#when the community is full of kids or kid brained people

[iwieldthesword]

Me: hey it's kind of concerning that you've been accusing all antizionist Jews of being pick-me traitors or fake Jews. You okay?

Them: you're a sellout Good Jew™ to goyish oppressors and ngl you're probably trying to convert me to paganism

Me:

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available. 

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community. 

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company? 

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists. 

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom 

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

-

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits. 

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people. 

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

[lieslab]

If I could change the rhythm of time, I'd go back and forth a million times

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Og8 X gn reader

Summary: As the 9th member of Skz, you've never had the chance to perform in your hometown.

Genre: 9th member AU

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: Have you all heard the new Skz-record on YouTube? Goodbye is sung by Seungmin, but written by Chan. (If not, it's on YouTube and highly recommend it) This was a request, but also heavily inspired by that song. It just came out today, but it really paired quite well with this request <3

_ _ _

The heart is a burning arrow that aims true. Flying off the taut string of life, ricocheting off obstacles, and aiming for whatever keeps it beating. You developed a new home over the years, one full of chaos and occasionally stress, but the yearning for the past stayed the time. 

The childhood bedroom with the overgrown sticker collection. The chapter books you read back in elementary school. You read them over and over again. The pages yellowed on your bookshelf, but your parents never moved them. They waited for you to come back. 

Time moved on, but your bedroom stayed the exact same as it was the day you left. The dresser full of old clothes that you’d forgotten about over the years. The sticker collection that’d never been used up. Old posters that creased in the corners and wrinkled. The tape soaked with old paint, but somehow, it’d never given up. 

Dust settled on the oak wood panels of the fan. The central heating and air still clicked on and off, but you were rarely there to experience it. So busy with your group, you pushed it to the side most of the time. Snippets of the past came back unexpectedly.

At a fan sign, when a fan handed you a plushie, you smiled, but your brain wavered with the faintest memory. A plushie from childhood that your parents bought you for a birthday. Still labeled as a single digit, life was filled with sunshine and rainbows. You took that plushie everywhere, wrapping it beneath your arm, unable to face the world without it. 

You caught a whiff of your mother from strangers. Similar notes in a perfume, some kind of faint floral that you never fully recognized. You shared her facial features, she stared back at you every time you looked in the mirror. A perfect blend of your mother and father created your features and personality, but it was never like having them with you day-after-day. 

You missed the laughter of your father. The knee slapping, stomach grabbing, and gasps of air that he could never catch. Laughing wasn’t just laughing, it was a full fledged comedy skit. Shut eyes, a lopsided smile, and the kind of loudness that you were sure would wake the dead when the windows were open. Your own laughter followed, but it was never as jolly as his. 

You loved Stray Kids and you had a home here, but the home you shared with your biological family haunted you. If you weren’t in your group, what would you do? Would you ride your bike down the paved streets you knew like the back of your hand? Riding against the wind, letting the sun kiss your skin and letting the memories loop around your brain. 

The chlorine in the community pool. The scent of a barbecue brisket when neighbors pulled out their grill. Fresh cut grass, the occasional bee sting that caused you to curse, and the familiar weight of grocery bags dangling off your arms as you walked through gravel to get to the front door. 

When you laid down at night, you revisited home. The sky turned dark and the roads laid silent. In your head, you walked down streets like a phantom. Everyone grew up, the kids you went to school with and the elders in the community. Too many people you used to know passed on. Childhood friends moved away to carve out space for their own lives. 

So when your company mentioned an upcoming tour, you brought up your hometown frequently, hoping that they’d schedule a visit. Everyone else was able to perform in their hometowns, or close enough to their hometowns that their family members didn’t have to travel far. You wanted that for your own family. 

They kept you afloat in the very beginning. Back when the survival show occurred, when tears stained your cheeks and soaked your pillow every night. The pressure was on and tension grew between members. Too afraid to be the one to fuck it all up. Terrified to be cut from something you worked so hard to achieve. 

You still saw your family members, but it felt like a rarity. How many times? Once a year? Twice? Maybe three, or four times, if you were really lucky. They weren’t as close as the other guys’ families. Just like Felix and Chan, you had to travel quite a distance to see the two people you loved the most. 

So when you kept bringing it up, assuming management understood the message, you thought this tour would finally make it all feel worth it. 

~ ~ ~ 

You were the last one to receive the outline for the tour. You scanned through it eagerly, practically bouncing up and down in your seat. You bit your lip, trying not to smile, but as you scanned the lists, your face started to fall. 

There were multiple stops littering Korea and Japan. A few in North and South America. Some more in Europe and even two stops in Sydney, Australia. You rescanned the list three times, just to make sure you hadn’t skipped your hometown. It wasn’t there. Not on this tour, not on the last few tours, and as painful as it was, you realized it’d never be there. 

Perhaps, this was the curse for chasing your dreams. The realization that you’d be so swept up in your career, you’d be so busy fighting for what you loved, your family would always be miles and miles away. Just out of reach, just out of grasp, and too far away to hug. 

You knew how hard it was on them. The wavering voice of your father when you announced you wouldn’t be able to come home for the holidays last year. Everyone was working overtime on a distant album and no matter how much you wanted to go home, you owed it to the guys to stay and finish your lines. Everyone was giving up vacation time, it was expected. 

Your mother sniffled in the silent pauses on the other end of the phone. She recounted the tales of childhood. The scraped knees and bloody noses. Sicknesses that left your little body defenseless and weakened. Back when her arms were molded to the shape of little you and you could still find a harbor in her arms. 

The worst thing about growing up is the realization that things will never be the same again. Memories dampen and turn to dust. Shared experiences become more and more distant. Parents create new friends and bonds with people you’ve never met. Telling a story in real life is much different than voicing it over the phone. How many times did you have to leave a call because you were needed for something else? 

You thought this tour could be redemption for it all. In a way, chasing your dreams felt like abandoning everyone you ever loved. Of course, you had the guys and you had your friends, but your biological family had been the one to shape your heart to begin with. They made you who you were. You missed them all the time. You missed it all. Everything. 

So when the guys excitedly buzzed with conversation, punching and giggling, happily texting their hometown friends and families when specific dates were, you excused yourself from the room. The worst part? They didn’t even notice your disappointment. So happy they’d see their families again sooner, rather than later, they forgot all about you. 

You couldn’t blame them, if you could see your family in a few months you’d be just as thrilled, too.

~ ~ ~ 

When your voice cracked for the fourth time, you ripped off the headphones in anger and threw them to the floor. Han and Changbin sat at the recording table directing their song for the day. The two of them shared a look of concern and confusion. 

It’d been two days since the tour dates dropped. At first, it was hurt, but it morphed into anger and frustration. You tried to keep it at bay, but you couldn’t help it. You spun around, facing the back of the booth. 

With two fingers on each hand, you reached up and attempted to hold your tears back. Han reached out to the red button to speak to you. He held it down and softly called your name. “Are you okay?” 

You forced yourself to nod. “I’m sorry, I’m just having a bad day. I need a few minutes to get it together, please.” 

“That’s okay, we’re not in a rush,” Changbin added. 

Han released the button and he dropped his gaze, knowing you’d rather have privacy than prying eyes. Changbin sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “Why do I have a feeling there’s something bigger at play here? It’s not like them to be like this.” 

“They’ve been off for the past few days. Nobody knows what it is. Jeongin has been trying to sweet talk it out of them, but they won’t break.” Han’s hand cupped the bottom of his chin. “I wish they’d talk to us, but I know they like dealing with their emotions alone.” 

“I’m sure they’ll come to us when they’re ready.” Changbin glanced back down at the notepad he was holding. “Maybe we should change this note from a high note to a low note, so they’re not struggling so much.” 

“That’d completely change this part of the song, but we could try it. Maybe it might fit better.” Han’s fingers traced across the words. He sang the lyric with a higher note and then a lower note. 

Changbin nodded and scribbled something on his notepad. The yellow pencil waggled in the air and looped around. “Yeah, I think the lower note fits better. What do you think?” 

“I’ve gotta agree. I didn’t think it’d work, but I do think it adds something special. More depth and a more somber emotion. Let’s just save the higher notes for the bridge and let Seungmin and Jeongin’s voices blend for that.” 

“But not this part.” Han shifted over and tapped a certain lyric. “This part, I think Minho would be better at delivering. He has a certain softness.” 

“I’ll note it and we can test it out when it’s his turn to record.” 

You wiped at your eyes, walked over, and bent down to grab the headphones. “Okay,” you said into the microphone, “I’m ready when you are.” 

The pair tried to ignore your watery eyes and Changbin clicked the button to release the swell of music your way. 

~ ~ ~ 

Seungmin studied you from the opposite side of the table. He sat silently, eating a fruit parfait; full of strawberries, blueberries, vanilla yogurt and sprinkled with honey-glazed granola. You didn’t pay much attention to his direction. You were too busy listening to the bickerings of Felix and Hyunjin. They argued over the superior dessert. 

For nearly five minutes, they’d each been pointing out the pros and cons of each one. Felix was set on brownies, but Hyunjin wouldn’t give up his love of Tiramisu. Ever since he had it last week, it became his new favorite dessert. 

“You know what my favorite dessert is?” Minho asked as he strolled into the kitchen. You glanced up from your spot and so did Hyunjin and Felix. 

“I swear, if it’s something basic like cake,” Hyunjin grumbled.

“Nah, not quite, it’s just your mom.” 

Hyunjin’s mouth dropped open and his hand clutched his heart. “EXCUSE ME?” 

Felix burst into laughter, gripping the side of the table, trying to keep himself in his chair. Minho grinned and flung the fridge open to grab a bottle of water. “What? Don’t wanna be my stepson?” 

“My mother is happily married!” 

“For now.”

“Stay away from my mom! You sick fuck! You little shit, you-” Hyunjin scoffed and slammed his hands into his eye sockets. An eagle screech of disgust and distressed filled him. “Stay away from my mom! You’re never allowed near her again!” 

About that time, Minho’s phone rang. He tugged it from his back pocket, glanced at the screen, and chuckled. “Ah, would you look at that, here she is now.” He swiped the screen and winked at Hyunjin. “Hello, Mrs. Hwang. How are you?” 

Felix laughed harder as Hyunjin panicked. He jerked upright, rushing towards Minho, trying to grab the phone. “Mom! Hang up! Mom! MOOOOOOM!” He pawed the air, but Minho ducked beneath his arm. 

“Your son is fine, Mrs. Hwang. Just annoying, as per usual.” 

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” 

Felix’s face turned bright red. He struggled to breathe through laughter. Even Seungmin chuckled before swallowing a spoonful of yogurt. Hyunjin managed to grab the phone and hold it to his ear. “Mom!” 

“What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, Bang Chan, I’ve never been so happy to hear your voice. Thank goodness, you’re on the other end of the phone. Minho is threatening to break up my parents and sleep with my mother. Please tell him to stop.” 

In Chan’s dorm, he pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it like it was on fire. His face fell and then an eyebrow raised. Words nearly fell out, but they stuck to the inside of his throat. 

“Give me my phone back, Hwang.” 

“Bang Chan, help!” 

“Don’t mind him. It’s me again. What do you want?” Minho walked away with his bottle of water. “Go ahead and speak.” 

As he disappeared, Hyunjin’s face fell into his hands. “I nearly had a heart attack. I need to go home and block his number from my mom’s phone. I can’t have him breaking up my parents.” 

“Hyung,” Felix started, “I’m pretty sure he’s just pulling your leg.” 

“I’m not taking any chances.”

Noticing you were still quiet, Seungmin looked over. Your head was laying down in your crossed arms. He shifted forward, wondering if you fell asleep amongst the chaos. Before he could touch you, he stopped when he noticed your shoulders slightly shaking. 

You weren’t sleeping, you were holding back sobs. 

~ ~ ~ 

The knocking on Chan’s open door didn’t register until someone cleared their throat. He glanced up and found Seungmin staring at him with his brows in uniformed worry. Chan shifted and patted his bed. “What’s up? Come sit.” 

Seungmin took a few steps inside and quietly shut the door behind him. In the living room, a few of the members sat with Jeongin for a movie night. Seungmin was supposed to be out there, but this felt more important. He mentioned your name cautiously. “They’ve been super weird lately.” 

“You noticed?” Chan looked up from his laptop. “I noticed that too, but they’ve never been great at sharing their feelings until they’re ready. I’ve tried to ask, but I keep getting brushed off.” 

“I think it’s the tour.” 

“Huh?” 

Seungmin’s socked feet slipped across the floor and he perched on the edge of Chan’s freshly made bed. Everything inside the room was neatly put away. Clothes folded and stacked in a dresser. Jackets hung in color coordination behind his shut closet doors. 

“I just remembered it the other day. When you called Minho and he was screwing around with Hyunjin. Hyunjin’s mom was mentioned and they went really quiet. They kept bringing up their parents a lot, mentioning they missed them. Now that the tour dates have been announced, they haven’t spoken about them anymore.” 

Chan frowned, realizing he was right. “I suppose that’s true.” 

“They wanted to tour in their hometown.” 

“I know that, but we don’t plan the tour dates, Seungmin. They pick the dates, the venues, and they set ticket pricing. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about that.” 

“We have to talk to management about this.”

“There’s no promise they’ll change anything.” 

“But we can still try. They’re devastated, Chan. On that phone call, you heard all that laughter. They were right there at the table with us and instead of laughing, they nearly burst into tears. We have to try something.” 

Chan frowned and then nodded. “We can talk to the company tomorrow, but I still can’t promise anything.” 

“It’s better than nothing. Maybe the rest of the guys can help us, too. They do so much for us, they deserve to see their family and tour near home, too.” 

~ ~ ~ 

Tour should have been exciting, but you were everything but that. Through the waves and jubilant cheers, all you could think about was the faces of your parents. It’d been a while since you called them and you had nearly twenty minutes before you went on stage. 

You slipped away from the dressing room, sneaking into a storage closet in the middle of an empty hall. The scent of random cleaners tickled your nose, but you didn’t leave. You dialed your father’s number, knowing if either of them would pick up, it’d be him.

The phone rang and rang and rang. His voice picked up, but not the way you wanted to hear. Straight to voicemail. You hung up before the dial tone rang and called your mom. The same prompt followed. Leave your name, leave your number, and I’ll call you back. 

You sucked in a deep breath and slipped back into the hall. Meandering through curves, you reappeared for a few final makeup touch ups. When you finished, you headed backstage to get your mic. 

Fans sang along to the songs that played before you appeared on stage. Lightsticks glowed and posters shook. So many of them, you’d never be able to read, but you’d try. Despite the sadness bubbling in your heart, you’d go out there and try to have a good time. It stung, but the show had to go on. It always did. 

