and immediately knock over her IV pole like some people,” Fritz snapped, glaring at Yale, who went scarlet.

“That was an accident!”

“You unplugged it from the wall,” Harvard whispered, scandalized. “It BEEPED.”

“Can everyone just shut up,” Coyote groaned, flopping dramatically into the only available chair, “before someone actually gets us kicked out?”

“I’m still trying to understand how Hangman ended up in my seat,” Bob said calmly, not even looking at Jake, who was somehow perched precariously on the edge of the bed like a smug cat.

Hangman blinked. “Well. I saw an opening—”

“You mean my lap,” Bob cut in, deadpan. “That was the opening.”

“I was being symbolic!”

“You were being heavy,” Phoenix muttered.

Fanboy, hovering near the window, held up his phone and muttered, “This is better than reality TV. We need subtitles.”

“You are the subtitle,” Payback shot back.

“Okay, okay,” Halo said loudly, wiping her nose with what had to be the fifth tissue. “Can we all please pretend to be emotionally stable for like two minutes? Blitz literally crashed into the Arctic and survived on sheer sass and hallucinations. She does not need to be parent-trapped by a bunch of unhinged Navy pilots.”

“Oh my God,” Yale whimpered. “She did crash into the Arctic. She’s basically Elsa.”

You sat there, quietly watching them all spiral — arguing, teasing, elbowing, bickering, tripping over each other like toddlers who’d been released from timeout — and something inside you broke.

Not in a bad way.

In the softest, most human way.

Because somehow, even after everything, they hadn’t changed. You were still Blitz. They were still your squad. And this... this ridiculous noise, this tangle of voices and chaos and care, was the sound of home.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was coming.

Then another.

Then another.

And then—well, someone noticed.

“Oh my God,” Fanboy gasped, dropping his phone. “She’s crying.”

“Wait—wait, what?” Coyote scrambled to your side.

“Blitz?” Phoenix asked, suddenly hovering too. “Are you okay?”

“Did we—did we hurt you?” Yale asked, panicking.

“She’s in pain, I knew we were too loud—”

“No, no,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, trying to wave them off. “It’s not that. It’s just—”

You choked on the next word, unable to finish, and a sob caught in your throat — the kind that shook you, that you couldn’t hide even if you tried. But your face was wet with something else entirely. Joy. Relief. The feeling of being found after being lost.

“I just missed you,” you said finally, through a laugh that was half-cry. “I missed you so much.”

And then, like dominoes, the entire squad lost it.

“Oh no,” Phoenix sniffled. “Don’t do this, you can’t cry like that, it’s weaponized emotion.”

“Goddammit,” Rooster muttered, aggressively blinking. “Who’s cutting onions in the ICU?”

“I’m not crying,” Hangman said, voice wobbling. “You’re crying.”

“You are literally crying,” Bob said softly, arm already wrapping tighter around your shoulders, pulling you gently into him. “You big sap.”

You clung to him without hesitation, your fingers curling into his shirt, your face pressed to the place just under his jaw. He smelled like soap and sunshine and safety, and when he kissed the side of your head, slow and reverent, you felt something in your chest click back into place.

He held you like you were still fragile, still coming back to earth in pieces. And maybe you were. But in that moment, with all of them around you — yelling and sniffling and absolutely failing to maintain any kind of military composure — you realized something else.

You weren’t just alive.

You were loved.

“I love you guys,” you said into Bob’s shoulder, laughter bubbling through your tears.

“Awwww,” Fanboy groaned, dropping to his knees dramatically. “She loves us.”

“Of course she does,” Hangman sniffed. “We’re delightful.”

“I love you too,” Phoenix added, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You stubborn, stupid, snow-trapped legend.”

“You’re never flying alone again,” Rooster said, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “We’re chaining ourselves to your landing gear if we have to.”

“Yeah,” Payback added, “you try vanishing into a snowstorm again, and we’re staging a coup.”

Bob smiled softly, one hand still on your back. “Not happening,” he said. “She’s staying grounded. At least until I can breathe again.”

You looked up at him, breath hitching again, but this time it was different. Lighter. Real.

And behind you, the squad kept laughing, crying, shouting over each other like idiots who didn’t know how to say I love you except through banter and bad jokes and banana bread.

For the first time in almost a year, you didn’t feel far away anymore.

You felt home.

It took a team effort to drag the Dagger Squad out of your hospital room. Phoenix was the first to take charge, ushering everyone back with military precision and muttering something about personal space and “Blitz still needing actual oxygen.” Hangman refused to go quietly, clutching dramatically at the bedframe like he was being exorcised. “This is a violation of my emotional rights!” he declared as Bob calmly pried his fingers off the guard rail one by one. Fanboy shouted something about group therapy. Harvard tried to negotiate visitation hours. Yale was crying into Halo’s shoulder. Payback got distracted arguing with Fritz about who’d actually brought the banana bread.

“Guys,” Bob said firmly, hands raised in mock surrender, “let’s just give her a minute. She literally just rejoined the living.”

“Yeah,” you wheezed, laughing into your hospital pillow. “Let me enjoy the silence before you all bust in here with karaoke night and a Whiteboard War Plan to get me back in the air.”

“You joke,” Rooster said, pointing a dramatic finger as he backed out of the room, “but we will be back with a slideshow.”

“And cue cards,” Coyote added. “We’ve been practicing.”

“I love you all,” you said, grinning even as your voice cracked from the ache in your chest, “but get out.”

Phoenix blew you a kiss. Fanboy dabbed his eyes with a tissue he’d definitely stolen from the nurse’s station. And slowly—grudgingly—they retreated into the hallway like the world’s noisiest emotional hurricane.

Bob was the last one to leave. He lingered near the door, his eyes never leaving yours. He said nothing at first. Just gave you that look—the one that said everything he couldn’t say in front of everyone else. His hand brushed yours one last time, just long enough to steady you.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said softly. “Take your time.”

And then the door shut behind him, and the room was suddenly quiet again. Peaceful, even.

For a few long seconds, you let yourself breathe. In. Out. The hospital blanket scratched against your wrists. The IV beeped once. The silence filled the spaces they’d all left behind.

Then the door creaked open once more.

And there he was.

Captain Pete Mitchell.

Maverick.

He looked older than the last time you’d seen him, more lined around the eyes, but that grin—that unshakable, crooked grin—still hit like sunlight. He stepped into the room without a word at first, his boots soft on the tile, his face unreadable.

You sat up straighter, your voice catching in your throat. “Hey.”

“Hey, kid,” he said gently.

You didn’t expect the hug.

Maverick crossed the room in three long strides and folded you into him before you could blink. His arms wrapped around you, careful not to jostle the wires or tubes, and it was the kind of hug that said you scared the hell out of me.

Your chin trembled against his shoulder.

“I didn’t die,” you said quietly, your voice small in a way you hadn’t heard since you were nineteen and first met him.

“No,” he whispered, holding you tighter, “but God, you tried your best, huh?”

You laughed, and it broke open something in both of you.

He finally pulled back and looked you over, hands on your shoulders, studying you like a mechanic checking the frame of an old but beloved jet. “You’re skinnier. You look tired. You smell like engine oil and heartbreak.”

“You forgot the part where I crashed in a blizzard and hallucinated half of Dagger Squad,” you said.

“I figured that was just a Tuesday for you,” he replied.

The teasing helped. The warmth helped more. He pulled up the chair Bob had been sitting in and settled beside your bed, sighing heavily like he’d been holding his breath since the day you deployed.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted after a long pause. “When Cyclone showed us the flight log… I thought I’d failed you.”

You shook your head slowly, your fingers twitching at your side, aching to reach for someone. “You didn’t. You saved me. You made me strong enough to survive.”

“Don’t give me that,” he muttered, brushing a thumb under his nose. “You’ve always been stronger than me.”

“Not true,” you said. “You stayed behind when Goose died. You went back up. You built this program. You built us.”

He let the compliment hang in the air between you, heavy but not unwelcome.

“And you?” he said softly. “You built your own legend.”

Your eyes stung again, and this time, you didn’t stop the tears.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me it would feel like this?” you whispered. “Coming back after nearly… after that? It’s not just relief. It’s guilt. It’s… it’s all of it, all at once.”

Maverick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for your hand and squeezed it, grounding you.

“Because there’s no right way to prepare someone for surviving something you weren’t supposed to,” he said finally. “You just… survive. And then you learn how to live again. One day at a time.”

You nodded slowly, voice caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me, Blitz.”

You let the nickname settle over your heart like a blanket. Like coming home to the name that meant you were still here. Still alive.

Still his kid.

You leaned your head back against the pillow, eyes glassy but unblinking as you stared at the ceiling. The sterile white light above buzzed faintly, a sound that had gone unnoticed until now. You could feel it—the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on your chest, heavier than the crash, heavier than the snow, heavier than the months spent pretending you weren’t slowly unraveling.

Maverick didn’t rush you. He sat beside you like a sentinel, elbows on his knees, gaze soft and patient.

“I was so scared,” you whispered finally, your voice cracking down the middle like glass under pressure. “Out there… when the jet went down. When I realized I wasn’t dead yet.”

His brows furrowed, but he said nothing, waiting for you to go on.

“It was snowing so hard, I couldn’t see anything. Everything hurt. And I knew—I knew—if I didn’t crawl out of that cockpit fast enough, it would kill me. Not the enemy. Not a missile. Just the cold.” You blinked slowly, breath shallow. “And it was quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind we get up in the air. Just empty. Like the world forgot I was still breathing.”

Maverick’s jaw twitched. He reached out, his hand resting gently over yours, grounding you again. You didn’t flinch this time.

You swallowed hard. “I thought about you. About the squad. About Bob.” Your voice broke on his name, and you took a breath before continuing. “I started hallucinating. I saw him… I heard him, Mav. Telling me to hold on. I talked to him for hours and hours and I knew it wasn’t real, but I did it anyway because—because the alternative was silence.”

Maverick’s eyes were shining now, rimmed red with the kind of emotion he didn’t let many people see. He shifted closer, his grip on your hand tightening like he needed the contact as much as you did.

“It was so cold,” you said, your voice barely audible. “My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t hold my emergency flare. And the worst part?” You turned to look at him now, your expression raw. “The worst part was that I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid no one would know where I fell. That I’d just… disappear. No goodbyes. No names on logs. No one to say I mattered.”

Maverick exhaled like you’d just cracked his ribs open. “You do matter. You hear me?” His voice was thick now, and he blinked hard, like saying it out loud might hold him together. “You mattered before this mission, and you’ll matter long after. You’re not just one of my pilots, Blitz. You’re—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “You’re mine. My kid. You always have been. And I swear to God, if I hadn’t gotten that call, if Cyclone hadn’t said the words—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” you whispered, eyes locked with his.

“I would’ve never stopped looking,” he whispered back. “Not in this life. Not in the next.”

You broke first, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shook silently. Maverick reached for you, pulled you in without hesitation, and held you like only someone who understood that kind of terror ever could. His arms wrapped around your shaking frame, solid and steady and warm in a way that the snow never had been.

And for the first time since the crash, since the mission, since the moment everything went dark—

You finally let yourself cry.

Not from fear. Not from pain. But from the unbearable, indescribable relief of surviving.

And not surviving alone.

Bob stood at the edge of the hospital bed, barely breathing. His shoulders were tense, his eyes wide, and his hands had curled into cautious fists at his sides like he didn’t quite trust them not to reach for you too fast, too soon. The others had trickled out one by one, some awkwardly, some emotionally, none willing to stay in the room and intrude on what this was—on what you were to him. Now, it was just the two of you in the too-white hospital room, the air heavy with silence and the scent of antiseptic and snow still tangled in your hair.

You tried to sit up, grimacing as your ribs flared in protest, but you didn't let it stop you. You didn’t survive all that just to sit still now. Bob didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just stared at you like you were a ghost. Not because he didn’t believe you were real, but because somewhere deep inside him, he still hadn’t caught up with the fact that he wasn’t grieving anymore. That you were here. Breathing. Hurt but alive.

“I thought I was gonna die out there,” you said quietly, the words barely making it past the tightness in your throat. It felt strange, saying it out loud. You hadn’t said it yet—not to the medics, not to Maverick, not to yourself. But it was the truth, and Bob deserved the truth more than anyone.

His mouth parted like he wanted to answer, but you kept going, the memories crawling up your spine like ice. “I woke up in the snow, Bob. My leg was wrecked. My shoulder—I don’t even know what I did to it. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even remember where I was. Everything hurt. And I thought that was it. That I was gonna freeze to death alone.”

His jaw clenched. You saw the flicker in his eyes, the way his body swayed forward like he wanted to pull you in but didn’t want to hurt you.

“But then I saw you,” you said, voice cracking. “I hallucinated you. I know it wasn’t real, but it felt like you were there. Kneeling beside me. Telling me I had to hold on. You told me I promised you.”

Bob’s hands twitched, then finally—finally—he reached for yours. He touched you like you were made of glass, like one wrong move might shatter the miracle in front of him.

“I held on because of that,” you whispered. “Because I couldn’t stand the thought of dying without seeing you again. Without—God, Bob—without telling you what you meant to me.”

You were shaking now, not from the cold, but from the sheer force of everything unspoken that had clung to you in that snowstorm. Your body might’ve been rescued, but your soul was still clawing its way out of that mountain.

“I thought of your voice, the way you say my name when you’re annoyed. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. That stupid soft smile that only shows up when I’m not trying to make you laugh. I thought of all of it. And it kept me alive.”

Bob’s lips parted, and then he was beside you, his forehead pressed to yours the same way it had been the night before you left. His breath was warm, shaking. He was holding you so gently, like you were still buried under all that snow, like he didn’t want to lose you to the dark again.

“You came back,” he murmured, voice rough and barely held together. “You actually came back.”

“I didn’t survive eleven months in a black zone op just to die without seeing you again,” you said with a broken laugh, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I love you, Bob. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was always there. But I love you.”

Bob pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. And when he smiled, it was the kind of smile that hurt to see—because it held every emotion he’d buried in your absence. Every sleepless night. Every silent prayer. Every day spent pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “Always have.”

His lips found yours, soft and reverent, a kiss that didn’t demand anything, only offered. And when he pulled away, his hand never left yours.

You exhaled slowly, sinking into the warmth of his touch, and for the first time in two days, you didn’t feel cold.

You were home.

It was strange, returning.

Not to Kadena, or any particular station, but to yourself. Whoever that was now. After a year in the shadows, after your body stitched itself back together with scars and stubborn will, you came home not as the pilot you were, but as someone who’d seen the other side of silence and still chose to speak.

The Dagger Squad treated you like you’d never left. Which was both a mercy and a miracle. Rooster still talked too loud. Hangman still winked too much. Phoenix stole your fries like she always had, and Fanboy cried at literally everything—even your clearance papers. They made space for you at the table like it had always been yours, even when the empty chair had ached. It didn’t matter that your laugh sounded different now. Or that you flinched at fireworks. They didn’t point it out. They just... stayed close.

Bob never left.

He’d made good on his promise. Every day. A small gesture. A look. A word. Sometimes, he just sat beside you, pinky brushing yours, eyes watching the sky like he could still hear your jet’s voice in the clouds. You didn’t talk about the hallucination in the snow, not really. But you both knew. Somewhere between the memory and the miracle, you’d found each other. In the dark. And in the return.

You stayed on the roster. Not for missions like before—God no. But for training. For mentoring. For teaching the kind of flying that doesn’t fit in a manual. You didn’t crave the adrenaline anymore. You craved stability. Quiet mornings. Hot coffee. The way Bob pressed kisses to your temple like he was afraid he’d forget the warmth of you.

Some nights, you still dreamed of the cold. The mountain. The silence. But when you reached out, his hand was always there.

You once told him that surviving the crash wasn’t the hardest part. It was surviving after. The days that blurred. The grief that crept in through the vents. The guilt that roosted in your chest like it paid rent. But he just nodded, brushed the hair from your face, and said, “I know. But you’re here. And so am I. So let’s start from there.”