When you finally rushed out onto the stage with the guys waving and smiling, it all felt fake. Your smile came off as forced, it didn’t meet your eyes. You waved and waved, wishing you were waving to your parents in your hometown, but you knew they weren’t here. 

The music boomed, bass shook the stage, and lights flashed. Smoke burst in every direction. Song after song, your muscles remembered every move. Noticing your stiffness, the guys tried to cheer you up. Jeongin poked your cheek and Changbin tried to make funny faces. It barely caused you to smile. 

Halfway through the concert, you grabbed your bottle of water and spun around, trying to fight the urge to cry. You’d rather be anywhere, but on the stage tonight. It didn’t feel right. If anything, it felt like torture, knowing you’d eventually have to break the news to your parents, they’d never be able to see you perform live. 

The knife in your heart twisted. Blood soaked the front of your shirt. You hated knowing that this was it. You’d always have this huge dream you had conquered, but your parents would never be able to be part of it like you wanted them to be. 

They didn’t have the things they needed to fly properly. Not only that, your mother had a fear of airplanes. You tried to coax them, but your mother was terrified. Your father was similar. The idea of flying made him nauseous. Too many thoughts of what could go wrong. They’d never see you on the stage in your prime. 

You grabbed the front of your shirt, letting your fingers dig into the fabric. It grew harder to breathe. All you wanted was the loving arms of your parents and they weren’t here.

“Are you having a good time tonight?” Felix yelled into the microphone. 

Swirls of screams responded. Lightsticks shook. Posters quivered. The energy ramped up, but your heart crumbled in your chest. 

“Thank you for coming out tonight and being with us while we perform,” Hyunjin added. 

“Tonight, we have something special for someone.” 

The crowd grew louder. Minho pointed out into the crowd, teasing them, and then rapidly shook his head. He wagged his finger, causing fans to scream in a certain section. Han playfully slapped his shoulder and he laughed. 

“One of our members,” Chan started, “works so hard. We’re really proud of them, but their parents haven’t watched them perform live. We’ve performed all around the world, but never in front of them.” 

You jerked your head up to the big screen the moment you heard the words. The camera was zoomed onto Chan and Felix. When Seungmin’s microphone went up to his mouth, the camera followed. “So where are they?” 

The camera cut out and switched to another. A spotlight lit up and there in the crowd, your parents beamed. The crowd roared and tears fell down your cheeks. Your microphone slipped from your hand and you collapsed to your knees. 

The crow’s feet in the corner of your mother’s eyes. Wrinkles that you’d never noticed before in the center of your father’s forehead. They were older and you’d never noticed it until now. Time separated you for so long, it stole the youthful glow that they radiated when you were a kid. 

A broken sob fell from your mouth. A few of the guys walked over and helped you up. Felix’s watery eyes met your own. Your bottom lip quivered as you looked at Chan. “How d-did you-” 

“Seungmin talked them into coming by boat.” 

You took a step towards Seungmin, wanting to hug him, but he put his arms out and shook his head. “Go on, they’re waiting for you down in the barricade. They’ve been watching you perform all night.” 

You didn’t waste time. Jerking around and rushing down the stage stairs, you rushed towards the spotlight. You threw yourself over the railing, wrapping an arm around the people you loved the most. The floral scent of your mom’s perfume and the comforting laughter of your father. 

Time might have changed, but never the warmth of their arms. Never the love that's always existed in their hearts for you. Skin might change and memories may warp, but love is eternal and ever-lasting when it comes from the right people. 

On the stage behind you, Changbin reached over and gently patted Seungmin’s shoulder. “You did really well at coaxing them to come.” 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I can’t stand their self-pity. They looked pathetic and I love my parents, too. I can’t imagine what it must feel like at times to not be so close to them.” 

“This is so cute, I’m gonna cry,” Han whispered. 

“It’s a good thing it’s not Hyunjin’s mom because if it was, that’d be me down there,” Minho mumbled. 

“You leave my mother alone, you freak!” Hyunjin shrieked. 

Unfortunately for him, he forgot to put the microphone down, causing your father to hold you tighter and fall into another fit of jolly laughter; along with the echoing laughter of fans.

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[wosospacegirl]

I don't know why I bite - part 1

Summary: Leah Williamson is determined to prove herself as Arsenal’s new head coach. Everything is going according to plan—until Y/n, the team’s latest signing, waltzes in late on her first day with a ridiculous excuse and even more ridiculous charm. Leah is not amused. Y/n is not taking her seriously. And the season hasn’t even started yet.

Warnings: grumpy x sunshine!!!!

Word count: 4.6k

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Notes: I turned this blurb into a multi-chapter fic, this first chapters looks a lot like the blurb, but I added more depth to the characters. It was 2.6k before and now it's 4.6k

..

Leah Williamson became a living legend after leading the Lionesses to yet another victory in the Euros 2025 as the team captain and a defender. 

Unfortunately, 2025 was her last year as a professional footballer, after suffering a career-ending injury at the end of the season.

Leah had been an Arsenal player since the age of  9, playing for Arsenal Academy. When she was 17 she signed for Arsenal as a senior and hasn’t looked back since.

Leah never felt the need to work towards an international career. She loved Arsenal, it had been her family club since it was formed. It was a club that valued community and a club that stood up for women and LGBT rights. 

Arsenal was never just a club to Leah. That was one of the reasons she was so completely devastated when she was injured.

It was the Champions League final against Olympique Lyonnais. Leah had the ball and was getting ready to pass it to Beth when something collided with her knee.

One of the players–a younger and inexperienced one– had tried to take the ball, but the girl didn't measure how fast and hard she was going for the ball. In the end, her boot dislocated Leah’s knee.

In the end, Leah ended up in the grass of the pitch, but that time she was never to get up and play again.

It wouldn’t have been as bad if it wasn’t the same knee where she had torn her ACL years ago.

Leah was completely distraught when she got the news. She isolated herself from everyone she knew, finding it hard to discover another purpose in life. 

She didn’t want to talk with Beth, Alex, or anyone else. Her whole life had been around football and she didn’t know who she was or what she could be without it.

In the following weeks after Leah discovered she wasn't going to play anymore she had a complete breakdown. She was home alone, trying to walk to the kitchen when the TV news started talking about her.

Arsenal had released the medic report that stated Leah was going to retire due to a career-ending injury. It was the first report and update the world had of Leah Williamson since Leah was still hopeful that she could recover from her knee.

 She didn't, and neither Arsenal nor the Lionesses could keep a player who couldn't run. 

The news talked about her whole trajectory in football. 

It stung watching her younger self lifting trophies and scoring goals. If only she knew how miserable she was going to feel for the rest of her life.

And that is how Serina–Leah’s formal Manager– stepped in and invited the blonde to some coffee in North London.

“I think I know what would help you,” Serina said, taking a sip of her cappuccino. 

“Are you going to give me a new knee?” Leah asked, a hint of madness in her voice. Everybody thought they could help her, but in reality, half of her friends couldn’t even understand what was going on inside her head.

Sarina ignored Leah’s mood. “Belgium has one of the best Coaching centres in the world. I went there, Renée too. If you could get a Coaching certificate, you could start working as an assistant, or as a youth Manager at Arsenal. You’ve been there since you were a kid, and with your history Arsenal’s management would be mad not to give you a chance.”

“Manager?”

“Why not? You have a football brain, you have good leadership, and people trust you. You are a full package,” Sarina responded. “Just think about it, will you?”

Sarina left the coffee shop, leaving a contemplative Leah behind.

..

“If you need anything, you have my number.” Renée’s voice echoed through Arsenal’s training grounds.

It was Renée’s last day as the head Manager. Three years ago, Leah went to Brussels and got her Coaching certificate. 

It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be. Not to be humble.

She was already very keen on football. After eight months of entering the Manager Academy, Leah was ready to start a new chapter of her life: Assistant Manager of Arsenal, alongside Renée.

The whole time Leah spent as Renée’s assistant was very productive. Leah learned a lot from the older woman, but Leah couldn’t wait for the day she would be officially named Head Manager, aka Manager.

As an assistant, Leah had some type of power to make strategic changes during a match and give her two cents on matters of hiring new players, but still wasn’t enough.

Leah promised herself she wouldn’t stop until she became the Manager of Arsenal Women. She would build her dream team and be the best manager she could be. 

She would fight her to be as good as Renée and wouldn't make any of Jonas's mistakes. Leah was ready to give her all to Arsenal again, but this time from the sideline.

And that’s what Leah did.

Renée decided to retire, and Arsenal agreed to sign Leah Williamson—the ex-captain of the England National team and Gunner-born—to their team.

“I have everything under control, Renée. You know I’ve been wanting your Manager position for a long time.” Leah said with a smirk. “The only thing you have to worry about is your wife and daughter, alright, mate? You’ve already done a lot for Arsenal.”

Both Leah and Renée were wearing Arsenal’s matching outfits. They had just left a small farewell party in the Arsenal’s event room; almost all players were there to say their goodbyes to Renée, and of course, welcome Leah into her new position.

Leah had to give a speech, her first speech as a Manager. She was very nervous but didn't show. She wanted the team to know she was a strong, determined and of course, caring Manager. 

“Still, Williamson, if you need any help, tips or even a friendly shoulder, just know that I’m here,” Renée insisted. The older woman was carrying a box in her arms, the outside having Once a gunner, always a gunner written on it.

Leah stared at the box, she had seen Renée packing things up in her office earlier that day, carefully putting pictures, books and even newspaper articles about Arsenal inside the container. 

It being full meant that Leah’s new office was officially ready for her to take in.

Both women walked through the front door of the Arsenal Training Grounds, and a cold breeze met Leah in the face, making the women shiver. Renée looked at the busy street ahead of her until she pointed to a black Audi A3. 

“That’s mine, guess I’ll go then,” Renée said, a bittersweet smile on her face.

There was a woman and a little kid in braids waving in front of the cars. Renées’ family had come to pick her up. Cute.

Before Renée could walk, Leah hugged her. “Thank you for everything, If I ever need you, I’ll give you a call, I’m serious” Renée hugged the blonde woman back before heading to her car.

 Before she could open the passenger’s door she turned to Leah.

“Don’t forget about the new girl coming in tomorrow, Leah. You’ll have to show her around and everything, plus she’s not from the UK, so—”

“Renée don’t worry!  Y/n is coming tomorrow at 9 am, I have everything planned out,” Leah rolled her eyes playfully.

“Alright, alright,” Renée said. “Now it’s all with you, kid.”

Leah watched as the ex-Arsenal manager got into the car and left.

Now that Reneé was gone and Leah was officially alone, she couldn’t help but feel a slight insecurity growing in her chest. She was the one responsible for the team now, her players relied on her. 

She needed to be firm, trusted, sincere and caring. She was the face of the team and she needed to do a good job. She needed to be focused only on Arsenal for now. 

She already had made her name known as a player, now she was going to make her name known as a coach.

Leah Williamson. New Manager, now official.

It was embarrassing to admit but Leah Williamson giggled and skipped toward her office. 

It was the best day of her life. Definitely.

Ok, maybe the second day. 

Nothing compared to winning the euros.

..

Leah thought her first day as Manager would be unfazed. What could go wrong? It was her first day as manager, of course, but it wasn’t like she was completely new to it. She knew the corridors with the palm of her hand, she could name every staff member's family member, and she knew every crack that needed to be fixed and every lamp that needed to be changed. 

Leah bleed Arsenal 

Leah still had the same players from last season–no one had retired or changed clubes–half of which were her former teammates and friends. The players all had their routine schedule with gym time, physio, drill and pitch time.

Nothing changed. Leah’s day was going as planned on her Google Calendar.

“I need this first day to go perfectly. No mistakes,” Leah muttered to herself, closing her eyes for a moment. “I need to prove to everyone that I can handle this. And I will”

But then, Y/n happened.

Y/n, the newest Arsenal signing of the season and the only change of the team.

It was 9:37 am and the girl was nowhere to be seen. The cold bit at Leah’s lips, numbing them, and the tips of her fingers ached from the chill.

Leah was losing her mind. She had the whole day planned. A meeting to go through, hours of tactical footage to analyse, and a schedule that should have been running smoothly–until Y/n ruined it by being late on her first day.

Leah was waiting alongside the media team to greet and officially meet Y/n for the first time. But instead of focusing on the introduction, she was standing in the cold, fighting the urge to scream.

Leah didn’t participate a lot in Y/n’s hiring; it was mostly Renée doing the work of checking her statistics and all the bureaucracy of recruiting someone from another country. She didn’t even agree with Renée at first, she couldn’t see why Arsenal needed another defender.

“Arsenal needs a sweeper,” Renée had argued during one of their meetings. “Someone who is fast, and logical but not aggressive. This kid Y/n is great for the position.”

“She’s young, just finished playing in college football,” Renée continued. “Think of her as your Alessia Russo, but as your four.”

Four being the last defence position in Football.

“Leah, we really have to get going, we need to take solo photos of the players, maybe when Y/n gets here we can try to make a small welcoming video, or something,” Clarice, the media director said as she looked at her watch. “I mean she is very late, and we have so much to do—”

“Yeah, of course, Clarice, you all can go. If she arrives, I’ll give you a call,” Leah said, impatience clear in her voice, but not wanting to also ruin Clarice’s plans for the day, she still had to do pictures with Beth, Lotte and Vic.

Leah was alone in the car park, tapping her foot against the pavement.

How can someone be late for their first day of training? It was clear to Leah that Y/n didn’t care so much about being the priciest Arsenal hiring in the last 10 years since she didn’t worry about actually coming to training.

When Leah signed as a senior in Arsenal she made her mom drop her off 3 hours earlier. She literally helped the staff open the Arsenal training grounds with how early she was.

Leah walked around the car park and looked at her watch. 5 minutes. Leah would wait 5 more minutes and if Y/n wasn’t here, she would go inside, into her office and let the new girl fend for herself.

 Leah was busy and she needed to watch a bunch of matches to study Arsenal’s future opponents, but instead, she was here waiting for this girl like a fool.

9:42 am.

Leah turned around, heading to the door and feeling stupid about waiting on someone who was not coming. At least now she could do some tactical work against Chelsea. 

Before Leah stepped into the building, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned around slowly, not enjoying the non-welcoming physical touch. 

She locked eyes with a girl.

Y/n.

Leah, for some reason, was expecting to find the girl in full footballer mode, perhaps with her hair tied back, or dirty clothing from an intense match, but Leah was not expecting to find a very… cute girl instead. Leah had only watched the videos Renée sent of Y/n on the pitch, so she was rather surprised to see the new girl didn’t naturally have grass all over her hair.

Y/n was wearing what looked to be five layers of clothing and a coat which was way too big for her. She was wearing very inappropriate shoes for the light layer of snow accumulation on the floor. 

It was like Y/n didn’t know how to dress for cold weather. It made Leah angry, for some reason. Maybe she was just grumpy.

Before Leah could blink, the new girl began rambling.

“I am so, so sorry, ma’am,” Y/n quavered, quickly pulling her hand away from Leah’s shoulder as she noticed the frown forming on her face. “You see, my cat ran away, and I had to chase after him and that took me twenty minutes, and then I took the wrong Tube—”

“Huh?” Leah cut in, her frown deepening. The girl was talking way too fast. “Your cat…?”

“His name is Ball,” Y/n explained. “He's orange. You know how orange cats are.” 

Leah frowned even more. The girl in front of her had a strange habit of saying whatever popped into her head. And what was that about orange cats? Since when did colour determine a cat’s personality? Leah wouldn't know–she was a dog person through and through.

And what was she saying about the orange cat personality? Leah didn’t know the colour of a cat mattered. Leah was through and through a dog person.

A heavy silence hung between them.

“What are you on about?” Leah questioned exasperated, crossing her arms.

Y/n fumbled for words. “Ball ran away and that’s why I am–” Y/n glazed at her phone and gasped. “–oh my god, so late!”

Leah sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She should probably be more focused on the girl’s lateness, but one thing was bothering her more.

“Ball? Your cat’s name is Ball?” 

Leah blinked. Once. Twice.

“Uh–football?” Y/n tried weakly. “Okay, forget it, I am so sorry for being late!”

Leah already knew three things about the girl standing in front of her:

She was disorganized and had too much energy, the worst combo.

She had a cat. A cat named Ball.

She was confused.

Leah wasn’t particularly fond of her so far. Maybe with some tough training, she’d be easier to deal with.

“You made me waste half of my morning here,” Leah said sharply “Don’t let it happen again.”

Leah turned on her heels and headed for the Arsenal training grounds. Behind her, she heard footsteps and the squeak of Y/n’s shooed against the pavement. Leah clenched her jaw. The sound was enough to make her want to rip her own shoes off.

“I–I’m sorry, and of course, it won’t happen again, ma’am” Y/n apologized, looking down at her feet.

Leah stopped in her tracks so suddenly that Y/n nearly bumped into her. Leah turned, her gaze was cold.

“Don’t call me ma’am.” She snapped. “It’s Williamson”

Today was supposed to be a good day, Y/n thought. She had written down on her planner everything she needed to do in order to get to the club in time. 

She had printed the map of the Tube so she could get around easily and not get lost, but of course, it didn’t work out and now her new Manager was clearly pissed at her.  

And of course, the woman angry at her had to be THE Leah Williamson, one of the most skilful defenders of all time and one of Y/n’s biggest inspirations. Y/n even had a poster of Leah in her dorm room–and maybe in her teenage bedroom as well.

Y/n had just graduated from her college in biology. The only reason she was able to get a diploma was because she had the opportunity to be an international student-athlete in the USA. It wasn’t easy being away from home and managing a social life with school and football, but she made it work.

Y/n biggest dream was always to play in a good and competitive league after she graduated. She got a handful of offers in the USA Women’s League, but she didn’t want to be in America anymore, she also didn’t want to go to her home country, so that’s why she screamed when she got the proposal from Arsenal.

Renée had first sent her an email asking her if she had any interest in playing professionally after finishing college. Y/n replied right away, telling her that she pretty much had no other choice: football was her one and true passion.

After that first interaction, Renée and Y/n exchange a few more emails. Y/n sent Renée her whole university’s league statistics, as well as some game tapes.

Renée replied that she was excited to have the girl on their team. They used Facetime to talk about important things, like calendars, dates and salary.

Oh, the money. It was more money than Y/n ever had in her entire life. Yeah, it didn’t match the man’s team, but it was way more than she made while working on the weekends as a baby and pet sitter.

Y/n was trying to see the bright side of this situation. She was in a new country, had her own apartment, and she had signed with one of the best teams in the league. 

She was so happy but so terrified of joining Arsenal. Arsenal was a club with history, it was a big club with deep roots in all of London and the UK as well. 

Y/n was grateful that Renée had seen potential in her, she wasn’t bad or anything, honestly, she had a way of tackling without getting fools which was impressive. But from now on her teammates weren’t going to be college girls like her, she was going to be surrounded by world-class players.

Was she good enough for that? Maybe she was just good at college football. Her manager said she was talented and skilful, and her Manager back in college said she had promising features. But it all depended on her now, could she do it? Could she fill up some big girl boots and show good football on the pitch? Y/n would have to wait and find out.

She was sure of one thing: Leah’s treatment of her wasn’t very welcoming. Yeah, maybe she was late and maybe she called her ma’am. She had messed up, but did Leah really need to walk in front of her a few feet away as if they were social distancing?

When Renée talked through her about her signing she did say she wasn’t going to be in the position as Manager much longer, she just hadn’t said Leah was the one stepping in. 

Not that Y/n was mad, she did deserve it after being almost an hour late, she just wished Renée had stayed a little longer to actually give her a good and warm welcome.

“Walk faster,” Leah said, turning her head around, frowning on her face. “We have the whole building to see.”

Does she ever smile? Y/n didn’t think so.

Leah Williamson didn’t look so grumpy on screen

“Sorry,” Y/n said, stepping up the pace.

Y/n was off to a hard start.

Leah was a grumpy Manager, but it was clear how much she loved the club. She was giving Y/n a great tour despite their bad greeting earlier today, but the snappy comments and impatience attitude were still there.

Should Y/n buy her an apology gift? Would Leha like that? What could she do so Leah wouldn’t be so angry at her? She couldn’t have her manager not liking her on her debut as a senior player! That would be embarrassing.

People had told her before she was hard to be around, too energetic, too forgetful, just too much. She thought it would change when she moved to London, but it didn’t seem like it.

“This is the locker and the changing room. You can grab that one on the left,” Leah pointed at one of the lockers, with no identification on its door. “Basic rules: don’t let your clothes or boots lying around, lock your locker and just keep tidy.”

Y/n hated Leah's tone. It was like the Manager wanted to be everywhere else in the world but here with her. But she couldn’t blame Leah, she wouldn’t enjoy it if somebody kept her waiting for almost 50 minutes.

“Look, I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” Y/n mumbled, following Leah through the corridors. She didn’t know where they were going. Maybe the kit room? “I’m normally very punctual.”

“Hm,” Leah said, sounding indifferent. “Show that from now on.”

Maybe Y/n was going to cry on her first day after all.

Leah took a turn in the corridor and both women were in front of a white door, with “Medical Room” written on it.

The room was fairly normal, having a couple of physios and massage tables. It looked like the place hadn’t been used today, since the tables were all made. A few Pilates objects were scattered around, making the room seem more lived in.

What really caught Y/n’s attention were the photos on the wall. Y/n took a step closer to the wall, leaving Leah behind her.

Kyra and Alessia were smiling, both receiving messages from an older woman, whom Y/n guessed was the physiotherapist. Kim Little was right next to the girls’ pictures, wearing an air cast and using a crutch.

Vivianne Miedema and Beth Mead lay on a massage table, holding hands as they smiled for the picture. “ACL couple #1”, written just below it.

Next to it was a picture of Leah, a few years younger — maybe she was Y/n’s age — running in her arsenal kit. “Leah’s first run after ACL”, written in the same way as Vivianne and Beth’s photo.

Y/n felt her heart ache for Leah. Y/n was young, but she remembered how the football world was talking about how much Leah was trying to be back after her ACL tear. Ironic how it wasn’t even that injury that ended her career. 

Leah did everything available, every new therapy, and nothing worked. Sure, she could walk and even run for small periods of time, but she would never come back to football again.

Y/n wondered how Leah felt having to look at that picture every day. Memories of a time that would never come back.

“This is obviously the physio room,” Leah said, breaking the awkward silence that had formed. “I’ll email you the medical staff's schedule. If you ever need anything, you can just talk to them, they’re great”

“And if you need any medical speciality  that we don’t have here, Arsenal will book one for you at the closest clinic to your house,” Leah continued.

When Y/n turned around to talk to Leah, she didn’t expect her to be so close. Their bodies bumped together, making Y/n lose her balance and stumble forward. If things weren’t bad enough, she stepped right into one of the exercise objects on the floor.

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact of her head on the wall. But it never came.

Leah was faster.

One hand gripped Y/n’s waist, the other cradled the back of her head, steadying her before she could fall;

“Careful!” Leah muttered, almost like a warning 

And that’s when it hit her

A soft scent–strawberry and… vanilla? It quickly found Leah’s nose, she breathed it in for a second too long before she realised she was holding Y/n’s hip a little too tight.

Y/n opened her eyes, meeting Leah’s gaze just for a second. 

They were frozen in place for a moment.

Y/n’s breath hitched. Leah’s body was pressed against her and she could feel its warmth, well, as much as she could considering Y/n was wearing seven layers of clothing.

Leah’s breath ghosted over her skin. Too dangerously close.

“Hey Mary could you see my knee—”

Y/n and Leah were met with Katie McCabe, her green eyes staring at the two women in confusion.

“Oh– hi?” Katie said. Y/n could swear she heard teasing in the Irish woman’s voice. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What?! No, of course not.” Leah blurted, taking her hands off of Y/n’s body abruptly, if it wasn’t for Y/n’s years of training balance not to get tackled to the floor so easily, she would have fallen again, that’s for sure. 

“I was just showing Y/n’s physio room, but Mary wasn’t even here…” Leah seemed defensive now, looking everywhere but at Y/n or Katie.

“She almost fell,” Leah continued, overexplaining herself and pointing at Y/n accusingly. “She tripped on this thing,” Leah lightly kicked the equipment, it was just a rubber ball. 

Y/n would laugh if Leah didn’t seem so nervous all of a sudden. 

“You know I hate when things are left lying around and–”

“Leah.”

“Yeah?”

“You are rambling,” Katie said, making the blonde close her mouth.

“Why don’t you go do some manager things and I’ll finish the tour with her, yeah? It’s Y/n, right?” Katie offered her hand to Y/n, shaking it firmly. “I’m Katie.”

“Hi, yeah I’m Y/n, so sorry this is how we met,” Y/n said, looking down. “Guess I’ll just go with her if that's okay—.”

“More than okay,” Leah mumbled. “Bye, McCabe, I’ll see you at training.” 

Before Y/n or Katie could respond, Leah had already left the room, a frown on her face.

Katie was a way better host than Leah, showing all the places in the facility without making the young girl feel like a chore. The Irish woman couldn’t help but notice that Y/n wasn’t as happy as new players usually were when they first visited the club, so Katie asked what had happened.

“She hates me,” Y/n confessed as soon as they got to the pitch, the last place on the tour.

Y/n didn’t know why she was venting to Katie McCabe. The Katie McCabe, but she seemed nice enough and Y/n was tired.

“Who?”

“Williamson.” Y/n mumbled “I was late earlier, and everything went south after that. I don’t know how I’m gonna get her to like me, or well, tolerate me, at least”

Katie placed a comfortable hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “She doesn’t hate you, she is just grumpy like that, Leah doesn’t like it when things don’t go the way she planned, she’ll come around.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course, it’s your first time at Arsenal, but it's also Leah’s first time as our manager. She never had a new player before; you are her first. Renée was the one handling the greetings and initial meetings with the players. Leah will understand that other people don’t always react in a way she expected.”

Y/n hoped Katie was right.

..

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

[lavenderspence]

an enduring, mighty warrior | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader  |  Word Count: 2.6K

Content warning: fluff, pregnant reader, mention of past death

Summary: you and spencer settle on a sentimental name for you baby

A/N: well hello, long time no see (literally i haven’t posted in over a month) and this is also the first thing i’ve finished in over a month. but i absolutely adore this, and i hope you do too. let me know if you figured out baby reid’s name before you finished reading.

masterlist

The drop in temperature was a usual occurrence for the tenth month of the year. Just when fall was slowly starting to reach its peak, almost in full swing, the all-Hallow’s Eve lovers were slowly putting up their decorations and getting ready to welcome the holiday. 

Despite the bite in the air, the sun was high up in the sky and gently warmed your skin. You inhaled, taking in the crisp autumn scent. Fresh and earthy, the smell of the fallen and slightly decaying leaves reached you on the third floor of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend, and so did the enchanting view.

Streets and sidewalks alike were covered in an abundance of colorful leaves - from scarlet and burgundy to amber, carnelian, and gamboge yellow. Browns, like feuille morte and chocolate, and the softest shades of gold sprinkled in between. Trees, their crowns a beautiful array of hues in varying stages of change.

And as you looked on over the balcony banisher, you couldn’t help but feel like you were surrounded by pure magic - not just the scenic beauty, but the feel, the essence of the season itself. It was so peaceful and quiet at times, with a certain stillness present in the air. Was the world even awake, or was it just in a state of contentment?

That’s how Spencer found you a couple of minutes later - in a state of peacefulness as you took in the scene before you, curled up on the small nook you and your boyfriend had put together on your balcony. 

He pushed open the door, carrying a steaming cup of tea in each hand and a thick, colorful book under his arm. He passed you one of the cups and settled next to you, pulling a blanket across your lap. 

His long fingers pushed a piece of hair away from your face before he pulled you towards him and laid a soft kiss on the side of your head. As you cradled your cup, taking in the rich aroma of the tea he’d prepared for you, he reached over and cradled your bump, running his thumb around in different shapes.

It was rare to spend a whole day together in the comfort of your home. With a job where the wellbeing of people sat heavily on the team’s shoulders, where Spencer’s knowledge, his brain, and he himself was needed, you could sometimes go days without seeing each other. That had been the case when you’d started dating.

But you’d made it work - you’d managed to find a way to communicate clearly whenever the hardships of his job had gotten the best of you. A way that had allowed your relationship to build on a stable foundation of trust, love, and mutual understanding.

Late-night phone calls, separated by miles of land. Impromptu dates, minutes, and hours spent in each other’s presence, savoring what little time you had together. Declarations of love, small touches, and gentle talk - a relationship you’d only ever read about in books. 

But that’s exactly what it felt like to love him, to be loved by him - a love full of memories of waking up to the other’s warmth, savoring the feeling of them in your arms, their lips stealing the breath from your lungs - a fairytale love story you couldn’t wait to tell your kids about.

“Soon.” A little voice in your head chimed in to remind you. Very soon, you’d have a little someone to tell the story to. You’d hold a little precious someone, born out of the love you shared, a combination of your favorite things about the other. 

In your periphery, you watched as Spencer pulled the book into his lap. “A baby names book?” you asked, eyeing the cover - a colorful blend of blues and pinks, yellows and greens. 

He smiled your way before he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his side. As you settled against him, you felt the pads of his fingers gently run over your bump again.