And you did.

The sea was calm that night, as if the whole world had taken a breath and finally decided to let it out. The waves rolled in slow and sleepy, brushing up against the shoreline in quiet applause, moonlight tracing silver ribbons across the water. Okinawa was miles behind them, distant in both memory and geography. This was home now. Not a place, not a building—just this moment. Just him. Just you.

Your boots left a trail in the damp sand, your hand tucked securely in Bob’s like you’d never let go again. The beach was nearly empty, save for the sound of the tide and the soft shuffle of your steps. Every so often, he would glance at you, his eyes catching the starlight like they’d been built to hold constellations. You didn’t have to talk much. You never did with him. But something about tonight hummed with a kind of magic you couldn't quite name.

The moon sat low over the horizon, casting both of your shadows long and tall across the dunes. Bob’s thumb was stroking lazy circles on the back of your hand. His other one was buried in his pocket, nervous energy running through his shoulders, though his face gave none of it away. You'd gotten good at reading him—better than anyone else. You knew when his silence meant peace, and when it meant something was rattling around inside his chest, trying to find the courage to come out.

He stopped walking when the water reached his boots, and you turned to face him, letting the sea lap at your ankles. The breeze tugged at your hair, brought with it the faint scent of salt and sky, of memories left out too long in the sun. Bob looked at you then—not like he had something to say, but like he had something to keep. His lips parted, closed, then parted again. You reached up, brushing your fingers gently along the collar of his jacket, anchoring him to now.

“I almost lost you,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I almost lost myself.”

Bob’s brows pulled together, his free hand finally leaving his pocket. He cupped your cheek, and you leaned into the warmth without hesitation. “You know,” he said softly, “when you were gone, I thought about all the things I’d never said. And it scared the hell out of me, because I realized how much of my heart was wrapped up in yours.”

You felt your throat tighten, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You kept me alive,” you whispered. “Even when I was alone out there. I saw you. I heard you. You were the only thing that made the cold bearable.”

He stepped closer. His forehead pressed to yours, and you closed your eyes as your hearts lined up again like stars returning to orbit. “I don’t want to go another day without saying the things that matter,” Bob murmured. “So here’s one.”

Then he kissed you.

Soft at first. Reverent. Like a breath held too long finally released. Then deeper—like the ocean had swallowed both of you and decided to spit you back out whole. When he pulled back, the world was quieter. Calmer. Like it, too, had been waiting for this.

“Be mine,” he said, the words low but steady. “Not in the rushed, desperate way. Not just because we survived. But because I love you. Because I choose you. Because every version of tomorrow I’ve ever imagined ends with you in it.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded once, then again, faster, like your heart needed your body to understand. “I already was,” you whispered. “Even when I was lost, I was yours.”

Bob smiled—really smiled—and kissed you again, like the promise of every beginning was sealed between your mouths. The waves sang soft around your feet, the stars blinked their quiet approval, and your fingers tangled into his jacket like they never planned to let go.

You stood there for a while longer, just the two of you and the sea. Talking in low murmurs, sometimes not talking at all. Just the sound of laughter in between kisses, of wind threading through hair, of peace. The kind you fought for. The kind you earned.

Later, when the sky had gone from navy to violet, and your legs were tucked over Bob’s lap as you sat tangled in a blanket on the beach, he said something you’d never forget.

“You know what I think?” he murmured, tracing his finger along your wrist.

You turned your face toward him, already smiling. “What?”

“I think the ocean heard all of it. Every word we said to each other without speaking. Every vow we didn’t know we were making.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah,” you said softly. “But I think the sky didn’t say a damn thing. It just kept watching.”

His arm tightened around you. “Then let it watch. We’ll write the rest.”

And with the stars above you, the sea beside you, and his heart in your hands—

you let it.

Because this was what the ocean heard. And this… was what the sky didn’t say.

[redflagshipwriter]

Hot Ghouls In Your Area 16

Masterpost

Danny snarfed down everything that Jason pushed over to his side of the table with an out of body awareness that his desperation was bizarre. Yeah, he had said he had a big appetite but this was something else. It was frantic and unprecedented.

It was genuinely shocking! Yeah, he was hungry and had low energy most of the time, but the way he was tearing through multiple meals was ringing distant alarm bells in the back of his head. He couldn’t pay attention to the alerts now, though, not when the food kept coming. He ate and ate and the desperation to keep eating grew and grew as his body realized that it was getting unlimited food until one moment it suddenly stopped.

He felt relieved.

Danny put down his fork. He blinked and took a minute to take stock of how he felt. His stomach ought to be uncomfortably, visibly full but that wasn’t the case. He just felt like a distant panic had finally been quashed. Had he felt this good in a while? Come to think of it, he had been frantic and wan for months.

‘...I have not been meeting some kind of nutritional need,’ Danny realized. He gave Jason a sheepish look, hoping that his date/ hostage wasn’t too grossed out. If anything, Jason seemed amused. That was fine… Weird, but fine. “I think I haven’t been meeting a nutritional need,” he said. The man who was paying for this probably deserved some honesty. Danny scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, I kind of acted like a wolverine there for a bit…”

Jason had both elbows on the table and his hands bracing his jaw. “I’m not broke just yet,” he said casually. “Want dessert?” It was impossible to really see his eyes, but there was still something warm and fond about the way he was staring across the table.

Danny giggled self consciously. “Ah, it’s alright…” he looked at the piled plates, embarrassed.

It was out of character. It was not how he had been back in Amity Park.

‘Jazz has been really hungry too since we left home,’ Danny remembered. ‘Is there… did we grow up getting calories from ectoplasm or something?’

The realization made him feel a bit foolish. Ectoplasm was energy and he had grown up breathing it in. It made a lot of sense that he had been supplementing his diet with it.

‘Jazz is going to lose her nut when I tell her this. That explains why she nearly ate my fingers last week when I handed her a sandwich too slowly.’

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Danny nodded absently and explained his theory, minus the personal information. “I think my old environment was giving me a lot of ambient fuel, and I didn’t realize I needed more when I moved here,” he explained.

“You moved to Gotham in general?” Japan said casually. He didn’t even seem interested in the topic but it sent a cold sweat down his back. “Here for the long term?”

‘I need to deflect. That’s too close to personal information.’

“You know how it is,” Danny lied, hoping that Jason very much did not know how it is. “You have to stay close to your haunt. But a haunt can be…” he trailed off, trying to think of an explanation that wasn’t the truth: he was attached to people, not places.

‘Would that even be too identifying? I’m not sure that it is. He has my name. If he looked he’d find my parents, and that connects to me. Maybe I should let him think that I’m haunting Danny Fenton.’

“Can a haunt be a person?” Jason said. Oh fuck, that was scary. Was he a mind reader or just smart?

Danny laughed nervously and picked up his drink. He took a very large sip and didn’t respond.

“I’m going to put my cards on the table,” Jason said. “I looked you up.” He rolled his head to the side, neck cracking audibly.

Danny felt his face tinge green.

Jason laughed. “Nothing bad,” he said, but I’ve found that there’s a couple of scientists out there who are, uh, big fans of your work.” His eyebrows went up meaningfully.

As neutral as he tried to be, it was impossible not to hear a bit of irony in the understatement. Mom and Dad had lost their crackers when they’d found out he was Phantom. He almost wished they still believed that ghosts were evil. It would be less embarrassing than the parade float they had made for the Fourth of July in Amity Park. It was just his disembodied head on wheels… Dash had ridden on it next to Tucker. Paulina had taken selfies kissing his cheek. It was the darkest day of his undeath so far.

He hid his face in his hands and thought longingly about a true, final death. “Ahuh,” Danny managed to scrape out.

“Yup. And they’ve had two relatives move to Gotham in the past year.” He had the sense that Jason was raising a pointed eyebrow even though Danny was desperately avoiding eye contact. “You’re haunting the Fenton kids, aren’t you?”

‘Technically, I’ve haunted Tiffany most recently.’

Danny didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to incriminate himself. Was it a crime to haunt people? Jason didn’t look like a narc but you never knew for sure.

“Both of them have lost weight since moving to Gotham,” Jason said casually.

Why did he know that? That wasn’t posted anywhere!

“That’s creepy!” Danny burst out.

“Yeah, well, sorry about that,” said Jason, sounding zero percent sorry. “All three of you could turn sideways and fit through the security bars at the Gotham State Bank, though, so I think it’s a fair observation.”

Danny peeled his hands away from his face long enough to glare.

Jason was totally unbothered. In fact he smiled faintly as he twisted the knife. “Itty bitty. Petite. Skinny and mini.” He took one hand off his face to use his thumb and forefinger to indicate something tiny. “Snack sized. Could fit on my palm.”

“Jazz is six feet and nearly an inch tall,” Danny argued hotly. He barely noticed slamming both hands on the table. “I’ll get taller too! I’m just a young ghost!”

Jason hummed. “I think you won’t get taller unless Danny Fenton gets taller," he said with brutal ambivalence.

Danny was shocked silent.

‘How does he know that? Does he know we are the same? I don’t think so, but it’s too close.’

Danny stared. He realized that he had said way too much. He shut his mouth and he kept it shut, afraid that he would make this even worse.

“Are you an adult?” His tone was perfectly even but Danny had the sense that Jason cared a whole lot about that answer. What? Why? Danny thought it through—

‘Oh. Yeah, of course, we are… married but worse. It would be way too freaky if I was a child.’

Danny pried his mouth open to admit, “I’m considered a young adult. Comparable to 19 or so in a human.”

The relief washing over Jason was faint but unmistakable.

Well, he was glad he had read that correctly, at least. Danny let out a sigh and leaned back. “This is awful,” he complained. “We don’t need to do this.” He gestured between the two of them. “I don’t want to be investigated. I don’t want the pieces of my undeath to get too complicated.” He pushed himself up from the table. “I’ll let you know if I find anything else about separation. So far there’s two ideas and they’re both awful. The first is-” Danny cut himself off with an unfunny laugh. “How high are the odds that you will never die?” He asked sardonically.

Jason snorted and then covered his mouth in shock. He cleared his throat. His voice was a little lower than usual and shook just a little with either laughter or grief when he said, “The odds are not great.”

Danny sighed too hard and blew cold air with particles of ice across the table by accident. “Fabulous, that’s what I thought. So, banishing you from the Infinite Realms seems like a bad idea then, it would be, uh, very bad to be banished from there if you die.” He hedged around it guiltily. He coughed.

Jason got a line between his eyebrows and slightly pinched lips. “Noted,” he said. “The other option?”

Danny hesitated. He twisted his hands together in an unconscious tell of his nerves. “So we aren’t literally married now, right?” He said. He swallowed hard at Jason’s slow nod. “Because there’s a power dynamic issue. My advisor says that we can’t dissolve this without harm to you, but a real marriage could be dissolved. So in order to break our association, we could, theoretically-“

“Get married for real.” Jason leaned back. “Huh.” He blinked a few times as he processed that. “And then divorce.”

‘Don’t get mad at me. Please don’t get mad at me.’

Danny bobbed miserably in the air and pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Does it have to be a specific ceremony? Would any type of union qualify? Could we just sign papers at city hall?”

“…That’s not the reaction I expected,” Danny admitted. He eyed Jason dubiously. “I thought you’d be concerned that an undead entity was trying to trick you into worsening your connection to the afterlife.”

Jason outright laughed.

Danny felt his mouth pop open in indignation.

“No offense,” Jason said, wounding his pride terribly, “but it’s fairly obvious that you aren’t an evil mastermind. You’re not even doing a good ghost job. Why are you haunting two broke college kids? Of course they’re wasting away into thin air, they eat 400calories of ramen daily.”

He sputtered with outrage. He wasn’t that bad!

Jason pressed on mercilessly. “I think that they’re both too damn broke to eat enough to support you, and you’re not holding up your end of the bargain via eating enough ghost sandwiches or whatever it is.” He waved a hand carelessly. “All three of you are going to waste away.”

“I am highly offended,” Danny said. “I don’t have to listen to this—”

“I’ll feed you,” Jason said.

Danny abruptly sat back down. “I am listening.”

“Let’s have dinner again and talk about what progress you’ve made.” Jason flashed white teeth at him in a smile. He had a chipped tooth, Danny realized. It was awfully cute. He ran his tongue over his own fangs thoughtlessly. “What do you say?”

‘I think you aren’t going to defeat me and make me reliant on you,’ Danny thought. ‘If I won’t take Vlad’s strings-attached-money, I won’t take yours either.’ He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know that it’ll do any good,” he said, really playing it up. “And I’m soooo busy.” He sniffed and shook his head. “Ah well, there’s nothing to be done, let’s keep in touch, talk to you next week or something I’m sure—“

“I can just feed you. Do you want cash? A credit card?” Jason seemed ready to slide one across the table.

Danny scrunched his face up in disgust at the concept of charity. “I don’t think so,” he said flatly.

Jason paused. His eyebrows pulled down slightly as he looked at Danny with an uncomfortable level of focus. “If you won’t accept it for yourself, accept it for the Fentons,” he said. He shook his head ever so slightly. “Jazz Fenton might fall through a grate at work and get hurt if she loses any more weight.”

Danny stared at him. He was conflicted. On the one hand Danny Fenton was also him, a guy who did not want charity. He pressed his fingers against his lips to think.

‘But I’d let a man buy groceries for Jazz. Also, he doesn’t know I’m Fenton. Would it be suspicious to turn that down? If nothing else I think I’d look like an asshole for insisting that no one help them when he thinks they’re hungry because of me.’

“I don't know,” Danny said slowly. He really didn’t! Did he have to accept help? Was it okay to get help? “I don’t wanna take all of your money,” he hedged.

“Oh no, whatever will I do, surely I can’t afford to send a couple hundred dollars of chicken nuggets to apartment 302,” Jason said sarcastically. He pulled out a phone and started doing something to avoid eye contact. “I’m only a working adult with a solid income and healthy bank accounts. Doubling my grocery budget might hurt me materially.”

Danny froze. “That’s a lot of chicken nuggets.”

Jason tilted his phone over to show a grocery cart full of temptations both frozen and in preserved cake form. “Would Fenton like these?”

Danny sat back down on the same side as Jason and scooted over close to see what was available for delivery. His mouth watered with greed. “Yes, and Jazz would really like the frozen croissants. Oh! Is that pasta you just microwave?”

“Adding it,” Jason said under his breath. “Will Jazz come to Danny’s place to get some groceries or should I do a second order?”

Danny scooted up close enough that his leg touched Jason’s. The heat of a living person radiated through their clothes to warm his thigh and his next breath let in a clean, warm scent. “Send it to Jazz’s place, I can help transport stuff to Crime Alley,” Danny said, nibbling on a nail. “She has a bigger freezer.”

“Got it.” Jason erased Danny’s address and typed in Jazz’s.

Danny never once, for a millisecond, wondered why Jason had that information memorized. He was too busy wondering what it was that made Jason smell so good. He sniffed as subtly as he could.

‘This guy is enormous. He must use a bar of soap daily to clean all of him. Jeeze, he’s gotta have four times my muscle mass. I don’t know if I’m self conscious or into it.’

Danny stole a glance at Jason’s neck in profile, transfixed by the subtle interplay of muscles as Jason talked. There was not a chance in hell that Danny could get his hands around that neck. He unconsciously lifted a hand to his own neck to do a comparison and then dropped it like the touch had burnt.

Bad. No. He scooted a few inches away and sprawled out on the table so that he had an excuse to move. He leaned his head to the side, cheek brushing cold vinyl. “I feel bad,” Danny said.

Jason stopped talking abruptly and lifted an eyebrow in question.

Danny shrugged. “I took you to a library, you took me out to dinner and then got groceries. It’s uneven.”