Ever since he’d taken hold of that stick and seen with his own eyes the future that awaited you some nine months later - the possibility, the reality of a family he’d longed for years to have - he'd started expressing his love for both you and your child with the smallest of touches and the gentlest of voices. 

A run of his fingers against your stomach, even when the roundness of the life you’d created together had yet to make an appearance. Gently holding onto the barely there bump a few weeks later when it had finally appeared. Talking in a soft, hushed voice to your baby boy every time he could - telling him about his day, the boring paperwork, or that new pastry shop you’d tried out together, and the sweets you’d loved.

He’d taken on being a father fabulously, even though he was technically still a dad-to-be. Even though he hadn’t had the faintest idea of what a dad should be, hadn’t been blessed with the experience of having a man like himself as a father, he’d jumped headfirst and hadn’t looked back. 

He’d read books, he’d searched the internet, and he’d talked with Will and Aaron for hours on end. He’d tried to prepare; he’d tried to show he’d be the father that he never got to have.

And even when the reality of the lack of a paternal figure in his life caught up with him, he’d taken it in stride. Just like with everything else in your relationship, you’d had an open conversation where he’d been able to share with you his biggest anxieties and fears. 

You’d reminded him of how involved he was already, how ecstatic and curious he was to learn everything possible, and how he knew so much already. How he’d far surpassed the man his father was and how there was no place for comparison between them. You’d calm his mind and praise his character - in your eyes, he was already the greatest man and father ever.

“He still doesn’t have a name.” He responded as he cracked open the book. 

“There’s still time.” You muttered as you ran your fingers up his arm, gently scratching at the skin. He gave you a funny look and shook his head before he flipped the pages. You knew he loved being prepared beforehand, especially when it came to your little one. 

Spencer had started buying him little things early on, even before you knew he was a “he” - plushies, blankets, socks, and small adorable shoes. He’d gotten him a variety of books; he’d even learned some of them by heart by now. 

The nursery had long ago been painted and put together, with the help of the abundance of aunts and uncles and a grandpa, waiting for the little ones’ arrival. 

But the one thing he still didn’t have was a name. And not for lack of trying to pick one. You’d thumbed through books, you’d browsed the internet, and you’d even asked Penelope to put together a list of names for you, yet you could never settle on one. 

“Okay, what have we got?” You mumbled, lacing your fingers together as they settled comfortably one over the other on your bump. 

“Noah? It’s Hebrew, and it means 'rest’ or even ‘peaceful’.” He suggested, turning to see what you thought about it. You could see on his face he wasn’t really into it, and neither were you. It was a beautiful name, but it didn’t feel like that was the right name for you. You simply shook your head and watched as he flipped a few more pages.

“How about Luca? It means ‘bringer of light’.”

“It’s also Italian if I’m not mistaken, and Rossi’s going to love that.” He’d even suggested a few Italian names the last few months, but none had stuck.

“Do you love it though?” You shook your head in response. He continued flipping the pages of the book as you sipped your tea. 

“Avery? It’s unisex, and it’s British.” You mulled it over, kind of liking the sound of it.

“Avery Reid, it’s not that bad. What does it mean though?” You asked

“Ruler of elves.” He mumbled, scratching at his brow.

“Absolutely not!” You started laughing as you shook your head. “We’re not naming him ‘ruler of elves’. Spencer, there’s a possibility he’s going to be born around Christmas anyway; we’re not putting our son through that.” You watched as he flashed you a cute little smile and shook his head at you.

He continued flipping the pages of the book, suggesting names and sharing their meaning and origin - Miles, Owen, Aspen, Wesley, and many more - but none of them seemed to fit. None screamed, baby Reid. 

You observed Spencer carefully as he flipped the pages, eyes running slower than they usually did. He looked overly preoccupied, borderline fixated on picking a name for your son, and not for the first time. It almost felt like he intentionally focused on any and all possibility, sans the one, or maybe even the few he held close to his heart. 

And you could see, you could tell he had a few ideas on his mind, but for whatever reason, he didn’t share them. It’s like a part of him was holding back, fighting with himself about the possibility of naming your child that. 

Deep down, a part of you knew what he was wrestling with - so you decided to spare him from having to voice it. 

“How about Gideon?” You whispered, and his head perked up instantly. His eyes and his whole face softened at your suggestion - a suggestion that was actually his own. He closed the book and turned to face you fully.

“Really?” His voice was small, the emotion evident underneath his soft timber. You watched as his eyes watered just a little, shining in the gentle sunlight. You never got to meet the infamous Jason Gideon, but you’ve heard the stories. You knew what he’d done for Spencer, how he’d taken him under his wing, and how he’d protected and cared about him in his own way. 

You remembered how hard he’d taken the heartbreak that settled upon the team last January. The many nights he’d woke up in cold sweat, unable to take a breath, as the scene played on a loop in his head - a body sprawled underneath a white sheet on the wooden flooring of a cabin meant to shield its owner from the horrors of his old job. Bathed in a cozy light, with the record player that had stopped playing a tune long ago and the unfinished chess game, your boyfriend had tried to play for weeks on end but been unable to. 

The many late-night tears he’d shed in the crook of your neck, the hiccups that had followed, and the gentle shushing of your voice trying to calm him down, trying to be his anchor. 

It was evident, without having met him, the monumental impact Jason Gideon had had on the person Spencer was today. There was no question about it; you were certain that if he wanted to honor the man who’s taken the role of a father figure when he hadn’t had one, you’d give him that. You’d want him to have it; you’d want him to wake up every day and be reminded of how far he’d made it and the person who’d made sure he had.

“Yes, really.” 

Before you knew it, he had pulled you into his arms and wrapped them around your body as much as your bump would allow. “Thank you.” He breathed into your neck on a shaky exhale. You turned and pressed a kiss against his head as you started gently running your fingers in his hair, playing with the curls. 

You stayed like that for a little while longer before he pulled you into the softest kiss. A kiss meant to express both his gratitude and love and the everpresent awe you left him in. A kiss, where both your emotions ran high - where he was coming down from the reminder of the past, and both of you were looking forward to the quick approaching future. 

“He still needs a second name.” You whispered against his lips when he pulled back. You watched as his whole face changed for just a second, as if a lightbulb went off in his head. “What?” You asked.

He shook his head before he pecked your lips again. “Nothing.” 

“Come on,” You pushed his hair back a little, “I could see the gears in your brain shifting just by the look on your face. Did you have a suggestion?” You rubbed your thumb against his forehead. 

He shook his head again. “It’s nothing. I want you to give him a name too.” 

“I already did, Spence. You can give him his second name if you let me name our future daughter.” You joked and watched as his entire face lit up at the mention of another child, a girl. You knew he’d be an amazing father to your son, you were certain, but a part of you couldn’t help but also imagine an early morning with a little girl whose pigtails he tied as she told him about her dreams. He nodded with a smile.

“What’s the name?” 

“Remember when I got shot in the neck two years ago?” You nodded as he started playing with your fingers. “I had this distinct memory - I was bleeding out, losing consciousness, and I guess Alex slipped and called me by another name. That night, when she dropped me off, the night she quit the BAU, I asked her about it.” He finally looked up and met your eyes.

“She had a son, Ethan. He passed away when he was nine - they told her it was neurological, but there’s never been a name for it. All these years, and she still doesn’t know, she never got an answer to the one question that impacted her life the most.” He shook his head at the injustice of the world. 

Even with the knowledge of the over 26 thousand diseases present in the world and the many more that have yet to be discovered, he couldn’t help but feel her pain, now more than ever when he was about to become a parent himself. 

Despite the fact that you never got to meet one of Spencer’s paternal figures, you got to meet his work mom - that’s what Alex was to him in your mind. You knew, deep down, that’s the way he saw her too. 

Even though he grew up with a loving mother in the form of Diana, you knew he missed on monumental things with her - talking about his first love, dates, his feelings, and sometimes even his future. 

But Alex had been there when he’d started loving you - she’d heard about your dates, and she’d listened as he gushed on and on about you and the future he wished to build with you. As a woman, whose marriage had withstanded some of the toughest battles, she’d offered her advice too. 

You knew she loved him like he was her own and loved you just as much.

“So, Ethan Gideon?” You asked softly, already in love with the name. It was perfect - it honored the person who shaped the person Spencer was today, who started him on this journey, that would later allow him to meet you. And the person who witnessed the start of the love between you both. 

And turns out, you weren’t the only one on board with the name - a series of strong kicks followed the moment you uttered his name out loud for the first time. 

You laughed as you grabbed your boyfriend’s hand, following the kicks together. 

“Ethan Gideon Reid.” He whispered before he pulled you in for another kiss. 

did you figure out the name?🥹

Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[lolobeey]

No Assembly Required (1) - Game On

Dusting off the cobwebs and launching a brand-new blog for writing and my long-time Bucky Barnes obsession—because apparently, he still owns my brain. I’ve been devouring @dreamwritesimagines incredible DECLASSIFIED series (go read it right now), and the inspo hit hard enough to pull me out of my years-long drought. Let’s see where this goes.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Series Summary: After his communications director quits in a blaze of frustration, guarded congressional candidate Bucky Barnes finds an unexpected ally in her replacement—an unorthodox but disarmingly sharp advisor who might just be the perfect fit for both his campaign and his heart.

Warnings: strong language, slow burn, politics, fluff, flirting through political strategy, reader has a nickname

Word Count: 8k

SERIES MASTERLIST

“James, you simply must attend the gala tonight.”

“Nope,” Bucky replies simply, eyes still fixed on the fresh polling numbers his assistant just dropped like a live grenade on his desk.

“You canceled the last one,” spits Kassandra Birch, his Communications Director. A sharp-tongued operator in a blazer that costs more than most people’s rent. One eyebrow arched and battle-ready. “The Stonewell Group was nice enough to reschedule, and I don't have to remind you that we need their money.”

“We don’t,” Bucky sighs, finally looking up at her piercing gaze. “And my intention was for it to stay canceled, Kassandra. I told you that. Didn’t I tell her that, Zach?”

Zach Greenfield—his Campaign Manager and human stress ball, stares out the window, looking like he’s three decisions away from a career change involving bees and total off-grid living. He lets out a long, haunted sigh.

“He told ya, Kass.”

“Give me one good reason.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “Them being in bed with the NRA isn’t enough?”

“You love guns! You’re the goddamn Winter Soldier!" she shrieks, hands flying.

Silence. Bucky stares at her like she’s just suggested he endorse arson as a climate policy.

"We need you to love guns and people owning guns. It bridges the gap and we need the older male vote."

“We all know that he loves gun reform, Kass. And for good reason,” Zach cuts in. “I’m with him. I told you not to schedule it, but you never listen.”

Bucky eyes his ally for a beat. The ever good-intentioned Zach. The same Zach who roped him into this mess in the first place.

Because when the grandson of one of your old buddies from Brooklyn tracks you down with a full campaign strategy and eyes full of fire, you listen. And Bucky listened so hard he’s now two months into this damn campaign and trapped in a perpetual argument loop with a woman they swore was “the best in the biz.”

He doesn’t even have to look at Kassandra to feel the heat radiating off her face.

“Why am I even here if he won’t listen to me?” she snips.

“Yes, why is she here?” Bucky says without missing a beat, tone bone-dry.

“Because I’m the best,” Kassie fires back before Zach can open his mouth. “You don’t have a chance in hell of winning without me. No one else would take on a… project this big. Right, Zach?”

Zach looks anywhere but at her, like he’s scanning the office for sharp objects to impale himself with.

Bucky clears his throat. “I thought there was another name in the mix, no?”

“Excuse me?” Kassie spins toward him, voice like a whipcrack.

“Well…” Zach starts, visibly lamenting this turn in conversation.

“Who? Morris? He couldn’t get a Senator’s kid into a high school mock trial. Jackie? That woman thinks hashtags are policy.”

“Kassie, we hired you,” Zach offers, like a man clinging to a buoy.

“Oh, I remember,” chirps Bucky’s assistant, Mia, from her desk right beyond his office door, immune to the bickering at this point. “The Shakespeare lady, right?”

“Her? Please. She’s only ever been a deputy,” Kassandra flares.

“A damn good one,” Zach mutters.

"Not to mention she's been out of politics for years. Couldn't hack it from what I heard."

“Wait—what do you mean, Shakespeare lady?” Bucky interjects, now intrigued.

“She did work with that program upstate, uh, Shakespeare in the... in the Courts!” Mia explains, spinning slightly in her chair. “They rehabilitate juvenile offenders by having them put on Shakespeare plays. She did a fundraiser called Doing Bard Time. It raked in cash. The program had barely any funding, and now Netflix is even doing a doc on them.”

There’s a pause.

Kassie glares like she’s seconds from launching a binder.

“Sure,” she says finally, voice tight. “Go ahead and get her instead. Maybe Hamlet can help you poll better with suburban moms.”

Zach barks out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Now, now, Kass. We all know Bucky does not have any issues with that demo.”

“Fuck you, Zach. “I can't believe I let you drag me into this sham,” she snaps, shooting him a glare hot enough to blister paint before turning her fire on Bucky. "I'm done. Have fun tanking this campaign, James. Although I’m sure it won’t even crack the top ten on the list of things you’ve fucked up in your life.”

And with that, the monumentally exhausting Kassandra struts out the door, heels cracking against the tile like gunshots.

Bucky exhales, long and ragged, and swivels his chair to face Zach.

“Thank god," Bucky sighs. "I'm just happy I didn’t have to fire her. Honestly, that worked out better than I expected.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Told you on her first day it wouldn’t work out,” Bucky groans and he stands, stretching his limbs to release tension.

“Yeah, well, she came with built-in funding,” Zach mutters, rubbing his temples. “Sue me.”

“Blood money,” Bucky retorts dryly. “So what do we do now? Are we sunk?”

"You'd like that wouldn't you?"

Bucky smiles wryly. "This other option... You think she'd be a good fit?"

“Maybe.” Zach lets out a short chuckle like he's in on some joke. “I had a feeling today was when Kass would finally implode, so I called her this morning. She’s…cautiously open to it.”

“What?” Bucky squints at him.

“You’re meeting her tomorrow at seven am,” Zach says, sliding a Post-it across the desk with an address scrawled in his hasty chicken-scratch. “Dress casual.”

Bucky picks up the note and frowns. “This is over an hour outside the city, Zach.”

“So take the bike.”

“You always tell me never to take the bike.”

Zach shakes his head, almost smiling. “No, Kassandra told you never to use the bike.”

------

If people thought New York City was beautiful in the fall, they’d never taken a sunrise ride up the Hudson Valley.

The train wouldn’t have done it justice anyway, Bucky thinks, the wind clawing through his hair as he leans into the throttle. The bike hums beneath him, engine steady, slicing through the morning chill like a scalpel. Rust-colored leaves explode behind him in his wake. Gold, ochre, blood-orange, kicked up along I-9 like confetti for a parade no one asked for.

The city fades fast out here. Skyscrapers give way to red barns, strip malls replaced by rolling hills and bare-branched trees reaching for the sky. The only signs of life are the occasional pickup truck rumbling past, and clusters of cows staring blankly like they know something you don’t.

When he finally pulls off the main road, it’s not at some discreet campaign hideaway or upstate office park. It’s a field. A big, sprawling, muddy field scattered with the bones of houses in various states of being born. The air smells like wet lumber, diesel, and cold earth.

Contractors in neon vests and hard hats move in a blur. Hoisting beams, pouring cement, barking directions. Some of them are kids, teens, maybe, clutching hammers like they’re still figuring out which end does what. There’s a low thrum of classic rock playing from a speaker tied to a tree.

A large sign stands crooked at the entrance, scrawled with the Habitat for Humanity logo in blue. Below it, someone’s clearly had fun with a marker:

WE OUTSIDE (BUILDING HOMES)

Touch grass. Hold a hammer.

Bucky slows the bike to a crawl, gravel crunching under the tires, and kills the engine. Silence falls around him for a beat, like even the field is surprised he showed up.

“You here for the build?” a voice calls out.

Bucky looks up to find a man, brawny, mid-40s, wearing a hard hat and the kind of flannel shirt that earns its keep, approaching him with the casual swagger of someone who’s spent his entire life outdoors. He gives Bucky’s outfit a once-over and smirks.

Slacks. Button-down. Leather jacket. Clean boots. Not a speck of sawdust or sweat in sight.

When Zach had said “casual,” Bucky had assumed that meant no sport coat. Not this.

Bucky just gives your name in response, trying not to sound defensive.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Ah, that makes sense.” He turns and shouts across the site. “Hey, Maybee! This one’s late. Where you want him?”

Bucky spots a hard hat rise in the distance like a prairie dog popping up from a hole. A second later, someone steps away from a whirring power saw, brushing sawdust off a pair of well-worn overalls as they jog toward him.

She pulls off her protective goggles, tucks them into a side pocket, and wipes a line of sweat from her brow with the back of her glove.

“Mr. Barnes,” she says as she approaches, voice clear, steady, and completely unfazed by his presence. “Appreciate you helping out today.”

Then her eyes flick to his outfit. The slacks, the polished boots, the button-down trying very hard to blend under a leather jacket.

She smirks. “Ah. And it seems our friend Zach left out a crucial detail, I see.”

Bucky straightens, adjusting slightly on instinct. “Pleasure,” he says, offering his hand, adding your name with the kind of formal respect that gets used in campaign headquarters.

Instead of shaking it, she slaps a hammer from her toolbelt into his open palm with a satisfying clack.

“Oh, no one’s called me that. Like, ever.” She grins. “Maybee’s fine.”

Bucky blinks, looking down at the hammer, then back up at her. There’s no trace of hesitation, no sycophantic awe, no political agenda radiating off her. Just sawdust, sweat, and a confidence you can’t fake.

And just like that, he’s paying more attention than he meant to.

She turns on her heel with purpose, already headed toward the skeletal frame of a house rising at the edge of the property, two-by-fours sticking out like ribs, a ladder leaned precariously against what will eventually be a second story.

“You can help me put up some studs while we talk,” she calls over her shoulder, stooping to grab a hard hat from the grass. Without breaking stride, she tosses it behind her.

Bucky catches it one-handed, no effort.

“I don’t need one,” he says, matter-of-fact, already shrugging off his jacket and starting to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“Yeah, I get that you’ve got the whole chemically induced super strength and all,” she replies, glancing back. “But humor me, please.”

He eyes the hard hat with the disdain of someone handed a party hat at a funeral… but slides it on anyway, tucking his hair underneath it with visible reluctance.

She chuckles. “Oh yeah. You’re gonna fit right in.”

They reach the frame, where someone’s already propped up a stack of studs and tools. Bucky starts surveying the layout, muscle memory from a dozen covert ops and safehouse repairs kicking in as he assesses weight distribution and balance points like it’s second nature.

“I can look for another shirt for you…” she says, eyeing his arms as he pulls a stud into place.

“I don’t really sweat.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” She lifts a brow. “I’m worried your shirt's gonna file a worker’s comp claim.”

Bucky glances down, sees the threads straining just a little too hard over his biceps. He huffs a short laugh, but doesn’t comment.

She hands him a nail gun. “Try not to break this one. We only have three, and the other two are already being abused by high schoolers with too much caffeine in their system.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“You better,” she says, pointing at him. “You break it, you help me teach poetry to teens next Saturday as punishment.”

That gets him to crack a smile, a small one, barely there, but he hides it as he lifts the nail gun and lines it up with the beam.

She moves around to the other side of him, squaring a vertical stud with practiced ease and bracing it with her boot while holding it steady.

“So,” she says, glancing up at him as he pulls the trigger, the gun letting out a sharp clack-clack as the nails punch through the wood. “I only have one question.”

“That's it?” he replies, raising a skeptical brow as he moves to the next stud.

“Yeah. Why?”

He gives her a look, equal parts confusion and curiosity.

“Why are you running?”

He clears his throat. The campaign-approved talking points start rolling automatically in his head like a teleprompter:

“Well, I believe I can be a voice for the constituents of Brooklyn by—”

“Oh God.” She grimaces mid-hammer swing. “Not the PR drivel. Please. Spare me. I’ve read campaign emails written by interns with more soul than those. I want the real reason.”

Bucky blinks. She straightens the beam again, waiting, hammer paused in midair.

“I mean it,” she adds. “I’m honestly intrigued why you’d want to even enter this circus. Most people do it for power. You? You don’t even seem to like people, from what I've seen. I assume it'd be torture for you.”

He lets out a quiet breath and finally lowers the nail gun to his side. His fingers flex around the handle like he’s gripping more than just the tool.

“Zach talked me into it,” he says.

She barks out a laugh and drives a nail into the wood with one clean hit.

“Okay, a little less honest than that,” she says, smirking. “You don’t seem like someone who does something just because a stranger asks you to. And I need to know there’s a real pulse under all that stoic hero guilt.”

Bucky moves to the next beam. As he lifts it into place, his shoulders shift, and something in his posture softens.

“Issac,” he says. “Zach’s grandfather. Grew up around the block from me. We got shipped off together. He made it home safe.”

She pauses to hold the beam still for him as he lines it up.

“Zach grew up hearing stories of the man I used to be before...” He fires a nail. “He’s always seen me as some kind of hero. He didn't look at me like... y'know."

Another nail. His voice drops a little.

“Look, I did those things. All the pardons and therapists in the world can tell me they made me into it, that it wasn’t really me. But it was me. And what better way to even try to make up for it than the black hole of public service? If I can actually help one person. Just one. Then maybe…”

He trails off.

She doesn’t fill the silence right away. She just reaches for another stud and starts aligning it with his, working in quiet sync.

“So… it is torture in a way. Penance,” she says eventually, not unkindly. “Interesting.”

“How'd I do?”

“Better than ninety percent of the politicians I’ve met," she replies, hammering in a nail with two sharp whacks.

She wipes her forehead again with the back of her wrist and tosses him a faint smile.

“And not a load of bullshit. Thank you.”

She studies him for a moment. Really studies him. Not the way reporters do, looking for a quote or an angle. Not the way donors do, weighing how much clout he has left. No, this is something quieter. Her gaze drifts over his face, slow and thoughtful, like she’s trying to figure out what kind of person he is just by looking.

Bucky clears his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how close they’re standing and how much sawdust is in his hair.

“So…” he says, nodding toward the half-built structure. “What’s this whole thing for? Raising money?”

She shakes her head, grabbing another stud and sliding it into place between the frame.

“Oh no. This isn’t about funds,” she says, dusting off her gloves. “Habitat does this every year with Long Island City High. Gives the kids real trade experience, and gives the crew some much-needed extra hands.”

She gives a half-shrug, modest but proud. “It’s been running since I was there.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Queens girl?”

She grins, planting a hand on her hip. “Born and bred.”

He smiles before he can stop himself. “That fits.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Let me guess. Tough. Fast talker. Has opinions about pizza.”

“Damn right I do,” she shoots back, pointing at him with the hammer like it’s a weapon. “Don’t even say Domino’s in my presence.”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He's not even sure what she's referring to, but knows better.

A kid runs by them with a crooked wheelbarrow and nearly takes out the corner of the frame. She casually sticks her foot out to stop it, not missing a beat.

“You’ve got a good thing going here,” Bucky says after a moment, quieter now. “These kids… they look like they’re proud to be doing this.”

She glances over her shoulder at the chaos, kids hammering too hard, laughing, yelling, one blasting music from a phone tucked into a tool belt, and smiles with a kind of fondness that makes Bucky’s chest ache a little.

“Yeah,” she says. “They are.”

They fall into silence as they continue to work seamlessly alongside one another.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says, voice low, a little hesitant.

“Shoot.”

“Where’d ‘Maybee’ come from?”

She laughs, the sound bubbling up just as her hammer hits the nail with a satisfying crack.

“My parents couldn’t settle on a name for almost a month after I was born. Everyone kept throwing out suggestions. ‘Maybe Sarah?’ ‘Maybe Joan?’ ‘Maybe Danielle?’ It turned into this running joke. So I was literally ‘baby maybe’ for weeks.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Eventually they picked a name, but by then Maybee had already stuck.”

Bucky watches her, amused. “You can call me Bucky," he blurts out.

She glances at him with a sly grin. “Mr. Barnes not doing it for ya?”

He smirks. “Only when I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.”

They’ve finished the studs around the first floor, the frame now standing solid under the bright mid-morning sun. The air smells like sawdust and effort, and Bucky’s forearms are speckled with dirt he hasn’t bothered to brush off.

She sets the hammer down with a satisfied sigh, strips off her gloves, and turns toward him.

“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your morning, Mr. Barnes," she smiles. "Thanks for the help, truly”

This time, she offers her hand. Bucky takes it, his grip warm and steady—lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

He opens his mouth to ask about the job, though for a second, he’s nearly forgotten that’s why he made this trip, but she cuts in again.

“What are you doing at seven tonight?”

Bucky hesitates before instinctively reaching for his phone, thumb hovering over his calendar app, the one Mia updates with military precision and slightly threatening emojis.

“Uh…”

“Let me rephrase,” she cuts in, already laughing as she unzips a side pocket of her tool belt. “If you want me to come onto this campaign, we start tonight.”

She pulls out two slightly crumpled stubs of paper and presses them into his hands.

He looks down.

“Mets tickets?” he says, eyebrows rising.

“City Field. 7:10 first pitch.”

“The Mets?” he repeats like he’s trying to be sure this isn’t code for a fundraising dinner in disguise.

She nods with mock solemnity. “The team of the people.”

“And you don’t think that’ll isolate any Yankees fans?” he can't help but jest.

She smirks, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. “Nah. They have their championships to keep them warm. Trust me."

Bucky finds that he might already. He glances down at the tickets again, trying not to overthink the logistics. Two seats. No press. No donors.

“So… me and you? Tonight at the game?”

There’s a beat where she just grins at him.

“For you and Zach,” she says, slapping her gloves against her thigh. “You’re two months into this mess so... he’s probably one headline away from a full-blown aneurysm. You both need a night off.”

She winks, quick, effortless, teasing, and starts walking away, calling over her shoulder, “You can thank me at the office on Monday.”

Bucky watches her head off to help a gaggle of kids close to splitting a beam, the tickets still in his hand, the sun shining behind the frame of a house they built together.

He tucks the stubs into his jacket pocket and heads back toward his bike, wondering how it feels like he's the one who just got recruited. With a hammer, a hard hat, and a baseball game.

And why it kind of worked.

------

Bucky leans back in the stadium seat, arms folded across his chest, eyes half-focused on the field. Zach sits next to him, already halfway through a hot dog and yelling at the Mets like he’s been personally hired to manage them through brute volume alone.

“She grilled me,” Bucky says after a moment, his tone somewhere between begrudging and impressed.

Zach doesn’t look away from the field. “Of course she did. That’s her version of saying hello.”

“She made me build a wall. With actual wood.”

Zach finally glances over. “You’ve built safehouses in enemy territory. You’re not above a two-by-four.”

“She gave me a hammer instead of a handshake.”

“That means she likes you.”

Bucky snorts, half a laugh. “It's like she was checking me for structural damage.”

“That’s foreplay for her.”

There’s a beat as the crowd cheers a base hit. Bucky watches it absently, then mutters, “She’s different.”

Zach just grins. “I told you. Best decision you didn’t make yourself.”

A pause.

“Glad we’re here?” Zach asks between bites.

Bucky shrugs. “Sure. Nice not to be wearing a mic.”

“Or a tie,” Zach points out, nodding at Bucky’s t-shirt and bomber jacket. “You look like a person again.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says flatly. “That’s what every political candidate wants to hear.”

Suddenly, a hand slips over the back of his head, and a baseball cap lands squarely on his hair.

Bucky jolts, shoulders tensing, instinct kicking in fast. His hand twitches toward a concealed knife he isn't carrying, body bracing for a fight.

He stops himself, exhaling slow.

Reaching up, he pulls the hat off and turns it over in his hands.

A Mets cap.

He blinks.

“Easy, soldier,” Maybee says from behind him, slipping into the row like she’s been there all along. “Just figured you’d need one of these before someone outs you as a casual fan.”

Zach glances over, unfazed. “You’re lucky he didn’t snap your wrist on reflex.”

“Please,” Maybee says, popping a peanut into her mouth. “If I’d seen it coming, I probably would’ve flinched and hit myself with my own fist first.”

Bucky finally lets out a laugh and pulls the cap back onto his head.

She’s in jeans and a team hoodie, no press badge, no entourage. Just a bag of peanuts in one hand and the smug grin of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“I thought this was just a boys’ night,” Bucky says, adjusting the hat.

“Oh, it is,” she replies a little too slyly. “I’m simply here to cheer my team on.”

Zach groans knowingly. “Oh no. What did you do?”

"Nothin' much." Maybee jerks her thumb toward the jumbotron, where a clip is already playing: Bucky and Zach in their seats, the Mets cap now firmly on Bucky’s head.

A banner slides across the bottom. “WINTER SOLDIER, LIFELONG METS FAN?”

Bucky blinks. “How the hell—”

“I know a guy in AV,” she says with a casual shrug, popping a peanut into her mouth. “No press. No headlines. Just a little push. People are already posting it. ‘Brooklyn boy roots for Queens team.’ Very bipartisan of you.”

He glances at the screen again.

“I like the Dodgers,” he mutters.

Maybee tilts her head. “You know they moved to L.A., like… sixty-six years ago, right?”

“They were Brooklyn’s team.”