Jason snorted. “Don’t worry about it,” he dismissed. He went back to looking at his phone but added casually, “If you want to do something for me, you can take me back to that library again next week. I am tearing through those books.”

‘That does not make it even, but there’s no point in arguing with him about what he likes.’

“Can do.” Danny exhaled a bit too dramatically and cold air hit the table and got blown back to buffet his face. He squinted against the frost that hit his eyes. Jason laughed and oh, the sound sent a shiver down his spine. It was warm and comforting and…

Aww, fuck. He was way too hot to be married to Danny, much less on unequal relationship terms. Danny slumped even more bonelessly into the table and wondered why he was such a sponge of a person. Jason was hot and funny and so, so nice.

‘I need to get out of here before I slip up and ask Jason to date me,’ Danny thought wryly. ‘It would not be fair to him at all. I bet it would scare the shit out of him, actually.’ The amusement at his own expense fled as his blood went cold with the reminder that he basically owned Jason. ‘I cannot let him know that I like him at all. It would be terrifying to know that the supernatural entity you were trafficked to might like to keep you around. Maybe if we get a divorce I can ask him out, but it’s not even worth thinking about now.’

[requiemforthepoets]

it’s you that i’ve been waiting for, all of my life ⟢ LN4

final part of the crazy rich asians au ⟢ part one part two

PAIRINGS: lando norris x asian!female!reader

SUMMARY: with a lot of your family and friends are either getting engaged or married, it made you think about a lot of things—well, mostly marriage.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: non-use of y/n, reader is asian, foul language, traditional family, asian culture & tradition, food, crazy rich asians inspired + plot, heiress reader, named characters (except reader, names are mostly taken from CRA), social status, high society, mentions of marriage, reader having a wedding fever, fluff, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 9.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: finallyyyy, this is the last part of my crazy rich asians au. the rest of the updates for this series is already smaus—which will be updated sporadically. to all that read, commented, and reblogged, thank you so much from the bottom of my heart. tbh, i wasn’t even sure/confident with this three part series bc it was literally my first time writing this kind of fic, so thank you so much. as always, your reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, and i hope that you’ll enjoy this last part! also, happy new year, guys! 🥺❤️

You and Lando had just finished settling into your hotel, when your phone buzzed with an incoming facetime call from Nick. Surprised but not entirely shocked by his timing, you answered the call and held your phone up as you sat on the edge of the bed. Nick’s face appeared on the screen, expression tense and unusually serious.

“Hey, is Rachel with you right now?” he asked without preamble, tone laced with urgency.

You frowned, confused by the question. “No, she’s not,” you replied, glancing at Lando, who was sitting on the edge of the bef watching your conversation. “Lando and I already left Singapore earlier, we’re in Malaysia right now. Why? Is everything okay?”

Nick ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily before diving into the whole explanation. He told you and Lando about how your Auntie Eleanor had hired a private investigator to dig into Rachel’s background. Your stomach sank as he laid it all out—the dossier that your Auntie Eleanor had compiled, which included several Chinese news articles and missing person reports with Rachel’s mother’s photo. All these revelations had been shared with your Ah Ma at the wedding reception, and things had escalated from there.

You can slightly hear Nick’s voice trembling as he recounted how your Ah Ma had become mad and forbid Rachel from continuing her relationship with him, declaring that Rachel’s family background poses a threat to your family’s reputation. The words made your chest tighten, and you felt a mix of anger and sadness bubbling inside of you. Then it all started to make sense now—Rachel’s disoriented state, the way she fled from the reception without looking back.

“Wait,” you interjected, still processing everything. “Ah ma was at Colin and Minty’s wedding? I didn’t even see her, she rarely goes to events like that unless her presence is absolutely necessary.”

Nick nodded, confirming your thoughts. “She was there. It wasn’t planned for her to come, but I think Mom had managed to convince her.”

You sighed. “Well, that explained a lot. No wonder Rachel was running off like that, she must’ve been completely blindsided.”

He paused before continuing. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of her, but she’s not answering my calls or texts. I just—” he trailed off, his frustration evident.

Thinking quickly, you remembered something Rachel had mentioned in passing. “Maybe she’s staying at her best friend’s house? She told me once that she has a close friend in Singapore.”

Nick’s eyes lit up slightly. “That's a possibility. I’ll try to find out where her friend lives.”

“Do you need me to come back?” you asked, words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “Lan and I can fly back to Singapore tonight if you think it’ll help.” you glanced at Lando, who nodded in silent agreement.

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, don’t worry about it. I think I can handle it for now. But if Rachel answers your texts or calls, can you let me know right away?”

“Of course,” you said firmly. “I’ll text her again and keep you updated.”

“Thanks,” Nick said with a small, grateful smile.

“But hey, listen,” you said carefully, “if you find Rachel—in which I know that you will, you have to give her some time. Don’t push her, and don’t force anything.”

Nick was quiet on the other end, so you took it as a queue to continue. “She’s been blindsided, completely blindsided by all of it. Think about it, the information that Auntie Eleanor dumped on her, how it was thrown at her, none of it was easy for her to process. She didn’t even see it coming, and honestly, no one would’ve been ready for something like that.”

“I know,” Nick murmured. “But I just want to fix it. I want her to know that none of this changes how I feel about her.”

“I know you do,” you said gently. “But right now, Rachel needs space to process everything. Imagine if you’re in her shoes—finding out things about your family’s past in such a public and humiliating way. That kind of betrayal isn’t easy to shake off, especially when it comes out of nowhere.”

You paused, choosing your words carefully. “You have to be patient with her, Nick. Let her come to you when she’s ready. If you try to force her to talk or rush through it, it might just push her further away.”

There was another silence, then a resigned sigh from Nick. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I hate it, but you’re right. I just feel so useless sitting here, doing nothing.”

“Nicky, you’re not doing nothing,” you assured him. “The best thing you can do right now is respect her boundaries and be ready when she’s ready. Let her know you’re there, but don’t overwhelm her, and Nick…” you trailed off.

You briefly hesitated before adding, “Rachel was thrown into a pit of wolves. Our family, for all its grandeur and well, admit it or not, can be really cruel. She wasn’t prepared for it, but that’s not on her—it’s completely on us, and if you love her, you’ll help her navigate through it when she finally comes around.”

Nick’s voice softened. “I do love her, more than anything.”

“This might sound very cliché, but trust the process,” you said. “She’ll come back to you when she’s ready, and when she does, you’ll be there for her.”

“Thanks again,” he said quietly. “I really needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” you replied. “Just keep me updated, okay? Don’t lose hope.”

“I won’t,” Nick promised.

“Alright, take care.” you said before ending the call.

As the screen went dark, you tossed your phone onto the bed with a sigh, staring at the ceiling in frustration. Your call to Rachel had gone straight to voicemail, and though you had sent her a message, you couldn’t shake the knot of worry in your chest. Flopping down beside your phone, you exhaled deeply. The fact that your Auntie Eleanor had gone so far as to hiring a private investigator made your blood boil. It was not just meddling—it felt invasive and cruel.

“Why?” you muttered to yourself, running a hand through your hair. “Why did she have to go that far?”

Lando glanced over you from where he was sitting, watching you silently for a moment before he laid down beside you on the bed.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s just…Auntie Eleanor. Why would she do something like that? Nick and Rachel were happy, and Ah Ma already liked Rachel, so why did she have to ruin it all? What does it even accomplish?” your voice wavered slightly as you spoke, your emotions bubbling to the surface.

Lando listened patiently, letting you vent. When you paused, he gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I get it,” he said gently. “It’s frustrating, and it’s not fair to Rachel. But you know Nick, he’s not going to give up on her just because of this. They’ll figure it out eventually.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed. “But what if they don’t? What if this just ruins everything?”

“It won’t,” he said firmly. “They’ve come this far, haven’t they? Something like this might take time to work through, but if they’re meant to be, they’ll find their way back to each other. You’ve got to believe in that.”

His words were calming, and you found yourself nodding slowly. “You’re right,” you said, though the knot in your chest didn’t fully loosen. “I just want them to have the happy ending they deserve.”

“And they will,” Lando assured you with a small smile. “But right now, you’ve got to focus on what you can control. We’re in Malaysia, come on, let’s enjoy our time. Relax, and take a breather from all the chaos back in Singapore.”

You gave Lando a weak smile, appreciating his efforts to make everything better. “Yeah, you’re right. We should make the most of it while we’re here.” pushing yourself off the bed, you glanced towards your suitcase. “We’ve got dinner plans later, don’t we?”

Lando grinned, standing up and holding out his hand to help you. “We do. Let’s go have a great night.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, and smiled at him. “Alright.”

The first day in Malaysia began early, with the rising sun casting a soft golden glow as you and Lando set off for George Town in Penang. The drive was long, roughly about four hours from Kuala Lumpur, where you’re staying, but the journey was as much a part of the adventure as the destination. Lando was behind the wheel, where one of his hands was steady on the wheel, and his other free hand was laced on your fingers. His eyes occasionally darted towards you while you admired the scenery as you passed by.

“So,” he started, glancing at you with a teasing smile, “are you going to be my personal tour guide for the day?”

You grinned, looking at him. “Of course.”

When you arrived, George Town immediately swept you off of your feet. The streets were alive with so much color and culture, with the British colonial buildings standing gracefully alongside vibrant Chinese shophouses and intricate mosques. The air smelled of spices and street food, and the chatter of locals filled the space with a sense of warmth and energy.

“Look at that one,” he said, pulling you gently toward a painting of a little boy riding a bicycle. “We have to take a photo here.”

Lando pulled out his camera and posed next to the mural, with a wide grin on his face. “Your turn, come on,” he said after snapping his photo, motioning for you to take his place. “Hold on,” he gestured for you to pose in front of the mural. You rolled your eyes playfully but obliged to his request, striking a simple pose.

“Perfect,” he said as he snapped the photo before lowering the camera. “Though the real thing’s better than the photo,” he added cheekily, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on your cheek.

“Smooth,” you teased, shaking your head but smiling nonetheless.

You wandered through the streets hand in hand, occasionally stopping every so often to admire the architecture of the small shops selling everything ranging from antiques to handmade crafts. At one point, Lando pulled you into a quiet alley where a local artist was painting a new mural. He tilted his head, examining the work.

“Think I could pull something like this off?” he joked, referring to the mural’s intricate design.

“Absolutely not,” you replied, laughing. “But I’d pay good money to watch you try.”

The day would not have been complete without food. You introduced Lando to char kway teow, a flavorful stir-fried noodle dish. He took his first bite, his expression shifting from curiosity to delight.

“Okay, this is incredible,” he said, nodding enthusiastically as he went for another bite.

“You have a good taste,” you replied, stealing a noodle from his plate.

“You mean you have a good taste,” he corrected.

The day continued like that—strolling, laughing, stealing kisses, and taking photos. Every corner of George Town seemed to hold a story, and every moment felt like it was just for the two of you.

As the sun began to set, the sky turned a warm orange, and Lando snapped one final photo. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget today,” he said softly, looking at you instead of the view.

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Me neither.”

The second day began with the sun streaming through your window, casting a warm glow over the start of what you knew would be an unforgettable day. After breakfast, you and Lando set off for Paradise 101 in Langkawi, a private island that promised a perfect blend of adventure and relaxation, and just an hour away.

As soon as you stepped onto the island, the soft sound of the waves lapping against the shore and the salty breeze filled your senses. Lando reached out for your hand, giving it a light squeeze he looked out at the clear blue sky.

“Ready for some adventure?” he asked with a contagious smile.

“Always,” you replied, already feeling the excitement bubbling up.

The first activity on the list was parasailing, something you had always wanted to try. Strapped into the harness side by side, the instructor began counting down, and then, the boat picked up speed, lifting you and Lando off the ground, soaring above the waters. The world below looks so tiny, and the ocean stretches endlessly beneath your feet.

“This is insane!” Lando shouted over the wind.

You turned your head to look at him, his expression lit up with excitement. “Right? Look at that amazing view!” you replied, pointing towards the horizon where the ocean met the sky.

“Look something out of the painting,” then glancing at you, there was a mischievous glint in Lando’s eyes. “Though the view isn’t half as good as the one next to me.”

You laughed, swatting at him lightly. “You’re such a cheeky little shit.”

When your feet touched the sand again, Lando was already pulling you toward the ziplining station. The zipline took you across the island’s canopy, and each time you landed, Lando was there waiting, stealing quick kisses before moving to the next line.

“Race you to the bottom,” Lando challenged, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.

“Oh, you’re on,” you replied, determined.

As the two of you zipped down, the wind whipping past, the sound of your laughter had filled the air. Lando had beaten you to the bottom, of course, but he immediately pulled you into a hug when you joined him, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

The afternoon was reserved for a private yacht cruise, just the two of you. As the boat glided through the calm waters of Langkawi’s northern coast, you couldn’t help but marvel at the picturesque coastline, with the emerald-green water shimmering under the sun.

“Perfect, isn’t it?” Lando asked, leaning back beside you, his sunglasses perched on his nose.

“Perfect,” you agreed, reaching out to intertwine your fingers with his.

“You know,” he began, “we should bring the others here sometimes. They’d love this.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you replied, looking at him. “Though I kind of like it being just us right now.”

“Me too,” he said, voice soft, brushing a kiss on your forehead.

You decided to give kayaking a try, but knowing Lando, it probably would be a chaotic one. “You’re paddling the wrong way, babe!” you exclaimed as Lando’s oar splashed water everywhere. “Are you sure you know how to paddle?”

“Of course I do!” he argued.

Lando was just kept on paddling in circles, the kayak even refused to cooperate—or so he claimed.

“Babe! You’re just steering us into circles. You’re doing it wrong!” you called out, grinning mischievously.

“I’m not—hold on, are you gaslighting me right now?” he accused, realizing your game.

“I would never!” you said, feigning innocence.

Lando almost toppled over the kayak trying to adjust, and you couldn’t contain your laughter. But eventually, you found your rhythm, paddling side by side through the tranquil waters.

“Okay, maybe this teamwork thing isn’t so bad after all,” he admitted, voice softer now.

“You think?” you teased, glancing at him with a smile.

The highlight of the day came with the private UNESCO Geopark mangrove cruise. You and Lando had been transferred to a small explorer boat, where you were taken through a landscape that felt almost otherworldly. Sheer limestone cliffs rose majestically from the water, their forms resembling ancient temples.

“This is incredible,” Lando murmured, voice tinged with awe as he leaned over the side of the boat.

You nodded, eyes fixed on the towering cliffs. “It feels like we’ve stepped into another world.”

The guide led you through the Tanjung Rhu River, Kisap River, and Kilim River, each stretch offering breathtaking views. At one point, you visited a fish farm and even ventured into the crocodile and bat cave, marveling at the natural formations.

When the cruise ended, the day slowly gave way to evening, and you returned to the resort. Lando had made a reservation for an outdoor dinner at the resort’s restaurant, with the table set against the backdrop of the sparkling Andaman Sea.

You were sitting right across from Lando, the soft glow of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink. “Today was really perfect,” you said, voice warm.

Lando reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “Well, that’s because I spent it with you.”

“To more days like this,” you said, raising your glass with your free hand.

“To more days with you,” Lando replied, raising his glass as well.

The waves whispered against the shore as you clink your glasses together, ending the amazing fun filled day in the most serene and beautiful way imaginable.

On the third day, which is your last day in Malaysia, felt like the perfect opportunity to slow down and enjoy a more relaxed pace with Lando. After having your breakfast at the hotel’s restaurant, you decided to explore Kuala Lumpur together and do some shopping, mostly picking out Christmas gifts for family and friends. Your first stop was Cartier, where the staff immediately recognized you and Lando as you entered the boutique.

“Welcome back,” one of them greeted warmly. “Please, follow us to the VIP room.”

The room was elegant and private, with plush seating and pristine glass displays showcasing Cartier’s finest collections. You scanned the displays carefully, selecting gifts that felt personal and meaningful. From time to time, you would turn to Lando for his opinion, holding a piece to show it to him.

“What do you think of this one, love?” you asked, turning a bracelet in your hands.

Lando leaned in to get a closer look, studying it for a brief moment. “It’s nice, but maybe this design suits them better,” he suggested, pointing to another piece that has more classic finish to it.

His input was reassuring, and you found yourself smiling more with every choice you made. So piece by piece, you finalized your selections and decided to have each of it engraved with the names. While the staff began the engraving process, you took the opportunity to explore the display cases further.

Your eyes fell on the iconic Love rings, their sleek designs catching the light. The delicate design, with its understated elegance and signature screw motif had drawn you in immediately. You paused, gazing at them a little longer than you had intended. They were very stunning, and the thought of having matching ones with Lando crept into your mind.

For a moment, you let your mind wander. The thought of having matching Love rings with Lando made your heart flutter. It would be such a sweet symbol of your relationship, a quiet nod to the love you shared. But as quickly as the thought came, doubt crept in. Would he even want to wear something like that? You had only been together for a year, and while your relationship felt deep and serious, you weren’t even sure if he’d see it the same way.

“Miss?” the associate’s voice gently pulled you back to the present. “The items have been engraved and wrapped. Would you like us to send them directly to your hotel?”

You smiled, nodding. “Yes, please. That would be perfect. We still have some plans for the day.”

The associate assured you that everything would be taken care of. You thanked them again and turned to Lando, who was casually leaning against the counter, watching you with an easy smile. What you didn’t realize was that he had caught the way your gaze lingered on the Love rings earlier. But he decided not to say anything, only offering you his hand as the two of you prepared to leave.

“Ready to go?” he asked, voice gentle.

“Yes, let’s go,” you replied, sliding your hand into his.

As you both left the store hand in hand, the shopping bags destined for your hotel, Lando’s mind was already working, his thoughts drifting back to the love rings and making a mental note.

Finally, Dior was your final stop, and as you stepped into the elegantly designed VIP room, the ambiance felt as refined and luxurious as always. The staff greeted you warmly, offering refreshments and giving you a moment to settle in before showing you all of the latest collections.

You browsed through the items thoughtfully, then occasionally turning to Lando for his input, yet again, on potential gifts and personal picks. He followed you closely, hands tucked casually in his pockets, his easy demeanor adding a comfortable balance.

As you admired a pair of beautiful heels, Lando leaned in slightly, tone light but teasing. “You know your luggage is already packed to the brim, right?”

You paused mid-reach, blinking at him as his words sank in. “Wait…really?”

He nodded, trying to suppress a grin. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’d have to sit on it just to zip it up.”

With the sudden realization, you glanced back at the shelves, and you turned to the sales associate with a smile. “Do you have any luggage available in stock?”

The associate’s face lit up. “We do, actually! Let me bring it out for you.”

As the associate disappeared into the back, Lando let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Only you would come shopping for gifts and leave with luggage to carry it all.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging his arm. “Well, if you’re going to go shopping, might as well do it properly.”

The associate soon returned, rolling out a sleek Dior luggage piece in a design you hadn’t seen before that caught your attention immediately. Its understated design and impeccable craftsmanship stood out, and you took a moment to examine it closely.

“This is perfect,” you said decisively, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “I’ll take it. I don’t have one in this design yet, so it’ll be a great addition.”

Lando chuckled softly beside you as you made your way to the counter. When the associate had totaled the purchase, he casually pulled out his black card and handed it over, placing it on the counter.

“Here, I’ve got this,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small grin.

“No,” you reached into your bag without hesitation, pulling out your own black card and handing it to the associate directly. “I’m paying for this, please. It’s my shopping.”

The associate glanced between the two of you, clearly confused and trying to decide whose card to take. You were sure that the associate would take your card, so you focused briefly on a nearby display of handbags, thinking which designs might fit into your collection. While you were distracted, Lando seized the opportunity.

“Swipe it on mine,” he said quietly, giving the associate a quick, reassuring nod.

By the time you turned your attention back, the transaction was already complete, and the staff were carefully packing the luggage and other items into Dior’s signature paper bags.

“What just happened?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly as Lando smiles cheekily at you.

“Nothing, babe,” he replied, tone far too innocent to be convincing. “Just making sure you’re not overworking your card today.”

You sighed, half-exasperated but mostly amused. “You’re impossible.”

“Just making sure your new luggage is properly christened,” he teased.

Shaking your head with a small smile, you turned back to the associate and asked, “would it be possible to have everything be delivered to our hotel? We’ve got a dinner reservation coming up, and it would be easier if we didn’t have to carry all this.”

“Of course, Miss,” they replied, nodding. “We’ll ensure everything is delivered promptly.”

“Thank you,” you said warmly before turning back to Lando. “Ready to go?”

Lando placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the exit. “Let’s go.”

By the time you stepped out of Dior, the soft glow of dusk had already begun to settle over the city, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The streets were alive with the hum of evening traffic, but your thoughts were focused on the dinner reservation at Akar Dining.

The drive to the restaurant was peaceful, with Lando’s hand resting on your thigh as the car navigated the streets. You arrived just in time, the warm ambiance of the restaurant immediately wrapping around you as you stepped inside, the host greeted you and guided you to your table. Lando, ever the gentleman, pulled out your chair, his hand lingering briefly on the back of it as you sat down.

“Thank you,” you murmured with a small smile, adjusting the hem of your dress as you settled in.

Lando took his seat across from you just as a waiter approached your table with the menus. The dimly lit atmosphere, paired with the sophisticated decor had made the evening feel intimate and special. As you scanned the menu, your eyes immediately caught a few dishes you knew you would enjoy, while Lando appeared slightly less certain.

“So, what are you thinking of getting?” you asked, glancing up from your menu to find him frowning slightly.

“Honestly?” he set the menu down for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Most of these seafood dishes aren’t really my thing.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “It’s fine, just pick something else. You don’t have to love everything on the menu.”

Eventually, he decided on the braised aged duck, and you ordered a seafood dish that intrigued you. As you waited for the food, you took a sip of your water, your gaze lingering on Lando. The memory of what happened at Dior earlier was still fresh in your mind, and you decided to address it.

“By the way,” you began, setting your glass down. “Thank you for paying earlier at Dior, but you really didn’t have to, Lan.”

Lando shrugged casually, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Of course I did. You shouldn’t have to pay for something when I’m right here.”

You sighed lightly, tilting your head at him. “Lan, I can pay for my own things. I don’t want to rely on you all the time, especially when it’s my shopping.”

“I know you can,” he replied, tone soft but firm. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to. It’s not about whether you can afford it—it’s about me wanting to take care of you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off with a playful grin. “And before you argue, I’m not budging on this.”

“Well, if you’re so insistent on paying for everything,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “then at least let me pay for dinner tonight.”

“Not happening, love,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair with an air of finality.

“Lando,” you started, but the waiter returned just then with your food, momentarily halting the conversation.

As you both began to eat, you couldn’t help but glance at him occasionally, trying to come up with a way to outmaneuver him when the bill comes. Lando seemed thoroughly engrossed in his braised aged duck, nodding approvingly after the first few bites.

“This is actually really good,” he remarked, gesturing to his plate with his fork.

“It was worth the try,” you said with a satisfied smile, enjoying your own meal.

When the plates were cleared, the waiter had returned with the bill, and you reached for it instinctively, smiling as you’re about to get a hand on it, but to your dismay, Lando was faster. He snatched it from the waiter’s hand with a smoothness that left you momentarily stunned, his card already out and ready. Without a word, he placed it on the bill and handed it back to the waiter before you could even blink.

“Lando Norris!” you hissed, voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “I told you I was paying for dinner.”

“And I told you that you’re not,” he replied, tone calm and unbothered.

You stared at him, incredulous. “You can’t keep doing this. I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for everything, my love.”

“I know you don’t,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But I wanted to. A gentleman never let his woman pay. End of story.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he interrupted gently, gaze soft but resolute. “I know that you’re independent, and I love that about you. But letting me take care of you every now and then doesn’t make you any less independent.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “At some point, you have to let me pay too. I don’t want to feel like I’m relying on you for everything.”

“I get that. But tonight isn’t the point,” he said, as his thumb gently caressed your knuckles and brought it to his lips, kissing it softly. “Letting me take care of you once in a while doesn’t mean you’re relying on me. It just means that I love you.”

Your heart softened at his words, the sincerity in his voice melting away your objections. “Fine,” you murmured, though a playful edge crept into your tone. “But one day, you’re letting me pay for something. Mark my words.”

Lando chuckled, leaning back in his chair with a wide grin. “We’ll see about that.”

After an amazing dinner, you were finally back in your hotel. The moment you stepped inside the room, the exhaustion from the day’s adventures hit you like a wave. You slipped off your sandals with a sigh of relief, placed your bag on the vanity, and immediately collapsed onto the plush bed, letting the softness swallow you whole. Lando was not far behind, shutting the door with a soft click before walking over to where you lay sprawled out. He chuckled as he kicked off his sneakers, tossing them aside without any care.

“You look absolutely done,” he teased, voice laced with affection.

Without another word, he climbed onto the bed beside you, his arms snaking around your waist as he pulled you close. You didn’t protest, in fact, you just melted into his embrace—his warmth and familiar scent of his cologne instantly soothing your tired muscles.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you murmured lazily, though you made no effort to move. “We still need to pack for tomorrow. I need to arrange the things we bought today inside the new luggage.”

Lando nuzzled his face into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “Mhmm…packing can wait.” he said as he kissed your collarbone. “I just want to stay like this for a bit. It’s been such a good trip.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head slightly to rest against his. “It really has. I think this was exactly what we needed, huh? Just us, no distractions.”

“Uh huh. No meetings, no interruptions…” Lando added with a sigh, tightening his hold on you. “I wish we could stay longer. Feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface here.”

You laughed softly. “You’re the one who extended our stay by an extra day. If we keep this up, we might not even make it to the UK in time for Christmas.”

He groaned dramatically, pulling you even closer. “Fine, you win. We’ll leave tomorrow, but I’m telling you, we’re coming back here next year.”

“Alright,” you replied, voice muffle as you buried your face in his chest.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, content to lie tangled in each other’s arms as the city lights outside cast a faint glow into the hotel room.

“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breaking the peaceful silence. “We really need to pack, babe. I’m not about to start throwing things into a suitcase at five in the morning.”

He groaned again but rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “How about I do the packing, and you stay here looking all pretty?”

“Absolutely not,” you replied, swatting his arm lightly. “If you pack, I’ll end up with half my things missing and thrown with wrinkles.”

Lando laughed, sitting up and pulling you up with him. “Alright, fine. Let’s get it over with, but you owe me cuddles afterwards.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as you slid off of the bed. “Deal. Now, let’s get moving before you start whining again.”

He grinned, grabbing his suitcase and tossing it onto the bed with enthusiasm. “You know me so very well.”

As you were neatly folding a dress and placing it neatly in your suitcase, your phone rang, cutting through the quiet hum of activity in the hotel room. You glanced at the screen and saw Nick’s caller ID flashing. Your eyes immediately widened, and your stomach sank slightly—you had completely pushed aside the chaos from earlier in Singapore.

“Nicky,” you murmured, picking up the phone and quickly answering. Lando glanced up from his own packing, curious.

The moment the call connected, Nick’s face filled your screen, grinning from ear to ear. Before you could say anything, he shouted out, “WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!”

Your jaw dropped, and your heart leapt. “WHAT?!” you screamed, startling Lando, who immediately moved closer to check. “Oh my god! Nicky, are you serious?!”

Nick nodded excitedly, his smile growing wider. “Yes! I proposed to Rachel earlier, and she said yes! We’re getting married!”

A loud scream of happiness escaped you, and grabbed both Lando’s hands and jumped up and down, causing Lando to follow your lead, with you chanting ‘Nick and Rachel are getting married’ a couple of times. Both of you jumping like you’re in a cult, chanting to summon something.

“Nicky, this is amazing news! I’m so happy for you and Rachel! Oh my god, I’m going to cry!” you said, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

Lando laughed and leaned into the frame, resting a hand on your waist. “Congratulations, mate! That’s incredible news!”

“Thanks, man!” Nick said, grinning even wider. He turned back to you, clearly eager to share more details. “Mom finally came around, and she gave me the emerald ring to propose with. I actually chased Rachel to the airport, it turns out she was about to leave, already inside the plane and I just dropped on one knee and proposed to her. You should’ve seen Rachel’s face when I pulled out the ring, she was so shocked.”

You clutched your chest dramatically. “Nick, that’s so beautiful. I’m so, so happy for you both.”

Nick chuckled, his excitement very evident. “But wait, there’s more. I’m throwing a surprise engagement party for Rachel tomorrow night, and I need you both there. Please say you can come.”

You glanced over at Lando, your eyes silently asking if he was okay with changing plans. Lando, ever the supportive boyfriend that he is, nodded without any hesitation.

“We’re both in,” you said to Nick. “We’ll fly back to Singapore tomorrow.”

Nick let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you! I can’t wait to see you both, and don’t worry, it won’t be a massive party, just a small gathering of close friends and family.”

“We will not miss it,” you assured him. “But just so you know, we’ll have to leave right after the party. We’re expected in the UK before Christmas.”

“Fair enough,” Nick said, still beaming. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow then, and thank you, both of you, for being there for us.”

“Of course,” you replied, voice soft with emotion. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

After ending the call, you turned to Lando, who was smiling at your obvious joy. “Looks like we’re making another detour,” you said with a laugh.

“Well, wouldn’t have it any other way,” Lando replied, pulling you into a quick hug before returning to his packing.

The flight from Malaysia to Singapore passed quickly, only an hour long. You and Lando had decided to leave in the afternoon to allow yourselves some extra time to relax before the engagement party. By the time the private jet touched down at a private tarmac in Changi Airport, the sky had shifted to a warm, dusky hue.

You were already dressed for the event, adjusting the hem of your dress as you prepared to disembark. Your outfit for tonight complimented Lando’s outfit perfectly, a choice you both had coordinated without much effort. Deciding not to take your belongings off of the jet since you would be leaving Singapore immediately after the party. Taking one final glance at the jet’s sleek interior, you then stepped out.

Lando walked beside you, his hand firmly holding yours as he guided you down the steps of the jet. The heels you wore, though elegant, weren’t exactly forgiving, and his grip gave you the balance you needed. Once you reached the car waiting on the tarmac, he moved ahead, opening the door for you.

“Careful, love,” he murmured, holding out a hand to help you inside.

You gave Lando a small smile as you slid into the seat, careful not to wrinkle your dress. He followed right after, shutting the car door behind him. The soft hum of the car engine filled up the space as the vehicle pulled away, heading towards Marina Bay Sands. You then leaned into Lando slightly.

“You know,” Lando began with a playful smirk, “I think we’ve spent more time in Singapore lately than in Monaco.”

You laughed softly. “Tell me about it. It looks like we’ll be back here again sooner rather than later for Nick and Rachel’s wedding.”

He tilted his head in mock resignation. “I guess I’d better get used to the humidity then.”

“Oh come on,” you gave him a teasing nudge. “You’ve survived it so far. Besides, you look so good here, very tropical chic.”

Lando chuckled, resting his hand on yours. “Thanks, love. But seriously, it feels like everyone’s getting married or engaged all of a sudden. What’s with the December air.”

You sighed dramatically. “Tell me about it. First Colin and Minty, now Nick and Rachel, also don’t forget about my friend from Parsons! She’s getting married in Moscow next year and has already sent in the invitation.”

“Moscow, huh?” he mused. “Another flight for us?”

You glanced at him with a small smile. “If you want to come with me, that is. I don’t want to pressure you into attending all these weddings, I know that it can be really tiring.”

Lando tilted his head, pretending to think it over. “Moscow, a wedding, and a chance to see you again in another dress? Sounds like a total dream, so it’s a yes for me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love every bit of it,” he quipped, grinning.