“Yeah, and Brooklyn’s still working through the abandonment issues,” she quips.

Bucky lets out a soft laugh. “I was holding out hope they’d come back.”

“That’s deeply tragic.”

“Story of my life," he huffs, staring at her, baffled and a little impressed.

“So you got us tickets just to stage a viral moment?” Zach chimes in.

“I invited you to a baseball game,” she says, unbothered. “Bucky's the one who brought the face and the tragic backstory.”

Zach laughs. “I missed you, Maybs.”

“How do you two know each other, again?” Bucky can’t help but ask, glancing between them.

Maybee leans forward, resting her chin on her arms over the back of his seat. “College. We volunteered on a campaign together in 2008. Zach treated every phone call like it was life or death.”

“I was passionate,” Zach says, deadpan.

“He was a stress rash in khakis,” Maybee replies with a smirk. "A full-on campaign robot when I met him. I had to teach him how to make eye contact without looking like he was apologizing for existing.”

“Best thing I ever learned,” Zach admits.

“I was skeptical at first,” she adds. “Then I watched him keep his cool when a lobbyist spilled coffee on his entire field plan. Figured he might be worth keeping around.”

“She once rewrote a press release I spent three days on, in twenty minutes, while eating a bagel. And it was better.”

Bucky cracks a smile, shaking his head. “You’re a little terrifying.”

“Thank you,” she says sweetly.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm as the game plays on. Maybee stealing Zach’s popcorn, Bucky muttering commentary under his breath, the crowd roaring as the Mets hit a double.

Eventually, at the top of the ninth, she leans in again, her voice low.

“Look, the campaign? It’s a mess. I’m not gonna pretend it’s not. But people don’t want perfection. They want honesty. Real. You don’t have to be shiny. You just have to be you.”

“And you think a ballgame does that?” Bucky asks, still watching the field.

“No,” she says. “But it’s a start. You seem relaxed. You smiled without looking like there was a gun to your head. Someone’s already tweeting about how you fist-bumped a teenager in the snack line.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I have witnesses.”

Bucky shakes his head with a quiet chuckle, then glances back at her. “So why’d you agree to this job? With me?”

Maybee doesn’t answer right away. She watches a foul ball sail over third base, then shrugs.

“Honestly? I stopped doing campaigns a while ago. Last guy I worked for called himself a ‘man of the people’ while accepting checks from a defense contractor. I told him to eat his own talking points. Haven’t done one of these since. But Zach said you were… different.”

Bucky blinks, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“Different how?”

She tosses him another peanut. “Haven’t figured that out yet. But I’m here, aren’t I?”

He turns to look at her. “You’re good at this.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Another crack of the bat. The crowd leaps to its feet.

Maybee just grins. “Play your cards right and by next week, you’ll be America’s favorite tragic ex-assassin turned wholesome Mets fan. And we'll take it from there.”

------

It's Monday morning and the campaign office is too quiet.

That’s the first thing Bucky notices as he walks in, nursing a fresh coffee and an even fresher sense of dread. It’s early. Earlier than usual. But he wanted to be there before Maybee arrived for her first day.

He fails.

“Morning,” Maybee calls from the center of the room, already halfway through unpacking a tote bag filled with color-coded folders, three different highlighters, and what looks suspiciously like a travel-sized whiteboard.

No heels, no power suit. Instead, she's in a loose blazer over a soft tee, sleeves pushed to the elbows, her whole look built for motion, not intimidation. Relaxed but still sharp. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need starch to be taken seriously.

“Mia, that latte’s yours.”

Bucky stops in the doorway.

“You didn’t bring me one?” he jokes, raising his coffee with mock offense.

She glances at him over her shoulder. "Didn’t know your order. You look like a black coffee and suppressed emotions kind of guy."

Zach walks past with a croissant in his mouth and two legal pads under his arm. "She’s not wrong."

“Team meeting in five,” he announces. “Bring caffeine and your last known will to live. We’re starting over.”

The conference room fills up quickly. The energy is cautious but alert. Everyone’s been bracing for another Kassandra—someone who weaponizes their business card.

Instead, they get Maybee.

She walks to the head of the table and sets her folders down with a soft thud. Three others follow her in and begin distributing notepads and color-coded documents.

“Hi all, I’m Maybee. I’ll be taking over communications. I know Kassandra’s departure was sudden and, based on the energy in this room, traumatic. But we’re not here to relive that. We’re here to rebuild. And I don’t work alone.”

She gestures behind her. “This is Sean Navarro, press coordinator and former union liaison. If he looks tired, it’s because he’s been on the phone since 6am. He’s the one you want in a media firestorm.”

Sean offers a two-fingered salute, already scanning the room for the nearest outlet.

“Lily Tran, digital strategy. She’s been trending three different candidates in the last year without once setting foot in a TV studio. If you see her making memes, let her cook.”

Lily throws a peace sign and sits cross-legged in a swivel chair, opening a laptop covered in political stickers and cryptic jokes.

“And Jonah Fields, speechwriter. He’s quiet, cardiganed, and once wrote a housing policy that made a sitting senator cry. If you hand him a draft, he will return it better.”

Jonah nods politely, already jotting notes with a mechanical pencil.

Maybee smiles. “They’re here because they believe in this campaign. Or at least in dragging it out of the swamp it’s been stuck in.”

“Before we begin,” she continues, clicking open a dry-erase marker with a flourish—only for the cap to fly off and land directly in Zach’s coffee.

“Apologies. That felt personal.”

Zach sighs and retrieves the cap.

She makes her way to the whiteboard and in bold black letters, writes:

THE HONEST STRATEGY

“Kassandra’s approach,” she begins, “was to take a man with a complicated past, strip him of personality, and repurpose him into a slick-talking meat suit in a blazer. What we in the business call ‘the standard tragedy-polish package.’”

She underlines it once. Hard.

“I’ve read the decks. I’ve seen the speeches. What you have right now is a candidate who looks like he’s trapped in someone else’s idea of electability.”

Zach winces. A few staffers murmur in agreement.

“She wanted to control the narrative by flattening it. Make James Barnes a blank canvas.”

She turns to the team. “That ends today.”

Returning to the white board, she scrawls:

WE TELL THE FUCKING TRUTH.

“Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to make people give a damn. That means no more forced soundbites. No more suits that make him look like a hedge fund villain. No more photo ops where he shakes hands with people who want his autograph, not his policy.”

Someone pipes up, cautiously. “So… what do we do?”

Maybee grins. “We show the truth. We show the guy who fist-bumps teenagers and hates being called a hero. Who still roots for a team that abandoned his city because loyalty means something to him.”

She looks directly at Bucky. Doesn’t say anything. Just a quiet nod.

He doesn’t flinch, but it hits something in him anyway.

“James Barnes is not just another guy in a suit. He’s a vet. He’s a Brooklyn native. He’s someone who’s been through hell and decided to come back anyway. So here’s the new plan: no more pretending. No more political theater. We show the public who he actually is.”

The room is quiet.

“And what about the... y'know... baggage?” someone pipes up.

“Good,” Maybee says, without missing a beat. “We own it. That’s what makes him different. People are tired of polish. They want someone who’s fucked up and knows it.”

Zach finally speaks. “In summary, no more Kassandra-style media training, everyone.”

“God, no,” Maybee replies. “Let’s aim for human, not hologram.”

She turns to Bucky. “You good with that?”

He doesn’t answer for a beat. But he meets her eyes.

"You really think people want the truth? They want the guy from the headlines. The war stories." He turns his gaze to his hands in his lap. "Not what's underneath."

“Then let’s give them both. Start slow. The rest will follow.”

He meets her gaze.

And then nods.

She nods back, then looks around the room. "We’re going ahead with the town hall tomorrow night as planned. No delays, no hiding. This is our shot to reset the tone, and we’re going to do it on our terms."

The team straightens in their seats. Mia grabs her pen. Sean’s already typing something into Slack. Lily leans over to Jonah and whispers, “We’re gonna need new merch.”

“Alright,” Maybee says, grabbing a fresh marker. “Let’s get to work.”

------

The office has thinned out, but it’s not empty. A few staffers linger in corners, typing furiously or arguing softly over spreadsheets. Overhead lights have been dimmed in half the bullpen, and the smell of reheated takeout hangs in the air.

Bucky and Maybee are holed up in his office, the door propped open, a half-drunk coffee growing colder by the minute. Zach had ducked out an hour ago for his kid’s school concert—something about a recorder solo and mandatory applause—but swore he’d be back before midnight.

Bucky sits across from Maybee as she flips through a draft of his old talking points with the face of someone grading an essay written by a robot.

“Okay,” she says, scribbling something on the margins. “You don’t talk like this.”

“It’s supposed to sound—”

“Professional?” she cuts in. “Sure. But you also sound like you hate every word. Let’s try sounding like a person.”

She picks up the draft and starts reading aloud: “My fellow New Yorkers, it is my intention to approach this campaign with integrity, compassion, and transparency.” She stops. “You hear that? That’s nothing. That’s the equivalent of background music in a CVS.”

“It’s supposed to protect me. You think I want to relive my not-so-greatest hits at a community center Q&A?”

“No. But I think if you don’t, someone else will. And they’ll get it wrong.”

Bucky lets his head fall back against his chair with a groan of frustration.

Maybee caps her pen and stands. “Alright. This isn’t working. We need a change of scenery.”

He lifts his head. “Like… outside?”

“Like your apartment.”

He stares at her. “What?”

“I need to see how you live. If I’m writing for you, I need to know what you’re like when you’re not drowning in paperwork and PR emails.”

“I feel like this is crossing a line.”

“Then I will respectfully cross it with takeout,” she says, already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Call it candidate research. Or a mild invasion of privacy. I'll update Zach on the way."

—

Bucky opens the door with his shoulder, arms full of files and the last remnants of a half-eaten sandwich. Maybee steps in after him, tossing her bag onto the entry table and immediately scanning the place like she’s gathering intel.

His apartment is quiet—modest but lived-in. A few plants near the window that Zach definitely waters. Books stacked in uneven towers. The Mets cap hanging on a coat rack. No art, but a black-and-white photo of Brooklyn from the 40s sits framed near the kitchen.

Maybee circles once. “You know, I imagined something more… bunker-y.”

“I take offense to that,” Bucky mutters, kicking off his shoes.

“No, it’s nice. Quiet. Sparse in that tragic kind of way. Very guy who keeps his trauma in his sock drawer.”

She moves toward the shelves, tilting her head at the mix of world history and cookbooks. Just as she reaches for a volume labeled The Greatest Songs of the Last 50 Years, a low thud lands near her feet.

A large white cat has appeared, staring up at her with narrowed blue eyes.

“Jesus—” Maybee jumps back. “You didn’t say you had a cat.”

“I don’t. She has me,” Bucky replies, dropping his files on the coffee table. “That’s Alpine. She hates people.”

“Aw, she takes after you.”

Alpine trots forward and immediately headbutts Maybee’s shin.

“Well, clearly she has taste,” she says, crouching down. “Hey, sweetie.”

Alpine lets her scratch behind her ear, then flops dramatically on her side like she’s the only person who’s ever understood her.

“I don’t believe this,” Bucky says.

“Me neither. I’m a dog person. But I’d die for this cat now.”

Bucky watches as Alpine purrs under her touch. “She’s never done that. Not once.”

“Maybe she thinks I’m a fellow stray.”

That gets a laugh out of him—soft, surprised. Maybee glances up and catches it.

“Alright,” she says, standing. “Let’s get to work before I adopt your cat and leave with all your secrets.”

They settle in on the floor near his coffee table. Maybee spreads out her legal pad, uncaps a pen, and starts reading through old messaging drafts like she’s grading someone else’s homework. Bucky leans against the couch, flipping through sticky-noted index cards.

About a half hour later Zach walks in carrying a tote bag and a file folder, pausing just inside the doorway like he’s walked into the wrong sitcom.

The coffee table is covered in draft note cards, old bullet points, and two containers of takeout—half-eaten dumplings and something that claimed to be lo mein but is mostly disappointment. Maybee paces aimlessly, muttering to herself. Bucky sits in an armchair, rubbing his temples methodically.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’ve completely abandoned the concept of boundaries.”

“Relax,” Maybee replies, flipping a card over. “We’re working. No candles, no jazz music.”

“I brought the updated event schedule. And beer. I figured if we were breaking into each other’s homes now, alcohol was the least I could offer." Zach vanishes into the kitchen.

"Also, in case you’re wondering? My kid’s concert was seventy-five minutes of unmedicated recorder solos. I deserve combat pay.” He calls out.

“We rewrote half the town hall talking points,” she shouts back.

“He let you rewrite them?”

“More like she bullied me into it.”

“With results,” Maybee says around a mouthful of dumpling.

Zach glances between them and raises an eyebrow. Bucky ignores it, focusing on the index card in his hand like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Alpine peeks out from her perch near Maybee, just enough to glare at Zach, before retreating down the hall.

“I don’t know what’s weirder,” Zach says. “That Bucky’s letting you rewrite his speeches or that the weird snow cat likes anyone but him.”

“The cat knows what’s up,” Maybee says, tossing Bucky a half-smile.

Bucky shakes his head and picks up a note card, handing it to Zach.

“You really think this’ll work?” he asks.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "I’m thinking we’ve got two options tomorrow. Go up there and give people the version of you that’s been manufactured over the last two months… or tell the truth.”

“And what if the truth doesn’t play well in headlines?”

She pauses in her pacing, studies him like she’s weighing how much truth he’s willing to hear.

“Then maybe the problem isn’t the headlines.”

There’s a long beat. Bucky watches her with something unreadable in his expression—half skepticism, half reluctant admiration.

“Come here,” she says, flopping down and patting the back of the couch.

“What for?”

“Speech therapy.”

“I swear to God—”

“Just do what she says,” Zach interjects.

He does, mostly out of curiosity. She hands him a blank index card.

“What is this?”

“It’s your answer for when someone inventively asks the 'why are you running' question.”

He flips it over. Blank. “Real funny.”

“I’m serious. You know the story. You’ve told it before, even if you’ve tried to bury the parts that don’t look nice in a press packet. I want you to tell it again. Not to a crowd. Not to a camera. Just to us.”

He leans back, arms folded, the blank card untouched in his hand. His voice is low but steady.

“I didn’t get into this thinking I could fix everything. I’m not that naive. But I’ve seen what happens when the system breaks people. When it chews them up and spits them out. I’ve been that person. Hell, I am that person.”

Maybee doesn’t interrupt.

“I know what it feels like to be a number in a file. A threat assessment. A problem to be contained. There are a lot of people out there who feel the same—like the system was built without them in mind. Or worse, built against them.”

He takes a breath, eyes flicking to her for the briefest moment.