As the car drove on, your thoughts began to drift. Weddings, engagements, proposals—it seemed like everyone around you was taking those big steps. You didn’t want to admit it, but that idea of marriage had been creeping into your mind more and more lately. It was not something you wanted to bring up, not yet, but still, it is a topic that had been occupying your mind.

You shook off the feeling, focusing instead on the city lights beginning to twinkle outside the car window. “Yeah, and I think that we’re going to need a bigger calendar,” you joked.

Lando laughed, resting a hand on your knee. “As long as you’re on it, I don’t mind.”

The car rolled to a smooth stop at the grand entrance of Marina Bay Sands, with the city lights reflecting off the sleek glass facade. The chauffeur had exited first, circling around to open your door, and before you could step out, Lando was already at your side, extending a hand to help you out of the car.

“I’ll be here at the agreed time to take you back to the airport, ma’am.” the chauffeur said as he tipped his hat.

“Thank you,” you replied with a polite smile.

Lando intertwined your hands, and you both began walking towards the entrance. The evening air was warm, and the energy surrounding the iconic building was palpable. A few people by the lobby immediately recognized Lando, and their eyes widened when they noticed you by his side.

“Excuse me,” a young woman asked hesitantly, clutching her phone. “Would it be alright if I can get a quick photo with you both?”

Lando exchanged glances with you and nodded warmly. “Of course, just a quick one.”

You stepped aside with him, pausing for a few photos, each person thanking you both profusely afterwards. Once the small crowd dispersed, you and Lando resumed your walk, making your way to the elevators that would take you to the sky deck. The elevator ride was smooth and swift, and when the doors opened, the familiar faces of your family, Nick’s closest friends, and your cousins scattered throughout the beautifully decorated space.

As your eyes scanned the crowd, you spotted your mother first. She stood near one of the seating areas, speaking animatedly with one of your aunts. You guided Lando over, and her expression shifted to surprise the moment she saw you both.

“Darling!” your mother exclaimed, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“Hi, Mom,” you greeted, smiling warmly before stepping aside so Lando could greet her.

Your mother opened her arms invitingly. “Lando, come here.”

Lando hugged her briefly but warmly, a soft laugh escaping him. “Hello, Auntie. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” your mother replied, taking a step back to look at you both. “I thought you’d already be in the UK by now.” she said, raising an eyebrow at you.

“We were supposed to leave after the day after the wedding,” you explained, “but we decided to make a quick stop in Malaysia for a few days. Then Nicky called last night and asked us to come, so here we are.”

She smiled knowingly. “Always the supportive cousin. But you’re leaving tonight?”

“Yes, the jet is on standby at the airport,” you confirmed. “We’ll head straight there after the party.”

Your mother nodded in satisfaction, and gave Lando a pat on the shoulder. “Well, you enjoy yourselves tonight. It’s a rare sight to see you two so relaxed.”

You and Lando exchanged a small smile before moving on to greet Colin and Araminta, who were just chatting near the champagne table.

“Hey!” Colin greeted, giving you both a hug. “I didn’t think we’d see you two again so soon.”

“Neither did we,” you replied with a laugh. “But here we are.”

You turned to Araminta, who hugged you warmly, then stepped back, smiling brightly. “It’s so good to see you again, and Lando, of course! You’re becoming quite the fixture at family events!”

Lando grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Colin smirked. “At this rate, uncle’s going to give him the talk soon, if he hasn’t already. Then we all know whose wedding we’ll be attending soon after Nick and Rachel’s.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Too late, Dad already gave him the talk, and even Ah Ma had given her blessing.”

Lando grinned, playing along. “Proud to say that I’ve passed all the tests by now.”

Araminta gasped dramatically, nudging Colin. “See? It’s official now. We’ll start saving the date!”

The four of you exchanged pleasantries and some laughs for a few moments before your attention was drawn to a surprising sight. Standing by the bar were none other than Bernard and Kitty, a pair you had not expected to see here at all. You caught Lando’s eye, and he gave you a subtle shrug, clearly just as a surprise.

Shaking it off, you turned your focus back, making your way toward your aunts. Auntie Alix, Auntie Eleanor, and Auntie Jacqueline, who were all chatting in a tight circle. You approached with Lando by your side, greeting each of them in turn with a polite kiss on the cheek and a warm smile.

“Ah, you’re here!” your Auntie Alix smiled. “I thought you were in the UK already.”

“Nick called,” you explained with a smile, “so here we are.”

“Well, we’re glad you made it,” your Auntie Jacqueline chimed in, “and you’re glowing tonight.” she added, her gaze flitting between you and Lando.

“Must be the Malaysian sun,” Lando jokes, earning a soft laugh from the group.

Your Auntie Eleanor gave Lando a sharp but playful look. “You’re certainly making yourself comfortable with this family, aren’t you?”

Lando smiled politely. “I’m just trying to keep up,” satisfied with his answer, your Auntie Eleanor waved you off with a chuckle.

Nick and Rachel hadn’t arrived yet, so you and Lando decided to take the opportunity to mingle with other guests. The evening was lively, with laughter and champagne flowing freely.

Several guests had approached you and Lando for photos, and you obliged, posing with ease. Lando kept a hand on your lower back, guiding you smoothly through the crowd as you moved from one group to another.

From across the room, you noticed your cousin Oliver weaving his way through the crowd, a bright smile on his face as he head towards you. As he approached, you and Lando turned to greet him.

“Oliver!” you said warmly, pulling him into a quick hug.

“Hey you two,” he said, giving you both a smile before continuing. “I want to introduce you to Rachel’s best friend. She’s dying to meet you.”

Curious, you exchanged a glance with Lando before agreeing. “Of course! Lead the way.”

Following Oliver, you navigated through the elegantly dressed guests until you stopped in front of a small group of people.

“Here we are,” Oliver said, motioning toward a striking woman with a vibrant smile. “This is Rachel’s best friend, Goh Peik Lin.”

You extended your hand toward her. “Peik Lin, it’s so nice to meet you!”

Peik Lin shook your hand warmly. “And it’s so nice to meet you as well!”

Your gaze traveled briefly over her outfit, a beautifully tailored dress that exuded elegance and sophistication. “I have to say, your outfit is incredible. You have such impeccable taste.”

Her smile widened, excitement evident. “Oh stop, you’re going to make me blush! But thank you, it means a lot coming from someone as stylish as you.”

Oliver then turned to the older couple standing beside Peik Lin. “And these are Peik Lin’s parents, Goh Wye Mun and Goh Nenna.”

You offered a polite smile as you greeted them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Goh.”

Nenna’s eyes sparkled as she took your hand. “Just call us Auntie Nenna and Uncle Wye Mun! And my goodness, you’re even more gorgeous in person! I’ve seen photos of you, and they don’t do you justice! You’re very stunning, my dear!”

You laugh softly, feeling a light warmth rise to your cheeks. “You’re too kind, Auntie Nenna. Thank you so much.”

Then you turned to Wye Mun, whose expression shifted slightly as recognition dawned on him. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment.

“You’re one of Harrison Sr. and Elizabeth Young’s children, aren’t you? Their only daughter,” he said, tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.

You nodded, smiling. “That’s right. I’ve heard of your family before as well. If my memory serves me right, you’re the owner of Goh Developments, correct? One of Singapore’s most successful real estate companies?”

Wye Mun chuckled, clearly pleased. “Yes, that’s about right. I’m flattered you know about us.”

“Of course!” you said. “Your company’s work is extraordinary. Some of your developments are architectural masterpieces.”

The brief exchange shifted naturally into a short discussion about real estate, with Wye Mun enthusiastically sharing tidbits about recent projects. Peik Lin listened intently, Oliver and Lando conversing with each other, while Nenna just watched the whole conversation with a smile.

You then gestured towards Lando afterwards, who had been standing quietly beside you. “Allow me to introduce to you my boyfriend, Lando.”

Lando extended his hand towards Wye Mun, who shook it firmly. Wye Mun’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Ah, Lando Norris! I watched you win the Singapore GP last September. Quite an incredible race, I must say. You’ve got some serious talent.”

“Thank you so much,” Lando said with a polite smile. “It was an unforgettable race for sure.”

“And I didn’t know that you were dating the darling of the Singaporean social elite!” Wye Mun added with a playful tone, eyes twinkling.

“Oh Wye Mun, look at them!” Nenna interjected, her gaze moving between you and Lando. “They look so good together, a very beautiful couple. Perfect match!”

Wye Mun nodded in agreement, tone light. “Quite the power couple, I’d say.”

You couldn’t help but smile at their comment, glancing at Lando, who was already looking at you with a soft expression. “Thank you,” you replied simply.

The conversation continued easily, with the group exchanging stories and laughs. The atmosphere was warm, and you felt genuinely pleased to meet Rachel’s best friend and their family.

As the buzz of conversation faded into hushed whispers, Araminta stepped forward with a smile and announced, “Nick and Rachel are on their way up now! Everyone, take your positions.”

You and Lando stood slightly off to the side, his hand on your waist, caressing it softly and tracing shapes. The elegant lighting of the sky deck reflected off the cityscape, casting a soft glow over the gathered guests.

Lando leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You know,” he whispered, tone teasing, “it was so hot watching you talk business with Wye Mun earlier. You looked so serious and confident.”

You glanced at him, barely suppressing a smile, and gave his chest a soft slap. “Stop being cheeky right now, Norris,” you muttered, keeping your voice low to avoid drawing any attention.

But it looks like Lando was not done yet. He grinned at you mischievously, his voice dipping lower. “I mean it, baby. The way you talked about developments and projects? Very impressive, very attractive.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed slightly. “Lando,” you whispered warningly, “behave. This is not the time.”

He bit back a chuckle, amusement evident. “Fine, fine. But you should know, I can’t help it when you’re like that.”

You shushed him quietly, your finger briefly brushing his lips. “Quiet now,” you insisted softly, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention.

As you returned your focus to the party, your thoughts flicked back to your earlier conversation with Wye Mun. Real estate development has always intrigued you—the intricacies, potential, and stories behind every project. It was not just a polite conversation, it was a chance to learn and build connections.

“Besides,” you murmured to Lando, keeping your tone casual, “it’s always good to broaden your network. Even if I already have so many, there’s no harm in widening the circle.”

Lando nodded, his expression now a mix of curiosity and pride. “Well, you’ve got a point,” he said softly.

You let your eyes wander across the crowd, noting a few familiar faces mingling among the guests. “This place is full of businesspeople—major players in the industry, tonight,” you whispered to him. “I can recognize a few who could even be potential sponsors for McLaren.” Lando raised a brow at you, intrigued.

You turned to him, giving him a playful wink. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll help you land a deal or two.”

Lando smirked, leaning in closer to you again. “Now that,” he said, tone low and teasing, “is a kind of teamwork I can get behind.”

The sky deck fell in a hush as everyone stood in their positions, waiting for Nick and Rachel’s arrival. The atmosphere was buzzing, a mix of excitement and happiness among the crowd. The distant hum of the elevator announced their approach, and then, with a soft chime, doors slid open.

Nick stepped out first, his hands gently covering Rachel’s eyes as he carefully guided her forward into the middle of the crowd. Rachel, her posture both curious and expectant, laughed lightly, clearly amused by the surprise. The whole crowd held its collective breath, watching as Nick finally removed his hands from Rachel’s eyes.

The second her eyes opened, the silence of the crowd was replaced with an eruption of cheers and applause. Screams of happiness echoed across the sky deck, led enthusiastically by Colin and Araminta. Rachel’s expression had transformed into one of pure, radiant happiness as she took sight of everyone gathered for her. Overwhelmed with emotion, she raised her hand, showing off the stunning emerald ring that sparkled under the lights, then pointing to it with a grin.

People surged forward, surrounding Nick and Rachel with hugs and congratulations. You and Lando joined in with the crowd, your laughter blending with everyone else’s as you approached the newly engaged couple.

“Congratulations!” you said, beaming as you hugged Rachel tightly. “I’m so happy for you both.”

Nick grinned, pulling you into a quick hug as well. “Thank you for being here. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

Lando shook Nick’s hand before giving Rachel a warm hug. “You two are perfect for each other.”

Nick, ever the joker, glanced between you and Lando, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know,” he began, tone playful, “I have a strong feeling you two might be the next one.”

Rachel, catching on, nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely! We’ll have to start planning your engagement party real soon.”

You and Lando exchanged amused looks, chuckling. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you replied, though your heart skipped a beat at the thought.

As much as you adored Nick and Rachel, you did not need them adding more fuel to the fire—you were already simmering with wedding fever.

After the flood of congratulations, Nick took Rachel’s hand and gently guided her attention towards the infinity pool, where a group of synchronized swimmers began an elegant performance, their movements perfectly timed to the music. Rachel gasped softly, her eyes lighting up with wonder as she watched.

Then, from the corner of our eye, you noticed Rachel spotting your Auntie Eleanor standing a little way off. For a brief moment, the noise and excitement seemed to face as the two women exchanged a look, one of understanding and newfound respect. The warmth in Rachel’s smile and the subtle nod from your Auntie Eleanor spoke volumes. It filled your heart with joy to see that your aunt had finally come around, embracing Rachel in the way she deserved.

Nick then pulled Rachel into a tender kiss, earning a round of applause and cheers again from the crowd. Lando stepped behind you, wrapping his arms securely around your waist, holding you close. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel his warmth radiating through you.

The sound of fireworks exploding above pulled everyone’s attention upward. Bright colors lit up the sky, reflecting off the glass and water, painting the moment in vibrant hues. The cheers grew louder, people pointing and marveling at the display. You stayed like that, wrapped in Lando’s arms, watching the sky.

With fireworks still illuminating the sky and Lando’s arms wrapped securely around you, a quiet realization settled in your heart. It was not something sudden, it was something that had been building over time, piece by piece, moment by moment. The depth of love that you feel for Lando was staggering, overwhelming even, and yet it felt so natural.

You had dated before, countless boys who had seemed charming or interesting at the time, but none of them had ever come close to Lando. They never understood you the way Lando did. With him, there was no guessing, pretending, or effort to mold yourself into someone else’s idea of what love should look like. Lando saw you, truly saw you, in a way that no one else ever had. To be seen was to be loved.

This was what set Lando apart. With him, you never had to explain your silences, quirks, or the way your mind wandered to far-off places. He did not just tolerate those things, in fact, he cherished them. He loved them. With Lando, you felt understood in a way that words could never fully capture.

You thought back to the other relationships before Lando, the boys who had come before. They had their moments, but they always felt…incomplete. There had been a disconnect, a lingering sense that you were only partly there, only partly understood. They never have you the feeling that Lando did—feeling of being wholly, entirely loved. Lando was the man that you had been praying for, and for once, God had led Lando to you.

Sure, the way he loved you was not perfect, but it was honest. It was raw and real, and it made you feel more like yourself than you ever thought possible. Lando had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world, like his entire focus was only on you and no one else. That was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You had never felt this way with anyone else, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one else could make you feel the way he did. Lando was not just someone you loved—he was the person you wanted to spend your forever with.

The thought settled deeply in your chest, filling every corner of your heart with an indescribable warmth. It was not just that you loved him—it was that he was home.

“I love you,” you looked up at him, smiling.

Lando looked at you, smiling. He then whispered, “I love you too, so fucking much.”

taglist : @sheblogs

[imhappierthanever]

Mirror

Living together. Something you and Billie talked about for so long. Finally, you decided to make it a reality. You moved into a gorgeous, White House. Spacious with flowers all over. And of course, never too far from the water or a place for Billie to ride horses. It was perfect. It made going to work a little easier knowing you had such a dream home to come home to. But even more than that, you got to come home to your dream girl.

In your car on the way home all you could think about was her and how you couldn’t wait to come home to her and have her all to yourself. Last night felt so distant in the sense that you always needed her. Memories continued to consume you, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you pulled into your driveway.