“If I can take everything I’ve done, everything I’ve lived through, and use it to make that system even a little more human? That matters to me. I don’t need to be forgiven. I just want to be useful. And not because someone pointed me at a target this time. But because I chose it. Because it's mine.”

Maybee watches him for a moment. Something in her expression softens—not pity, not awe, just a quiet kind of recognition.

“If you say that,” she says finally, voice gentler now. “Really say it—out loud, in front of people? They’ll show up. Maybe not all at once. But they’ll come.”

She smiles faintly, sets her legal pad down.

“Let's keep going.”

The room lingers in that silence as they work through the night. The dumplings are cold. Alpine has passed out on a windowsill. Zach has long since migrated to the couch and is snoring softly beneath a campaign spreadsheet he gave up trying to explain.

Maybee glances at the time. Nearly two in the morning.

“All right, time to call it,” she murmurs from where she’s now stretched out on the floor, surrounded by loose note cards and cold dumplings. “The super soldier needs his beauty rest for tomorrow.”

Bucky scoffs. “You’re assuming I sleep.”

“Okay, well, I need beauty rest. And your cat has judged me thoroughly and found me worthy, so I’d like to leave on a high note.”

She stands, brushing crumbs off her slacks, and shrugs into her coat. Bucky moves to walk her to the door out of habit—an old instinct, maybe, or just the quiet pull of wanting to extend the moment a little longer.

At the door, she glances back toward the living room. Zach is snoring softly from the couch, arms crossed over a campaign folder that’s half-fallen onto the floor.

“We should let him sleep. I think that concert rewired his nervous system.”

Bucky nods. “He’s earned it.”

Maybee lingers, fingers curled around the doorknob.

“One last thing,” she says, quieter now. “When you’re up there tomorrow and you feel like running? Don’t look at the cameras.”

She pauses, eyes catching his.

“Look for me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tenses and softens all at once gives him away.

"Not Zach, he'll have enough anxiety radiating off of him to power half the city."

Then she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Bucky standing there, blank index card still in hand, Alpine asleep in the window, and something warm settling heavy in his chest.

[mayvnwrites]

Fox demon sy au, except more demon and less uwu.

After dying due to expired food, SY wakes up as a fox demon with a natural affinity to poisons and poisoning. He is unamused at the irony, thanks, but at the same time... he IS kind of in some chaotic demon realm adjacent like place and needs all the help he can get, so ... thanks?

His transmigration even came with a subspace for drying and preserving herbs and ingredients, and an encyclopedic manual of all the possible tinctures, ingredients, and handling procedures installed into his brain.

Pretty adequate, although the subspace can only take medicinal ingredients and can't be used for growing/raising ingredients, and the manual is so massive SY feels like it will take decades to read. (Spoilers: it does take decades to read)

Cool, SY thinks, I can be a wandering apothecary and stuff - but of course things don't turn out like that, because why wouldn't this world be full of poisonous plants that require... um ... *alternative* methods of healing.

After the fifth time someone tries to force SY to cure someone with papapa, he says fk it and, unable to escape in more conventional ways, he poisons his way out of the demon lord's castle.

SY is also beginning to understand which world he's been transmigrated to and is cursing a "Master Airplane" under his breath nonstop as he stomps angrily away from rando demon lord's territory, almost no guilt in his heart because the dude and his vassals eat people and are *assholes*.

SY starts using the direct method (aka poison) in refusing persistent inquisitors that want help he's unwilling to give (whether it's papapa or just a matter of principle) and slowly becomes known more for poisoning than cures. Doesn't help that SY has evolved from death-poisons to poisons that would make you wish you were dead.

Soon SY is known as a fox who would rather kill you than speak to you.

At first SY feels upset about this, because after all that work curing people, killing people is what he's known for? But eventually he's like, whatever gets people to stop bothering me~.

After decades, SY has embraced getting his way with his pretty face and poisonings, becoming a bit of a naughty foxy, and is enjoying his life away from the plot and with much less harrassment by the demons.

He's gained the title of Poisonous Shoutao (longevity peach), and his reputation as a venomous fox demon who could cure whatever ails you but would rather poison you has grown far and wide (as well as his foxy bewitching ways as he gloats over poisoning you).

SY has a long list of admirers and haters alike, including those grateful for his healing and those who want revenge for his poisonings, but what good demon *doesn't* have an enemy or 20?

And then one of his haters sets him up to be the scapegoat of a rash of poisonings in some human communities, and suddenly SY is the target of some pony-tailed pretty boy head disciple from Cang Qiong with a mole, who hasn't realized that the Poisonous Shoutao is outside of his capabilities... after paralyzing the boy, SY thinks about just ending the kid but... well, SY has used his pretty face to sway others before, but this is the first time he's been swayed by a pretty face.

B-besides, it's probably better to avoid making enemies of Cang Qiong, no matter where in the plot they are right now! So SY just teases the kid until the kid's practically steaming (out of anger? or...), reveals he's NOT the culprit, and disappears into the night with a faint scent of nightshade lingering behind.

Expecting it all to be done and dusted after that, SY is surprised to find out that the pretty boy now has a vendetta against him and has sworn to take him down.

Cue cat-and-mouse interactions all over the two realms with a poisonous (and slightly flirty) fox demon chased by a serious (but easily flustered - at least when it comes to a certain fox) young cultivator.

[harunovella]

──🎸★ ˙ ̟ you make my heavy metal heart beat.ᐟ sylus's version

sum: after a rough encounter with paparazzi, the executives of your team decide you need to shift the negative attention elsewhere. their solution? date the most wealthiest model with the world at his feet. worst part is? you absolutely can't stand his guts... right? - a model!sylus x rockstar fem!reader au cw: (one sided) enemies to lovers, fake relationship, reader is a bit of a brat shhh, pet names, denial of feelings, kissing/making out, breast/cl!t play, p in v, light spanking... 18+ mdni! an: it's lengthy (9k+ words)! find the full lads!men x goth!gf series here.ᐟ

"You're telling me... I have to bend for these people all because I was supposedly in the wrong for defending myself?!" You shook your head as you stood before your executives, the people in charge of your career.

To make the long story short, you were in the midst of leaving an after party when a group of paparazzis got out of hand and you were lost in a sea of people. One of them, with their pea sized brain (and other body parts), thought it was funny to "fall" and pull out his camera to get a shot of what you had underneath your skirt. You, of course, didn't sit still. You basically pummeled the guy to an almost bloody pulp and... well, this is where you were now. Sitting in a conference room at the top of a skyscraper where your management's team was held. 

"That sick fuck was trying to snap photos of my panties!" You snapped, slamming your palms against the cold, wooden surface of the table you sat at. "His dick should've been stomped on and I definitely should've broken his nose if your sorry excuse of bodyguards didn't pull me off of him!" 

"You know we can't have that," one of the executives spoke up, shaking their head with arms crossed. 

"Bullshit, if a man fought off paparazzi for doing something like this to them, let alone to anyone around them, you all would applaud that!" You huffed, now crossing your arms as you leaned back in your seat, rolling your eyes in disbelief. 

"That's not the case—"

"This is absurd, I can't believe this," you grumbled, looking out one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows, eyeing the various towering buildings that surrounded. 

"You have a new album releasing soon, plus, presale for your upcoming tour. We can't have this negative attention towards you," another man spoke as you took in a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart and burning skin. You were livid.

"Do you know how many praised my reaction?" You said, shifting your eyes back to the group of men seated before you.

"Do you know how many of our financial supporters are displeased with your behavior?" The third man in the group countered, earning a gasp from you.

Disgust wasn't enough to describe what you were feeling. These people were supposed to have your back, they weren't supposed to care about what anyone thought other than possibly your fans—but, mainly, yourself! "So, what? Am I going into timeout as my punishment?"

"No," the first man who had spoken up cleared his throat. "We have a solution to clear your image. To shift their attention."

Scoffing, you tilted your head, arching an eyebrow, "yeah? What bright idea is that?"

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"You've got to be kidding me..." You groaned, as a man took the spot before you. Dressed to the nines in only the finest quality of high fashion. Jewelry that cost way more than a single sports car. Hair combed to perfection. Eyes so red it felt as if you were looking into a pair of rubies. "So this was their bright idea?" A mumble left your gritted teeth.

When you were informed that there was a solution to such a nonexistent problem, you assumed it would've been some sort of community service... Maybe work at an animal shelter, donate goods to lower income communities, or even visit some fans as a surprise. Not a blind date with a man who was quite possibly one of the richest people in the damn universe.

Someone who had zero capability with you.

Sylus... One of the biggest topics on all social media platforms. Everyone loved him or wished to be him. He was the hottest, most elegant, sexy and mysterious models of all time. He didn't come from money, but he basically built his own empire and landed his spot in the top 5 most wealthiest individuals. Only 28 years old and he was already a billionaire. Modeling for every high end brand, on the cover of every fashion magazine. People begged him to promote their products, and it was heavily rumored that he decided who, what, when and where he'd be used for these companies. It was nearly impossible not to see his face everywhere. On every billboard, in every shopping mall. Bus wraps, posters, magazine covers, you name it. His face was there. He was the embodiment of high fashion and prosperity.

Then there was you. 

You, on the other hand, were (in simple terms) a rockstar. Your music was groundbreaking, not just because you were a woman, but because you pushed past boundaries. Destroyed any rules that defined a genre. You were either really loved or really hated. You didn't care, you spoke your mind and took no shit. You've been known to leave interviews midway if you were disrespected just because people didn't understand the rock genre or what you contributed to the music world. There were princesses of pop, kings of country, legends of genres and you? You were known as the trouble maker. People assumed you did things to piss people off. When, in reality, you hated being a puppet. You wanted to be yourself. Genuine and true, no lies to hide behind. 

So, this? Being put in a false relationship just to "save your image"? It was eating you up alive. 

Sharing an intimate dinner at one of the most expensive restaurants in town, posing to be on a secret date with a man you only knew the bare minimum of? It was absurd. It felt as if a regal, white wolf, was courting a rebellious, black, street cat. Not that there was anything wrong with that image, but it was the fact that you two were polar opposites. 

"I'm going to throw up," you mumbled.

"Please don't," Sylus spoke up, not even bothering to make eye contact with you as he grabbed the menu. Eyeing it with his rimless, overpriced eyeglasses, hanging low on the bridge of his nose. 

"Not literally," you rolled your eyes, picking up your menu and trying to discreetly hide behind it. "I can't believe I have to do this... Date you? It's so unlike me."

Settling his menu down, Sylus tilted his head, "might I ask what's so wrong with me?"

Peeking over the menu, you squinted your eyes, "you're you, duh." Closing your menu and lying it on your lap, you crossed your arms. "We do not match, we are not compatible," you gestured between the two of you. Where Sylus was dressed in a white blazer-black under shirt, with all sorts of jewelry attached to and hanging from his outfit and waist... you were in all black leather. Black asymmetrical gloves, mismatched rings spread throughout your fingers, an array of hoops and chains on your ears; thigh high heeled boots, a high slit dress that fell off your shoulders... you might as well had been going to some BDSM convention.

"You hardly know me," Sylus raised a brow. 

Huffing, you drummed your fingers against your arm, "I'd like to keep it like that."

Smirking, the man before you shook his head, "well, aren't you just a bag full of sunshine and rainbows, huh, kitten?"

"Don't call me that," you hissed, glaring at him. This only earned a chuckle from him... and a subtle blush from you, in return. 

Sighing, Sylus leaned in, his smirk growing into a grin as he caught your chin. Shifting his eyes to the right of him, where he could easily spot paparazzi lurking, hiding in plain sight, the crimson eyed man muttered, "too late for that, kitten. It looks like I'm doing my part just fine." Winking at you, Sylus earned a gasp from you, your blush deepening the moment his mouth met your cheek in a gentle kiss. Then, he leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear, "I suggest you do yours, it's not only your reputation but mine and I'd rather not see mine get damaged because of your carelessness, kitten." Feeling you shivering against his grip, the way your breath hitched and how your eyes widened, Sylus blew into your ear, "the paparazzi are watching. Be a good girl and behave."

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"I hate him!" You stomped your foot, fists balled before you began to pace before your coffee table. "He's so— He's so arrogant! A real prick!" Shaking your head, you ground your teeth in frustration.

"I think he's handsome!" Tara, your best friend, nodded as she sat beside Jenna, your manager, on your living room couch. 

"Now, now, this is just an act. Remember that," Jenna said your name.

"For how long?" You groaned, stopping mid-pace as you turned to face her.

Sighing, Jenna crossed her arms, "until things smooth over. Once your album is out and the tour sales have been made, you should be good to go."

"That's going to take forever," you whined, plopping between the two.

"Just keep up the act, I'm sure if you do this right, it'll be over in no time!" Tara nodded, giving you two thumbs up. "You just gotta picture him as your celebrity crush instead, you can do that, right? It can just be a fantasy in your head... except Sylus's face isn't his, make it—"

"You've taken a few acting roles, pretend this is one of them," Jenna added as you sighed.

"You can do this, I believe in you!" Tara clapped her hands, smiling brightly at you.

"Your optimism... is blinding, Tara," you grumbled, leaning back and resting your wrist on your forehead. 

"I try my best," she giggled. 

With a pat on your head, Jenna stood up. "She's right, just put your best face on. It'll be done before you know it."

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You did as you were told. Or, at least, tried to. You tried morphing Sylus's face into another man's whenever you two were out on dates. It only worked up until he opened his mouth. Always a snarky remark that had your blood boiling. It was hard, quite possibly the hardest task you've ever had to complete. When you were out in public, you let him hold your hand, wrap an arm around you, kiss your head... and when you were behind closed doors, you shoved him off of you, your mask falling as you went back to sulking.

Sylus laughed every single time. He found it amusing.

You hated that.

As time progressed, and days became weeks, you started seeing yourself on all those billboards, posters, and magazine covers... just, not alone. With Sylus. Countless photoshoots, endless interview requests. On television, in articles, voices on a podcast... It was insufferable. Who knew it took dating the world's biggest model to be on the cover of Vogue?

It was quite possibly one of the most nerve-wracking moments over your career. Sitting in front of those cameras, dozens of eyes upon you... Sylus sitting so close to you that you felt his body heat radiating off of him. You just wanted this all to be done. This was the most you've ever been seen on camera with any partner you've ever had. You kept your private life just that—no one was entitled to know what went on in your life.

"It's so good to finally see you again, Sylus," the interviewer smiled, teeth so white they were blinding. "It's been so long since you did an interview with us! Usually you're just on the cover and we get to speak to you on the phone, not in person." 

Your heart was in your throat, not only were you being watched by so many people you had never met before—let along people who looked at you as if you were an alien—your skin also prickled with annoyance. The woman, who you didn't bother listening to when she introduced herself, hardly acknowledged your presence. As if it was a one on one interview and you were just a speck of dust. You felt yourself drifting, not even Jenna could snap you back to reality from behind the camera. You wanted it to be over and done, wanted to go home and scream into a pillow, maybe even run away for good.