You took in the scent of the flowers, and the fragrant air as you closed your door, ascending the few steps to the front door. When you pushed it opened, you expected to find your girlfriend nearby. Maybe in the kitchen making dinner, or in her studio making something for the world to fall in love with.

You called to her softly, searching every place down stairs, then heading up, knowing she had to be there. When you made your way to the bedroom, you found her. She was sat on the floor, her back turned to you, her body directly in front of the mirror. She was decompressing.

You felt yourself growing hotter as you looked at her.. looking at herself. She was in another world. In complete control, bare. Her long dark wavy hair fell down her back as one of her hands caressed her breast, touching herself exactly where and how she wanted. Her soft moans filled the air as you watched, frozen.

You knew it was an enormous part of her life, and it helped her to have a raw and deep connection with herself. You didn’t mind it one bit as it helped her feel empowered, more comfortable with herself. You just hadn’t caught her actually in the act until just now.

Until this moment you didn’t know she could get any hotter. As she tossed her head back, losing herself in the moment. Her lip was bitten, her eyes were dark and her movements never let up.

Deciding you couldn’t take anymore, you let yourself in, sliding your body behind hers, placing a kiss to her head before whispering in her ear.

“I hope you’re thinking about me.” You managed, before placing your hands over hers, letting your hands begin to explore her together. Your fingers trailed along her soft, glistening skin, letting your kisses continue before your eyes met hers in the mirror.

“Don’t stop touching me like that..” she said in almost a whisper, moving her hands upwards to let you take control of her lower half. You gathered her wetness, spreading it around causing you both to moan. She throbbed underneath the pad of your finger as you rubbed tight circles on her clit, never breaking your gaze from her darkened eyes in the mirror.

You pressed your body into hers, pulling her against you. You knew she was so close. So close to losing herself and falling over that edge. Searching for her high. You wanted nothing more than to help her get there, feeling her body tremble against yours as wave after wave hit her gorgeous body. Like a tide hit the shore.

Her head fell back on your shoulder as she breathed heavily, mouth opened, eyes shut. You held her, kissing where ever your lips landed, helping her come back down. You praised her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear before she finally turned her head towards you, letting her lips lazily find yours, kissing you as a thankful.

“God, you’re so fucking hot when you do that, baby. I can’t even be upset that you didn’t wait for me.” You joked laughing against her lips before going back in for the kill.

You brought your hand that had been touching her up to her face, making her taste her own arousal, making you want her even more somehow as you lost yourself in her eyes as usual.

Once she cleaned your fingers, one by one, tightening that feeling in your stomach, her lips crashed into yours with urgency. You could taste her on your tongue, you could feel her body against yours, her hands easing you down so she could finish what she started. So she could be the one to watch you melt under her perfectly skilled fingertips. So she could be the one to make you lose yourself, and your body shake and sweat all from her touch. All from whatever she decided she was going to do to you.

[sems-diarie]

inviting ur handsome asshole!fav over to watch movies—of course you end up lettin him fuck your pussy for all he’s worth. you always cum always real big n’ messy, too. you make him fuck you through it. he grits his teeth and feels himself throb so hard his knees go weak. any second now, he’s going to fill your lovely, inspiring cunt with some weeks worth of cum; he’ll smile at a job well down when his seed pumps out the tip of his dick to splatter all down your pretty, pillowy thighs. he even has half a mind to clean you up on his tongue afterwards. you and this pussy drive him cra—

except, no. he doesn’t get to cum. as soon as the last waves of your orgasm slip through your fingers, you’re bucking hips to pull away from him entirely. he reaches for you and you swat his fingers away—you’re tired. and you need to shower.

he understands, right? you even thanked him like the sweet, precious thing you are:

“i feel so rejuvenated, honey!”

you guys can kiss a little, maybe. but he came to watch movies, anyway.

[imtryingbuck]

Welcome To The Gang

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: mechanic!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Y/n leaves her hometown after her heart is broken by betrayal, she has no destination in sight but when she meets a brunette she finally finds happiness.

Word count: 5,853

Warnings: angst. past cheating (ex and sister). swearing. fluff.

Masterlist

“Mom what am I going to do?”

“You need to tell her, it will break her heart but she needs to know.”

Y/n stood behind the living room wall pressing her hand to her mouth in hopes her mom and sister couldn’t hear her muffled sobs. She had just heard that her boyfriend of five years had been cheating on her with her very own sister for the past four months. Betrayed by the two people who she loved more than anything in the world other than her parents.

“She won’t want to talk to me anymore” She felt sick to her stomach at hearing her sisters voice laced in distress. Not once since she confessed has she once said she regretted it or that it meant nothing, no it was all about her.

“Do you blame her? You’ve been fucking her boyfriend.”

“I know mom!”

“And now you’re pregnant by your sisters boyfriend, don’t you dare try and act like a victim.”

Her heart broke even more. Her sister knew full well that they had been trying to get pregnant for the past two years and yet here she is, pregnant with her own sisters boyfriends baby. Before her sister could speak Y/n stepped around the wall, both mom and daughter gasping at seeing her, seeing the tears they knew she had heard everything.

“Why? Why would you do this to me? Doing it to your best friend wasn’t enough?”

“Y/n!” her mom scolded. “You know that she regretted doing that.”

“But it didn’t stop her from sleeping with her best friends husband when she was grieving her mom’s death, did it now? Oh and then carried on once her best friend found out and divorced his sorry arse.” Looking at her older sister, the one person she looked up to since they were children. “Can’t you find your own boyfriend that you have to fuck everyone else’s?”

“I-I’m sorry, p-please don’t be mad”

“You two deserve each other. I hope you both have the worst life-“

“Y/n please don’t talk to your sister like that!”

“Sister?” she let out a low chuckle with a shake of her head. “I have no sister.”

Walking out of her parents’ house, the very same one she grew up in, she got in her car ignoring her mom and sister begging her to stay and that everything will be okay, and drove back to her apartment that she shared with her now ex-boyfriend. Thankfully he wasn’t there which meant leaving with her things would be easier. Not an hour later her car was packed full with her things, with one last look at the place she had been calling home for three years a stray tear dropped from her eyes, a shudder rolled down her spine at the thought of her own sister and her now ex fucking each other in the apartment. Closing the door she locked it and slid the key through the letter box and got into her car, with no destination in sight she drove away.

“No no no NO! God damnit!” Smacking the steering wheel harshly then wincing at the pain shooting through her hands, she managed to get the car to pull up to the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere. “Great. Just great.”

Stranded in the middle of nowhere, no signs of life other than a few birds flying around in the air, she began crying. This wasn’t how her life was supposed to go like. It was meant to be her carrying her boyfriends’ child, not her sister. She was meant to be at home probably curled up on the couch with her cheating scumbag of a boyfriend watching some crappy show on the tv. But no, she’s currently in the middle of nowhere with a broken down car and no cell service whilst her sister is probably curled up on the couch with the cheating scumbag she happily opened her legs for.

It wasn’t fair.

An hour passed and not even a single car went pass. Then another hour went by, this time she kept her mind occupied by kicking the crap out of her car. The next hour that slowly trickled by Y/n walked around her car over and over again, then across the street and back again, even having a race with a snail in which she won against. Finding a stone she practiced her football skills, then she lost the stone. And then she began kicking her car again but this time imagining her sister and boyfriends faces - her car now sporting a huge dent.

The sun began going down being quickly replaced by the crescent moon, climbing on top of her car with her legs dangling against the door she laid back staring up at the sky. It couldn’t have been long when she heard a noise that she had never been more grateful to hear.

“Yes! Oh thank fuck!” she waved her arms in the air in hopes that the driver would stop and not ignore her, whilst also hoping that the driver wasn’t some crazed maniac.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” jumping off the car she went up to the truck as it pulled to a stop. “Hi, c-can you help me?”

“Of course we can help. My names Wanda and this is Vis, what’s yours?”

“Thank you, I’m Y/n. My car broke down and I have no cell service.”

“Oh, well we can actually help you with that” Wanda got out of the truck whilst Vis pulled the truck in front of her car. “He works at the garage not that far from here.”

“Really? You two are life savers”

“Yeah it’s half an hour away… wait, how long have you been out here for?”

“Half an hour?” Wanda nodded with a soft smile on her plumb lips. “Oh my God.” Y/n cried out. “I’ve been out here for like four hours!” Wanda’s eyes went wide, her lips pressing together tightly in a straight line. “You can laugh.”

Y/n couldn’t help but laugh along with the green eyed woman, she felt so stupid for not thinking about wondering off to find help instead of staying by her car. “You’re not from around here are you?”

“Leave me alone” she giggled.

“I’m sorry!”

“Is that why you are laughing?”

“… No”

Vis informs the two women that everything was set up and ready to go, in the truck with two strangers that seemed really nice Wanda asked her about herself which she answered carefully and selectively, Wanda told her that she and Vis were married and then told her about the people she would most likely meet at the garage. Vis chimed in telling her that one of them called Bucky would most likely be standoffish with her but it was just who he was.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, his middle name is Buchanan so he goes by Bucky.” Wanda informs.

Not even half an hour later they pulled up to the garage named The Avengers Garage. Wanda and Y/n got out so that Vis could pull the truck and car inside. “Come on, let me introduce you to the gang.”

Gaining the attention of the people that was sat/stood around, the first person to greet her was a beautiful red head named Natasha, then a very happy Sam introduced himself – going straight in for a hug. Then Clint – Wanda informed her that he and Nat were dating, then she was introduced to Steve. Everyone was so nice and warm to her, they were probably like that to everyone but that didn’t matter to her.

“This car is completely fucked.” She heard a deep yet soft voice come from behind her car. “Steve I’m going… h-hi.” He started then cut himself off when he laid eyes on her.

“Hi” she smiled at the gorgeous man in front of her.

The group all watched silently with amused looks on their faces as they watch Bucky standing there with a tint of red hue on his cheeks, a sweet smile on his lips and this woman that they had only just met doing the same thing.

“Bucky this is Y/n, Y/n this is Bucky” Wanda’s soft voice snapped them both out of their trances.

“Hi” they both repeated, the groups eyes rolling in unison.

“So Buck, what’s wrong with the car?” Steve then asked snapping them both out of their love sickening eye contact again.

Bucky's eyes find Steve’s and begins explaining the problems with the car, to Y/n it sounded like he was talking mumbo jumbo – having never paid any attention to what her dad would tell her when he tried showing her the ins and outs of a car. “And there’s a big dent in the side”

“Yeah… about that, uhm… that was me, I kind of kicked the damn thing.”

“Why?” Bucky chuckled. Everyone beside Y/n looking shocked at hearing the sound coming from him. It had been so long since any of them had heard anything other than a grumble fall from his lips.

“I was angry.” She shrugged with a small smile.

“Fair enough.” He chuckled once again. “I’ll be able to get the dents out.”

“H-How much would it all come to?” When Bucky tells her the amount he noticed the grimace flash across her face, asking him about the price without the dents being taken out – hating the way she stutters, and the way her cheeks heated up with embarrassment. “C-Can you just leave the dents? I’ll get it fixed at a later date”

“Of course” Bucky smiles in understanding. “It will take about two days to fix”

“O-Oh okay, thank you.”

Steve rolls his eyes at once again the love struck look in Bucky’s eyes, clapping his best friends shoulder motioning towards her car Bucky smiles once more at Y/n before following Steve. Once it was just Wanda and Y/n after Nat and Clint left to go and get some food and Vis doing something in the back Y/n asked Wanda where the nearest motel was.

“It’s not that far from here, it’s a bit rundown though.”

“That’s fine, I need a place to sleep until my car is fixed and then I can be on my way again.”

“I can take you there if you want?”

“I would really like that, thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem. I’m just going to get the keys from Vis.” Leaving her on her own, Y/n went to her car to get a few things from the back, apologising to the two men as she interrupted their conversation.

Thanking Wanda once again for everything that she had done for her, she walked up to the room that she had paid for. It was small and had a weird odour lingering in the air but it didn’t bother her, much. Climbing into the uncomfortable bed after changing into something comfy and doing her night routine, she fell asleep with the image of a certain brunette with piercing blue eyes.

Bucky just wanted to go home to Alpine – his precious white ball of fluff that he had found abounded on the side of the road when she was only six weeks old. He’d probably order some pizza and sit to watch some crappy show on the tv whilst having his little baby curled up next to him eating her treats. But no here he was still at work being told a new car was just brought in.

It wasn’t fair.

“This car is completely fucked.” He mumbled. “Steve I’m going… h-hi.” He started but finding himself cutting his words off when he laid eyes on her.

The most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

“Hi” her smile was just as gorgeous as the rest of her face and her voice.

He knew that the group was all watching as his cheeks heated up, and he knew for a fact that they were going to tease him later for it.

“Bucky this is Y/n, Y/n this is Bucky” Wanda’s voice snapped them both out of their trances.

“Hi” they both repeated, the groups eyes rolling in unison.

“So Buck, what’s wrong with the car?” Steve asked him making him reluctantly pull his eyes away from her.

He couldn’t help the chuckle leave his lips when she explained that the huge dents in the side of her car was due to her kicking it, god he loved her smile. He didn’t judge her for wanting the dents to be left in, seeing all the things in the car it looked to him like she had just upped and left wherever it was she came from, and he understood that money was probably tight, hell they had all been in that position before so therefore none of them was going to judge her.

The second Steve got him away from Y/n he just stood there and smirked. “What?”

“Nothing. Okay well there is something.”

“And that is?”

“’Hi I’m Bucky and I’m so in love with you Y/n, please marry me and have my babies’” Steve mocked before letting out a surprised yelp and ducking just in time as the tool that Bucky throws at him, hit him.

“You’re not funny.”

“What do you mean? I’m hilarious.” The dirt blond gasped dramatically. “What was all that back there?”

“What do you mean? I was just being polite to a customer”

“That’s the thing Buck, you’re never polite to customers.”

“Yes I am!”

“Liar. Okay, can I ask you another question?”

“You’re going to ask anyway”

“When is the wedding?” Steve chuckled then let out a pained groan as Bucky throws something at him, hitting him in his stomach. “You can’t keep throwing things at me!”

“I can if you keep being a dick. Now shut up and help me.”

“I thought she said to leave the dents?”

“I know but I can’t just leave them.” Bucky shrugs. “And don’t say anything!”

Both worked tirelessly until it got too late and fatigue and hunger started to set in. Since Steve lived across the road from Bucky they always drove to work together, Steve pulled up to his drive, saying his goodbyes to his best friend – not before he tormented him about his new girlfriend Y/n.

“She is not my girlfriend!” the brunette practically growled as he stomped over to his house. Instantly being greeted by Alpine, Bucky stood there imagining Y/n sitting on his couch in his shirt with a smile on her face, opening her arms for him to crawl into and complain about his day, running her fingers through his hair-

Alpine’s meow snapped him out of his thoughts, shaking his head. “She is not my girlfriend.”

“Please be Y/n’s room” Y/n heard a soft voice come from behind her door, just before a knock came.

“Hi Wanda” she smiled at the woman as she opened the door.

“Oh thank god! I’ve been knocking on all the doors to find your room”

Chuckling, she offered for her to come inside. “How are you?”

“I’m okay, how are you?”

“I’m good. How come you’re here? Is my car fixed already?”

“Well I came to see if you wanted to hang out? I could show you around town? And for your car, it isn’t done yet but I know Bucky's been working on it since seven this morning”

Seeing the hopeful look in her eyes, Y/n couldn’t find it in herself to say no so with a smile and a nod she grabbed her jacket and put her shoes on, making sure she grabbed her bag she locked the door and slid the key into her pocket. Wanda linked her arm with hers as they made their way down to Wanda’s car.

The town was small and it seemed like everyone knew everyone and knew that Y/n wasn’t from around there, they made it obvious by staring at her. Wanda showed her all the places her and the gang – as she kept calling them – had grown up, hung out and even showed her the alleyways that Steve use to get beat up in.

“Steve? The blond one, right?”

“Yep, he wasn’t always that big and muscly, Bucky would always find him and fight the bullies.”

Then Wanda showed her their former principles house that they covered in toilet roll. “Why would you do that?” Y/n chuckled.

“Sam dared Steve to do it, Steve passed the dare on to Clint who passed it to Nat who then passed it on to Bucky, and Bucky passed said dare back to Sam. Anyway, we all then agreed to do it so… we did”

“A dare?”

“Yeah, but to be fair we were drunk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah it was only last year that we did it.” Wanda says. Y/n sat in the passenger seat looking at the woman waiting for her to say that she was joking. “I’m not joking either, we didn’t exactly grow up after leaving school.”

Half an hour later Wanda pulled up to a cute café that was on Main Street, promising her that they did the best hot chocolate in the world. Which she wasn’t wrong about.

“So” Wanda started, leaving the whipped cream moustache she was now sporting. “Where are you going?”

“Sorry?”

“Your car was packed full of things so I assume you’re going somewhere?”

“Oh, oh I uhm… I left my hometown. And now I’m trying to find somewhere else to call home”

“How come?”

“M-My boyfriend, ex-boyfriend cheated on me”

“The bastard! I hate him!”

“You don’t know him” Y/n laughed.

“I know I don’t but I hate him for hurting you like that, do you know who the bitch was? I’ll fight her if you want me too?”

Shaking her head. “It was with my sister, and no I don’t want you to fight her.”

“Your sister? Like half-sister?” Y/n shakes her head. “No? Step?” another head shake. “Jesus Y/n! That bitch! I hate her too!”

“She’s also pregnant with his baby” she smiled sadly at Wanda.

“Oh Y/n I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay I guess, it just hurts you know? I always wanted to have children with him but it wasn’t meant to be.”

“The way I see it is that she did you a favour, I know it hurts. My ex cheated on me but honestly it was the biggest blessing because Vis then gained the courage to tell me he was in love with me.”

“And you’ve been together ever since?”

“Yeah” Wanda smiled at her. “We dated for like six months before he proposed to me and then we got married on our one year anniversary, everyone kept telling us that we were mad and marrying to soon, aside from the gang they were the only ones who were supportive, but anyway here we are, four years into marriage and happier than ever.”

“I love that.” Wanda smiled, taking a gulp of her drink as they both settled into comfortable silence.

That was until a brilliant idea came to Wanda’s head. “Fuck Y/n! You should move here! The house down the street from mine is for sale, and it’s nice, me and Vis had a look around just because we wanted to see how different their house was to ours but anyway it’s for sale and it’s cute and most importantly it’s only down the road from me” she rambled with a huge smile on her face.

“I-I don’t know, I don’t exactly have a lot of money and with my car, you know?”

“I know someone is looking for a receptionist, I can get you a job there?”

“Who?”

“Me! I own a tattoo shop with Nat, and it’s just us two and Clint that works there and we really need a receptionist to take calls and all that shit”

“You’re really offering a stranger a job?”

“Well yeah, if you think about it every person I would have to interview is a stranger…”

“You got me there.”

“Do you know how to answer a phone?”

“Of course I do”

“Do you know how to use a pen? And how to write?”

“Yes, to both questions.”

“Well congratulations Y/n, you’ve got the job” Wanda beamed before she asked Mary for two more hot chocolates.

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not”

“As serious as a heart attack. When can you start?”

“Wanda, dead serious?”

“Dead, dead, dead serious! So when can you?”

“Straight away! Thank you Wanda, thank you”

“We’re friends so you don’t need to thank me. Now we just need to think of a place for you to live.”

“I can just stay in the motel until I’ve saved enough money” she shrugs.

“Leave it with me, I’ll think of something better.”

After discussing more about what the job will entail and her wages Wanda dragged Y/n out of the café, she explained that Nat’s sister was the owner so therefore they never had to pay for their things. Dropping Y/n off at the motel with the promise that she would come back later, Wanda headed straight for the garage.

Bucky was in the backroom looking for the part he needed to fix Y/n’s car when he heard Wanda loudly ask where he was, grabbing what he needed he went out to where Wanda was. “What’s up?”

“You said you wanted a roommate, right?”

“That was ages ago?”

“Yeah and? Do you still want one or not?”

“I mean I wouldn’t be against it, just as long as they don’t hurt Alpine, why?”

Wanda grabs a hold of Sam’s arm and began jumping up and down, with a huge smile on her face. “I think I’ve found you a roommate!”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Y/n” Bucky’s face dropped. “I’ve given her a job at the shop and now I’m trying to find her a place to live and not her staying at that crappy motel like she wants.”

“I-no. Thanks Wanda but no”

“Why not?” she frowned.

“Because he’s in love with her” Steve laughed as he spun in circles on his chair.

“No I’m not!”

“She’s single.”

“Is she?” Steve and Sam burst out laughing at hearing the excited tone of his words. “She can’t live with me Wands, I don’t know her.”

“Her name is Y/n, she’s single, she’s really nice, what more do you want to know about her?”

“Oh wow, it’s like I’ve known her my whole entire life!”

“Exactly!”

“Wands, he’s being sarcastic.” Sam informed her, Steve nodding to confirm it. She had never really been able to pick up on sarcasm.

“Oh… right well I guess I have to find her somewhere else. Bye guys.”

Bucky instantly felt bad for his best friend, hating the way her whole behaviour changed along with her voice, handing over the items over to Steve he ran after Wanda. “I’m sorry Wands, I know you’re trying to help her and I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.”

“It’s okay. It’s just- I don’t know I just want to help her and she seems so nice and she’s been hurt and I don’t like that.”

“Who hurt her?”

“It’s not my place to say Buck”

“I understand. Hey why don’t you take me to her and I can ask her if she wants to move in with me?”

“Yes! I promise Bucky she won’t murder you in your sleep. Well… I hope she doesn’t.” Bucky chuckles at her words, getting into the car with her, she takes off.

Standing outside Y/n’s motel door they both looked at each other worriedly as they heard Y/n arguing with someone, who they assumed was on the phone as they couldn’t hear anyone else’s voice. Bucky gave her a questioning look when they heard her say about her own sister betraying her, he soon understood what she meant when Y/n shouted what she had told Wanda earlier that day.

“I’ve already told you mom that I don’t want anything to do with her, or that child. And as for her wanting my blessing to date him she didn’t ask me if she could fuck him when she was- no I don’t care- she isn’t my sister- they both can rot in hell for all I care, no, no you don’t get to interrupt me anymore, you want to stand by her then do it but don’t expect me to come back and ever forgive her. I’m done.” They flinch when they hear a bang against the door, Wanda instantly knocking on the door.

“Y/n, it’s Wanda!”

Hearing the locks unlock Wanda rushed straight in with Bucky following his brunette best friend who had the heart of gold, watching as she wrapped her arms around Y/n’s shaking form. He noticed a phone on the floor, the screen lighting up with ‘Mom’ on the call screen, he also noticed her phone screen cracked.

“I’m okay. I just got angry.”

“What happened?”

“My mom rang, she wants my blessing to date him.” She scoffs, leaning into Wanda’s hand as she wipes the fallen tears. “Oh, hi Bucky.”

“Hi.” Looking around the small room Bucky picks up her phone and declines the call from her mom, again. “Come on, lets’ get you packed up.”

“What?”

“Wait, do you like cats? She’s a complete softy.”

“I-I do, but what is happening?”

“Wanda said you need a place to live, I’ve got a house with two spare bedrooms so… you can live with me.”

“I feel like you two are pranking me.”

“Nope, come on.”

Not even ten minutes later was he sitting back in the car but this time with Y/n sitting in the back, and then twenty minutes later Wanda was pulling up outside his home. Alpine ran straight for Bucky, and then Wanda before sniffing Y/n’s leg, a happy purr was heard from the ball of fluff. As the women were distracted by his precious baby, he was looking around making sure his house was clean, thankfully the only mess around was Alpine’s toys laying around. Giving her a tour of the house, he showed her the room she would be taking, Bucky told them he needed to go back to work.

“Oh Y/n, welcome home.” He smiled warmly at her.

It had been six months to the day since Wanda and Vis found Y/n on the side of the road, she had become great friends with the gang - all welcoming her with open arms. Working at the tattoo shop that Nat and Wanda owned had been great fun, Nat had even showed her how to tattoo… which wasn’t so fun. The two women comforted her when she was tagged in an instagram post that her sister had put up announcing she was having a girl, both of them even commenting on the post – Nat’s comment was ‘really classy having a baby with your own sisters ex’, Wanda’s was ‘imagine sleeping with your own sisters boyfriend and getting knocked up by him and then tagging her in this photo.’ Both comments got way more likes then the actual post did. Her mom rang her telling her to tell them to delete the comments, Y/n laughed and put the phone down on her and finally blocked her parents, sister and ex’s numbers.

At first she thought she was overstepping by living with him but he kept waving her worries off. “I like having someone else to talk to.” He told her once. There was a few awkward moments they both shared since living together such as walking in on each other in the shower, or bath, or the time that Bucky had a woman over and the woman walked into Y/n’s room thinking it was the bathroom, the woman instantly hurling insults at the brunette accusing him of cheating, by the time either one of them got a chance to speak the woman was already on her way out of the house.

“I’m so sorry Bucky.”

“Why? I’ve never seen a woman move so fast before.” He burst out laughing, prompting her to join in.

But overall it had been great, the two learnt so much about the other, whenever they had a bad day at work the other would lend a sympathetic ear, they had grown close which terrified the both of them due to having been hurt in the past. She had found out that his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him after he had his accident which left him with his arm being amputated, he had only told her about this after she saw the scars he tried so hard to keep hidden from her.

“Are you coming tonight?” Bucky asked her as he came into the kitchen.

“Wanda’s asked me to and Nat said if I don’t she’ll beat me up.”

“Well you can’t come.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because only cool people are invited.”

“So why are you going?”

Gasping dramatically he squinted his eyes at her, he grabs his phone off the side. A few seconds later her phone pings.

Bucky: u r so rude.

“Really? Why did you just text me?”

Bucky: cus I’m no longer talking to u.

“Well technically you’re still talking to me.”

Bucky: from now on I’m not talking to u.

“You are so dramatic, isn’t he Alp, yes he is” she cooed at the fluff ball as she jumped onto Y/n’s lap.

Bucky: don’t bring our daughter into this!

Bucky: my daughter.

Bucky: don’t look at me like that!

Bucky: I meant MY daughter!

“But that isn’t what you said Jamie. It looks like OUR daughter loves me.” She taunted him, giggling at his death stare.

Bucky: fine.

Bucky: you gave birth to a cat.

“She got her hairiness from you.”

“No she didn’t!”

“I thought you wasn’t going to speak to me?”

“I- shut up and go and get dressed.” She let out loud laugh at his failed attempts at defending himself, even as she made her way to her room she couldn’t stop laughing. Bucky didn’t care that he had a huge smile on his face at hearing his favourite sound.

Bucky drove the two of them to the garage, it was relatively quiet aside from the radio quietly playing 80’s rock in the background. He couldn’t help but take small glances at her from the corner of his eye, her perfume was intoxicating as the smell filled his truck and his nostrils.

Tonight the gang was having a BBQ at the garage for some reason unknown to Y/n, she did ask Bucky why it wasn’t being held at one of their houses but he just shrugged his shoulders. Wanda instantly pulling her into a hug and handing her a nice cold beer. “How are you?”

“I’m good, though Bucky no longer speaks to me.”

“What! Why?”

“Because our daughter loves me more.”

“Wait… what?”

“She’s my daughter!” Bucky shouts from the boot of the car.

“Nope, you said ours so therefore I’m her mother.” Wanda watches the scene with a confused yet amused expression on her face.

Before long their bellies were warm, their laughter filling the air as they retold stories of their childhood, Bucky’s arm was wrapped around Y/n’s shoulder as her hand was on his thigh – if anyone saw them they would think they are a couple, especially with the way Bucky stared at her when her attention was elsewhere. She didn’t see them all share a look between them all, because when Bucky stood she nearly fell.

“The time is nigh, let us begin the ceremony.” Wanda says in an ominous voice. The hair on the back of Y/n’s neck stand up.

“Please stand Y/n L/n.” Steve then spoke.

Staring wide eyed with a hint of fear and panic behind them, she stood up on wobbly legs. “W-What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out in due time.” Bucky said from the side of her.

Wanda told Bucky and Steve to take her hands and to follow her. They led her further away from the garage and towards an old railway track that hadn’t been used in nearly fifty years, as Wanda had told her before, the panic began to rise more and more with each passing step. Her new friends were crazy and are going to murder her.

“We are gathered here on a dark night.” Nat started.

“We have an offer.” Sam went next.

Bucky and Steve let go of her hands and stood by the rest, once Wanda said ‘now’ they got down on their knees. “Will you be our friend?” Steve asked.

“Join our gang.” Wanda spoke.

“Be one of us.” Bucky smiled.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? I thought you was going to kill me!” she shouted.

“No? Why would we kill you?” Bucky asked puzzled by her words.

“You all act weird and take me to an old railway track, I mean come on!”

“Oh yeah… it does seem a bit murdery feely.”

“Exactly!”

“Okay, not to get off topic, Y/n what do you say? Be an official member of our gang?” Wanda questions. “My knees are starting to hurt.”

“Do I get a cool jacket?”

“No but you do get a cool bracelet that we’ve made.”

Mulling the offer over, Y/n smiled and nodded. “Yes I’ll join your gang even though I thought you was going to kill me.”

Bucky had the honour of putting on the bracelet on her wrist, it was the exact same one that all of them wore on their own wrists. “Welcome to our crazy family.” He whispered.

Each of them hugging her before going back to the garage to carry on drinking. Y/n was about to follow until Bucky’s hand slipped into hers and tugged making her stop. He watched as the others got further away from them.

“Bucky?”

“I- I just want a few minutes alone, j-just the two of us.”

“Oh okay.” She noticed that he was still holding her hand, she was glad because she loved the warmth radiating off him.

“I really like you Y/n.” Bucky speaks after a few minutes of silence.

“I really like you too.”

“No, not like that. I mean... I mean I love you, I’m so fucking in love with you it’s crazy, you’re all I think about with your perfect smile and perfect laugh, man I really love your laugh! And you’re so perfect and honestly it drives me insane because you’re everything-“

Y/n cuts him off by pressing her lips to his.

“I love you-“

Bucky cuts her off by grabbing the back of her head, bringing her closer to him so he can carry on kissing her.

By the time they get back to the rest of them both of their lips were swollen and their cheeks were tinted red. Bucky sits in the seat and instantly pulls her on to his lap, both of them ignoring the cheering coming from their friends.

“It was about time you asked her out!” Steve cheered.

“Oh… shit yeah, Y/n will you be my girlfriend?”

They all burst out laughing a she nods. “Yes I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Tags: @imcinnamoons | @pigeonmama | @capsbestgirl77

[alastor-simp]

"𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓦𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓐𝓼𝓴 𝓞𝓾𝓽 𝓞𝓷 𝓐 𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓮?"- 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓫𝔂𝓾𝓵 𝓔𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 (𝓡𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓵𝓮 𝓡𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽)

⋆｡°✩ Summary: Answering Ace's Question, you say Riddle Rosehearts

⋆｡°✩ Pairings: Heartslabyul x Fem Reader, Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader

⋆｡°✩ Genre: Fluff and Romance

⋆｡°✩ Credit: Layout by @radioexe and divider by @cafekitsune

⋆｡°✩ Prologue: Here

🍓The minute you said Riddle's name, the whole table was quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Riddle's whole face was bright pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish, stunned that you said his name. Him? You wanted to go on a date with him? Riddle had never anticipated that, as he didn't think you saw him that sort of way. He had never dated anyone in his life, focusing more on his studies and his role as dorm leader, romance and dating being the last thing on his mind. And now, here comes you, saying outright that you would date him. It had his heart fluttering like crazy.

🍓Almost everyone in the table remained silent until Cater spoke, "Wow~ So you like the dorm leader? I can totes see you too dating~" Cater smirks, admiring how red both you and the dorm leader were. Embarrassed, you covered your face with your hands, regretting what you had said, but you were being serious. After Riddle's overblot, you had gotten close to him, becoming one of his friends. What started as platonic feelings slowly began to blossom into something more, as you began to see more of the real Riddle, a kind boy, while having a temper, was an amazing individual, holding himself up with elegance and grace, treating everyone he met with respect, and showing great determination and pride with whatever he did. He was, in ever sense of the way, a prince charming, in your eyes.

🍓"HUH?!? THE DORM LEADER?!? Are you cra-" Ace's words were cut off as Deuce gave him a smack to the head, shutting him up, knowing he was close to getting himself collared. Trey was glad Deuce did that, as he walked over to you, patting your head, seeing as this was only making you more shy. Riddle, having recovered a bit from what you said, let out a cough, signaling everyone to stop with the rowdiness. "Ahem! Well, the prefect was kind enough to answer your question, Ace. May we proceed with the festivities without any more disturbances?" Everyone flinched, except you, under the harsh gaze of Riddle, letting out a "Yes, Dorm Leader," as they continued on with the tea party. Riddle's gaze then turned towards you, softening as he observed how your cheeks were still pink, eyes casted down to the ground, twiddling your fingers.

🍓The tea part had come to end, as everyone began to tidy up. Ace and Deuce waved you a goodbye, as they headed back to their dorm rooms. Trey and Cater also said their goodbyes as well, not before Trey gave you an apologetic smile and Cater snapped a selfie with you, while also whispering a sorry next to your ear, as even though he encouraged it, he felt guilty. As you waved goodbye to them, you were stopped by a quiet "Ahem" from behind you. Turning around, you saw Riddle standing behind you, arms crossed, face stern yet his eyes were kind. "Oh Riddle, sorry…um..did you need something?" You felt incredibly awkward, remembering what you had said before.

🍓"Yes. From what I recall, your answer to Ace was that you would like to…court me. Is that correct?" Riddle looked serious, but his whole stomach was getting butterflies. Blushing, you looked down, fingers twiddling again, "Umm yeah." Riddle blinked at you, as he stepped closer to you. Motioning to grab your hand, he bend down to one knee, moving closer to place a soft kiss to your hand, making you blush almost as red as his hair. Pulling away, Riddle gazed at you with a warm smile, "I, Riddle Roseheart, humbly accept your proposal for a date." You stood as still as a statue, not at all expecting that. Riddle gazed at your reaction, having stood up again, tilting his head. "Are you alright? I'm not well equipped with the rules regarding dating, so I assumed this was the proper way to respond?" Gray eyes stared at you with concern.

🍓Shaking your head, you tried to focus, "No...no..just...wasn't expecting that. Ummmmm are you okay with it? Going on a date with me? Riddle crossed his arms, "Well I accepted your proposal, did I not?" Looking away, rubbing your neck, you didn't know how to word what you were going to say next. "Well yeah you did, but I just wanted to make sure you were accepting it because you wanted to, not because of some tradition or rule that you have to follow. I don't want you to be forced into something like this." Riddles eyes had widen at your words, not glaring at you, but more surprised, yet he didn't say a word. Great now, you felt like you insulted him saying that, refusing to look at him, eyes down to the ground. Footsteps were heard, as you noticed his shadow was coming closer. "Y/N, raise your head." His words were soft, lacking the authoritative tone they always held. A hand went to your cheek, as you began to look back up.

Riddle was gazing at you with a kind smile, as his hand continued to caress your cheek, "There is certain traditions from my hometown involving courting and romance. However, I ignored them, focusing more on my studies then certain distractions. This is the first time that I wanted to explore and learn more about things like this. I'm following my own path and I want to go on a date with you because its my choice." Your stomach was full of butterflies, as you continued to stare at Riddle, who was saying all of this to you, with a tint of pink on his cheek. Riddle, realizing that he was touching your cheek for a long time, stepped back, suppressing his embarrassment with a cough. His cuteness was making you laugh, as soft giggles escaped your lips. "Haha, never knew you were such a romantic, Riddle." Riddle stuttered, face almost as red as his hair, yet he continued to watch you laugh, a small smile appearing on his face. "So, wanna go on a date now?" You spoke in a teasing tone, face appearing closer to him, making him more nervous, but he held his grown.

"R-right now? Well, there is still classes and homework assignments. Plus there are certain tasks that I must finish as dorm leader. Maybe Friday, no that's an exam, let's see then maybe." He was rambling, going back an forth between deciding a day to go while stopping remembering how that there were certain assignments to do. Laughing again, you stepped closer, patting his head, stopping his rant. "Riddle, I was kidding. I know the both of us are busy. Let's come up with a date plan during a time when we are not both busy, okay? Riddle flushed a bit, before he relaxed, giving you a smile. "Alright." The both of you conversed for a little bit, until it was time for you to head back to Ramshackle, knowing that Grim was there, waiting for you. You gave a goodbye wave to Riddle as he waved back, the both of you heading in opposite directions. As your left Heartslabyul, you couldn't contain the giddiness that you felt. You were going to go on a date with him soon, feelings of excitement and nervousness filling you up. You honestly couldn't wait, as you headed to Ramshackle with a little skip in your step.

-END-

(Once I'm down with the other dorms and characters, I will make a First Date Story tying these series together.)

[artist-beetle]

Last night's doodle session was ROUGH but the results are in:

Ancient x Beast

I have a lot of doodles I had scribbled in my drunken state so I'm gonna have to polish those more to get something of substance.

You thought only Eternal Sugar and Burning Spice were smitten at first sight?! Well do I got some drawings for you! I wanted to draw some SilentLily and it would be extremely entertaining if this silent brooding figure was the hardest to fall for their ancient and the quickest to crumble to redemption (atleast in CRA).

While teaching Lily, Silent Salt would randomly include the sign and frustrate the shit out her because they refuse to elaborate on it, unlike their other signs, and ruin her comprehension on the sentence.

There may be more dramatic pieces in the other doodles, I just gotta search within shaky lines. So have one of the fluffier ones in the meantime.

[visionarymode]

Let Loose

✧ warnings: smut, language, 18+

✧ pairing: rhea ripley x female reader

✧ word count: 1,978

The door swung open making you jolt in your spot on the bench as Rhea walked in. 

“You scared me,” you breathed out as she laughed at your stunned reaction. 

“Sorry babe,” she laughed as she swung one of her legs over the bench to sit across from you. “What’re you up to?” she asked as she hooked her finger under her layered necklaces. 

“Just scrolling on the socials. That video of you last week went viral,” you giggled. 

“Oh God, what video?” she laughed back as she scooted closer to peek over your phone. You pulled up the three-second video of her mid-match, casually yet seductively licking her fingers. 

“Oh that one…” she grinned, tilting her head up to watch you keep your eyes on the screen as it continued to replay. 

“Stare a little harder huh?” she teased, nudging your arm. You looked up to meet her pretty smile as you rolled your eyes. 

“You knew what you were doing, do you know how nasty that looks?” you asked with an eyebrow raised. 

“No,” she replied with a shrug. 

“Rhea,” you laughed at her as she crossed her arms. 

“That’s nasty?” she sarcastically asked with another smirk. 

“This doesn’t look nasty to you?” you mimicked her actions as you wiped your bottom lip and stuck out your tongue to lick your middle fingers. Her grin widened as she eyed your mouth in action, making your skin tingle. 

“No…that was hot,” she complimented as you shook your head, proceeding to get up from the bench and over to the mirror a few feet away. 

“By the way, it was more like this…” she softly spoke up again as you watched her through the mirror, leaning over on the bench as she stuck out her tongue, slowly slicking up her fingers with that same sinister smile of hers. 

“You play too much,” you swallowed the hitch in your throat as you played it off, continuing to grab your brush out of your bag to fix your hair. 

“You don’t play enough,” she bantered again. You couldn’t tell if she was playing around like she always did or if she was genuinely flirting by the way she kept flaunting these comments. 

“What do you mean?” you chimed in. 

“You’re too serious. You need to let loose a little,” she spoke up again as she got up from the bench. 

“I need to let loose? And how would I do that?” 

“You could just let me show you…” she trailed off as you caught her checking you out in the mirror. She looked so good with her all-black fit and cute low bun. She looked even more stunning with the way she was eyeing you. 

“Rhea…” you raised your brows with a little giggle, kneeling in front of the mirror to put the hairbrush back in the bag before you heard the lock on the door. You stood back up and watched her lean against the door with the cutest smirk, making your cheeks flush. 

“What are you doing?” you nervously chuckled again. 

“Don’t act stupid now…” she softly spoke as she walked over to you. You felt your feet stick to the floor. Your eyes never left hers in the mirror as you felt her body heat against yours. You deeply inhaled through your nose as her hands slid on your hips ever so slowly. 

“I know you’ve been fantasizing about mami…” she whispered. 

“…because mami’s been fantasizing about you…” her fingertips slightly brushed against your skin because of your short shorts. 

“Rhea this is cra-” you stopped yourself as she pulled you closer by the hips to the point your ass was all up on her. 

“You talk way too much…” she cut you off as she brushed your hair over your right shoulder exposing your neck as her hands trailed up against your body, your tank top slightly lifting with the risky push of her fingers. 

“Tell me you don’t want this…” she whispered, her eyes still fixated on yours as she leaned in to plant a soft kiss on the left side of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut as she did it again, this time with more tongue as she swirled her warm moisture around your skin. 

“We’re in the locker room th-they could come-“ 

“Nobody’s gonna come…except you,” she purred again. She grabbed your jaw, forcing you to turn around and meet her consuming, loving eyes. She kept her grip on your jaw as her thumb caressed your cheek. 

“Let loose…” she whispered again. Her eyes stayed fixated on your glossy lips before she raised her brow with that taunting grin again before you gave in and crashed your lips on hers.

You let out a satisfied moan as she slipped her tongue inside, allowing you to suck on it as she moved your hair out of your face. Your mouths grew hungrier as the kiss became sloppier, your tongues slipping and sliding against each other with every turn of your heads. Her right hand slithered down your side making your skin tingle as she sneakily snaked it further down and around your ass. Your heavy breaths escalated as you fought over who’s tongue to suck. You ran that same leg up her own to lift and allow her more leverage as she squeezed your ass tighter. 

“Jump beautiful…” she whispered, using both hands to scoop your ass. You gasped as she pinned you against the same mirror you shared those flirtatious glances. Your lips didn’t break contact as the impassioned kiss slowed down a bit. She purposely took her time sucking on your tongue as your fingers wrapped around her neck. 

“You taste so good…” she whispered as you both stuck out your tongues to obsessively lick the other. You bit your lip as her right hand started to delicately stroke your left leg. 

“Can I taste a little more?” she asked in a hushed tone, her eyes never leaving your saliva-stained lips. Her hand dragged up to the hem of your shorts as she teasingly pulled on them. 

“Mhm…” you nodded as she grinned at your response. With your legs still wrapped around her waist she walked back over to the open space in the room. You shared another sloppy kiss as she dropped down to her knees, gently laying you on the carpeted floor. 

“Not as comfy as a bed but…” she trailed off with a smile as she rubbed her hands up your thighs and slid your shorts off. 

“Can barely notice,” you whispered back as you bucked your hips up, pulling her hand onto your damped panties to get a feel of what she’s done to you already. 

“You’re so wet huh?” she teased as she rubbed the pads of her fingers in circles over your clothes mess. You longingly nodded again as you picked on her blank tank top and she quickly got the hint as she sexily slid it off her head. You didn’t mean to moan out loud at the sight of her breasts spilling but it was too late as she giggled at your vulnerability. 

“You love to fucking tease don’t you?” you asked with a shudder as she slid her tongue along your sensitive neck. She dragged it further down your breasts to leave little love bites. 

“Is it that obvious?” she joked as she sloppily kissed your stomach, lifting your top and you helped her by hurriedly slipping it off. You were tired of the slow pace and her torturous teasing so you abruptly grabbed her face back to yours and pushed your hungry tongue back in her just as needy mouth. Your hands fell from her cheeks and down to your laced panties as you slipped them off. She didn’t notice until you broke the kiss and dangled it in front of her face making her lick her lips. 

“Let loose…” you mocked before she laughed and fell between your thighs and moaned at your visible sticky and soaked mess. Your eyes shut at her warm tongue gliding in between your inner thighs, the cold feel of her rings making you tremble in her touch. 

“Fuck…” you whined as she purposely kissed around your folds before she abruptly flicked them open with her tongue and flattened it between them. She moaned as she ever so slowly took her time with that first lick, an almost evil laugh erupting as she watched you arch your back. She lapped her tongue at a quicker pace, her lips never leaving your pussy as she let her tongue do all the moving. The sound of her savory and dedicated tongue deep in your moistness filled the room making you moan even louder. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” you cried out as she continued to make out with your lower lips. 

“You taste so fucking good love…” you heard her mumble with her sexy accent as she continued to messily and audibly spit between your folds making you even wetter. She pulled your thighs on her shoulders making you tighten them around her head but she didn’t care. Your fingers found her hair as she spit inside you again, this time letting the spit fall further down before she flattened her tongue and lapped it up to your clit. 

“Oh my goooood Rhea…” you loudly gasped again as she ran her black painted nails up and down your bare thighs. 

“Like that baby?” she mumbled as another loud, wet, sloppy sound was heard and felt between your thighs as she sucked on you like it was her last meal on earth. 

“Yessssss oh my fuuuuck,” you moaned as your fingers pulled on her hair making her viscously shake her head between your thighs as she practically motor-boated your pussy. You felt heat pool your lower back as your eyes fluttered, feeling your climax upon you as her thumb traced over your clit in soft circles. 

“Cum on my tongue gorgeous…” she whispered, looking up at you losing your mind at her frantic licks. 

“I’m-I’m gon-“ you moaned with ragged gasps as you bucked your hips up again to ride her face. 

“Mhm…mhm…” she coached in mumbles with satisfaction as she sucked harder, faster, louder until you couldn’t take anymore and screamed out her name one last name, not giving a single care as to who would hear you, and came all in her mouth. Your back fell back down to the floor as your legs fondled her upper back and she didn’t stop licking until she slurped every drop of your cum. Your eyes fluttered back open as your pants were now the loudest noise in the room. You looked down at her scrunched eyes as she grinned, wiping the corners of her mouth with her thumb. She cupped your chin, watching you gasp once more as she scooped up your leftover nectar onto her fingers. She stuck out her tongue and licked her fingers the exact way she did in that video from earlier making you satisfyingly grin back.

“Still nasty?” she teased as she sucked on her coated fingers a little extra making you giggle with arousal. You pushed her on the floor to your side as you crawled on top of her. 

“Still nasty…” you whispered as you rocked your hips into a slow grind making her grope your ass cheeks. 

“Look at you…letting loose,” she whispered while sucking on your tongue. Another airy moan escaped you as she kissed further down your neck and chest before a loud knock was heard on the door. 

“Why’s the door locked? Anybody in there?” 

“Occupied!” Rhea yelled as she covered your mouth with giggles. 

“Rhea?!” your jaw dropped as you tried to sit up before she pulled you back down with a hand around your neck. 

“Where are you going? Mami’s not done with you,” she whispered with a spank. 

✧✧✧✧✧

thank you so much for reading! this was my first rhea fic so I hope y'all enjoyed it! <3 if you'd like to be tagged in future rhea/wlw fics let me know :)

you can read my other rhea fic here 💜

you can read more of my fics here ❤️‍🔥

tagging: @harmshake @cyberdejos2