That was until you felt a hand slip into your own; Sylus's left fingers interlocking with your right ones, giving them a small squeeze. Your heart skipped a beat when you shifted your eyes towards him, watching the way he brought your knuckles to his lips and kissed every single one of them. Eyes locked onto your own as he did so. You swore your soul left your body in that moment. "Enough about me, I'd like to talk about my sweetheart," he softly spoke, eyes gazing into your own. "This is an interview about us, after all, hmm?"

Gulping, you blinked several times before nodding, "uh huh..."

"Right," the woman cleared her throat. "Well, why don't you tell us a little bit about your... first encounter?"

"Encounter?" Sylus arched an eyebrow, turning his head slowly towards the interviewer. "She isn't some specimen I discovered."

"No! Of course not! I meant... how you two first met!" The blonde panicked, swallowing hard at Sylus's terrifying gaze. 

"Right," Sylus grinned, the look in his eyes sending a shiver not only down the woman's spine—but yours as well. "Well, I'd rather keep that moment between us. But, I will say, it was obvious to me the moment we first met. I knew I had found the one." He said, looking back at you, still holding your hand tightly in his own. "I never thought I'd find someone so... different to be my everything."

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"He's such an ass," you growled, pausing the interview on your television screen.

"Why?" Jenna asked, grabbing the remote and continuing the video.

"He called me different! I know what he meant!" Shaking your head, you crossed your arms and pouted.

Letting out a small chuckle, she gestured to you as a whole, "he isn't wrong."

"Don't agree with him!" You snapped, pulling your oversized hoodie over your head, the graphic printed on the front nearly impossible to read. You weren't even sure as to what it said, yourself, you just liked the crazy design. "He was belittling me."

"Jenna, how long until this is done?" Tara asked, breaking her silence as she was hypnotized by images of Sylus on her phone. "Maybe I can be his next fake girlfriend—"

"Hey!" You exclaimed, snatching her phone away. "Stop looking him up on google!"

"What? He's the world's hottest model for a reason!" She fired back, trying to pull her phone away from your grip. 

Watching the two of you wrestle, Jenna pressed her palm against her forehead, shaking her head. "Not soon enough..."

Hearing the YouTube video change to something relating to pop culture, how they brought up your name and how everything was about your relationship with Sylus, you handed Tara her phone back. "Didn't something happen a couple months ago? With her and a paparazzi?" One of the people in the video said. 

"I don't remember, I'm so hooked on her relationship with Sylus! Who knew opposites really could attract?" A man had said. 

"Maybe it's all a ploy for us to forget about how she absolutely destroyed that guy—"

Rolling your eyes at the hosts, you shut off the TV. "At least its starting to die down..."

"Yes, we just need to make sure these rumors also dissipate. Can't have them thinking it's an act... You're going to have to do more interviews and dates with Sylus. Probably daily."

"Daily?! I can't possibly see him daily! I hate how smug he is, he's so full of himself—" your rant went on deaf ears, Jenna and Tara could almost recite everything you complained about, word for word. It was getting old; they, themselves couldn't wait until the fake dating had ended. 

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It felt like you finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel the moment your newest album was released. It was just one step closer to your freedom, to going back to how things originally were. "I can't believe I'm more relieved than excited to have my new album out," you smiled, taking a sip from the glass you had been holding. Jenna had planned a release party at a rooftop bar to celebrate your new album. Nothing but great drinks, tasty food, solid music and the best company. You felt like you could finally breathe. 

That was until Sylus walked in. 

Before you could even utter a single word, Tara slid into your line of vision. "He's your boyfriend, remember that!"

"But he's not—"

"Shh! Press is here! Did you forget? Or did you choose to ignore that fact?" She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at you. 

"...the latter," you confessed. You just wanted to enjoy one night, one night away from the lie—you felt like you were living a double life. 

"Just play nice, okay? He's here because he has to be, just like you have to be at his events, it's a two way street," Tara reminded you.

"Fine," you sigh, forcing your muscles to loosen up. It was your night. It was your moment to shine. Nothing was going to ruin that.

You put your best fake smile on, rushed up to him like a lovesick girl and tugged him into a tight embrace. The people loved it and apparently that was all that mattered. You took his hand in yours and guided him to the bar, downing several drinks (more than you should've) and took a ton of photos for your socials.

"Hi, everyone," Jenna's voice boomed, a mic held in her hand as she held a filled glass in her other. "I'd like to take this moment to congratulate the star of tonight's show and honor her for yet another successful album..." You turned in your seat to face her before Sylus took your hand, guiding you to the front of the crowd as she carried on with her speech. You couldn't help but giggle, blaming it on the alcohol in your system. Jenna was rather stoic and hardly showed emotions, but seeing her tear up had you feeling all fuzzy inside. You knew you'd tease her after about it, but, for the moment, you were cheering her on for being the best manager ever. "Okay, okay, enough of that... Before we continue the festivities, I'd like to bring up someone on stage."

Furrowing your eyebrows, you eyed the area. Was it going to be Tara? You doubted it, Jenna was very strategic with these things, and if she knew any better, she wouldn't bring your best friend up or she would go hours yapping about her love for you (you didn't mind, you loved her deeply).

"Sylus, would you come up here?" The crowd gasped as your eyes widened. Feeling his hand slip from yours, you quickly caught his wrist with a warning look.

"Don't worry, kitten, I won't ruin your night," he winked, your hand sliding from his wrist as you watched him approach Jenna. You swore your heart was at your throat.

"Good evening, everyone," he greeted as he had taken the microphone from Jenna. "I won't take up too much of your time as I'm sure you all are just as eager to listen to the album all over again as I am..." you watched him with a racing heart, swallowing the lump in your throat, praying he would keep his word. "Thank you, Jenna, for letting me come up here to speak about my beautiful, talented, and utterly astonishing girlfriend," Sylus then said your name. "I know I haven't known her for as long as many of you have, but like all of you, I'm a huge fan, first and foremost." Everyone laughed at that. You stiffened. "However, I've grown to know her in ways you all haven't. I can't help but be selfish about that. To know all the sides that there is to her. I truly feel like the luckiest man alive. Though a lot of her music has her screaming," he laughed, "she also has the voice of an angel when she sings. I'll admit, I ask her to sing to me often, it's rather soothing. I also can't help but feel jealous. I have a rather... questionable voice, myself, so when it comes to singing together, she has the patience to allow me to do so. One of the many reasons why I love her."

Your heart sank at that. Love? He had not once mentioned that word in any interviews before. Why was he trying so hard? You hoped no one saw through that.

"My little rockstar," Sylus then turned to face you, "I don't want to make you nervous or air out our relationship..." you gasped. What was he doing? "But I can't help but fall deeper in love with you with each passing day. I am so proud of you, so proud of the gift you share with us, and so proud of the woman you are. I wish you nothing but success on this new album and I can't wait to see you perform it live on tour," lifting his glass, everyone did the same, "to my sweetie."

Everyone then cheered your name.

You were frozen still, didn't notice Sylus handing the mic back to Jenna, didn't notice him approaching you. You were so lost in the sound of your racing heart you hadn't even acknowledged the fact that his arm was around your waist, dipping you into a sweet kiss until he pulled away. Your first shared kiss. A kiss everyone now had saved on their phones and cameras. You and Sylus made sure your PDA was very limited, no one had ever seen you two do anything more than hug, hold one another, or kiss each other's cheeks. "Congratulations, kitten."

"Sylus! You two! Please, can we take some photos of you?" Various voices called out as Sylus turned you to face the cameras, holding you close to his chest. You were lost in a daze, lost in the feel of his lips against your own that you swore you were seeing double.

It was something your mind couldn't and wouldn't let go of. Not at signings, not during your press tours, and definitely not in your dreams. It was all you were thinking about and you hated how not only his kiss, but his speech, was consuming you whole. Even when Sylus made his surprise appearances during your interviews, your annoyances morphed into something far more dangerous: nervousness. You were so shaky, super jumpy whenever he'd come into contact with you, even a simple brush of his knee to yours had you vibrating in your skin. 

What had he done to you? This wasn't like you!

It only got worse when the executives announced how pleased they were, seeing how successful things had gone, they believed all that was left was your ticket sales... once that was done, you would be free from this false relationship. 

And something dangerous that you didn't want to explore stirred in you.

"Are you okay?" Jenna asked.

"Huh? Yeah, why?" You forced a smile.

"You've been spacing out a lot lately. You don't seem so thrilled that your relationship with Sylus is almost coming to an end..." She furrowed her eyebrows, but you shook your head.

"Oh, no, I"m just tired. Super busy, y'know? It's exhausting," you awkwardly laughed as Jenna eyed you in pure speculation.

"Right, are you sure?" She questioned

Nodding your head, you sighed, "positive."

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You weren't behaving yourself, you knew this. As the days passed, as pre-sales got closer, you heart grew heavier, sinking deeper into the pit of your stomach. You hadn't seen Sylus as much, and you hated how your body was missing his warmth. His simple touches... The way he looked at you, even if it was fake.

Seated on a stool at the bar of a premium hotel, where Sylus's management was holding an event, you stared into the glass before you. You swished the liquid around, focus distant as your mind reeled with all that you had been feeling lately. This was so unlike you. You shouldn't feel so down, not when everything was looking up for you.

Breathing in deeply and taking the shot, you settled the glass, eyes drifting... suddenly landing on your supposed boyfriend. 

He stood in the distance under the low lights, near the floor to ceiling windows of the hotel bar. He toward over a woman before him, a blondie you almost recognized. She twirled her hair around her finger, batted her false lashes up at him as she moved in closer than one would deem as friendly. Sylus looked down at her, humoring whatever she had been saying. Why wasn't he pushing her away? Why wasn't he walking away?

Why did you care?

Something was churning in your gut and you did not like the feeling. It was in your chest, in your throat. It made your skin heat up. It had your eyes pricking with tears. You weren't jealous, you couldn't have been. He wasn't yours, not really. He was allowed to do whatever with whomever. Just like you... So why was watching the two interact tearing you apart?

Forcing your eyes away and flagging down the bartender, you downed more shots. One after the other until you almost lost count. Until you pushed yourself off of the barstool the moment you saw the blonde girl grab Sylus by his tie and tug him down. You covered your mouth, turned away and stumbled out. You swallowed hard, fought whatever the hell was building up in your chest and bursted through the balcony doors. A big mistake seeing as you and Sylus were everywhere in all sorts of ad campaigns and photoshoots. Tightening your grip on the railing, your eyes landed on a billboard with your album on it. Your jaw tightened, "just one more day... it's almost done." 

Closing your eyes, breathing in the night air from the towering building, you gasped the moment your mind pictured Sylus leaning in for the kiss. Your eyes flew open, shaking your head, trying to free it from the endless thoughts of him. He was all you saw and it was terrifying how he was consuming every fiber of your being.

Huffing, you made your way back inside, calling it a day and slipping past the crowd. You managed to go unseen as you nearly threw yourself into your private ride, kicking off your heels and tugging off the various hairpins that held your hairstyle up. Resting your head against the cold glass of the window, you sighed. "Just one more day..."

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You sat in your living room with your team, watching the analytics of your presale tickets going live. Everyone was cheering, celebrating yet another success. Sold out venues, dates added, people reacting online. Everything they wanted was coming true; it was a blessing for you as well, seeing the demand you had... your mind just wasn't all there. 

The executives clinked their glasses and raised them in a toast to you, to your talent, and to their successful plan. 

"Good news," one spoke up, "at this rate, your relationship with Sylus will come to an end soon. He's getting a lot of attention now that Fashion Week is coming, this plan has brought the event a lot of attendees. It's a win-win situation!" They continued on, but you tuned them out. You sat there with your knees pulled in, focus shifting from the climbing numbers, out to the skyline of your penthouse. You were happy, or at least, tried to be. It's what you wanted in the end, to have your freedom back... but why was it weighing so heavily on your chest?

That evening, the executives had your team and Sylus's gather at a private dinner. You picked at your food, pushing it around with your fork as they discussed the next steps, how things will go about, announcing the break up... so on and so forth. You hadn't notice Sylus was watching you, fixated on your deflated expression. He thought you would've been celebrating, getting buzzed off of bottomless champagne, yet, you sat there. Solemn. Quiet. Unlike yourself. He narrowed his eyebrows, studying you, the way you hadn't even lifted your head to tell him to fuck off for staring. 

"It was such a success that we want to do this again for Sylus," one of the men spoke up, your eyebrows furrowing. "All celebrities jump into their next relationships quick anyway. We have an up and coming model, her name is," your eyes widened, snapping your head in their direction as one of them lifted a tablet, presenting a picture of that girl who was all over Sylus the night before. 

You weren't jealous. No, you weren't. You would never be. He wasn't yours, he never was; it's what you kept telling yourself. You were just lonely, that was it. 

"She's already agreed to—"

"So that's it?" You broke your silence, earning everyone's attention. "You're gonna have him move on like it never happened?"

"Basically," another executive spoke. "That is Hollywood for you, doll."

Laughing maniacally, you shook your head. "Don't ever call me that again," you glared. "You people lack decency. All you care about are numbers. We aren't human to you, we're just pawns in your big scheme, huh?" Standing up, you snatched your phone from the table. "I'm out of here."

"Wait— We are—!" 

Ignoring them, and the way Jenna called out to you, you stormed out. You made a wise choice in using your own transportation, mounting your motorcycle and driving far away from that hell hole. 

You didn't know where you were going, you just rode into the night, up the mountain side until it felt right. You powered off your bike and tossed your helmet to a side. Climbing off, you took a few steps towards the cliff and plopped down, overlooking the city. "Stupid... Stupid, stupid, stupid!" You huffed. "Why do I care? It's so unimportant to me! He means nothing, we meant nothing! He could've stepped up for himself if he cared! He just— He's as twisted as the rest! No backbone just filled up with money like they're all damn stuffed animals!" Taking in a deep breath, you screamed at the top of your lungs in pure frustration before throwing yourself back, lying on the overgrown grass and staring up at the stars. "Why do I care..." you whispered into the night, feeling a pang in your chest as you thought about that other model. The blondie who looked so picture perfect, who looked like she was meant for Sylus, an image everyone would chew up for how gorgeous they were together. You hated to think it was a smart move pairing them up, they both were beautiful. You were out of his league and you hated to think about it that way. You loved yourself for being you, but why did you feel so... hurt?

Rubbing your eyes, not caring if your makeup was smudging, you then sighed. All you wanted to do was disappear, melt into the ground beneath you. 

"Well, that was a bit dramatic..."

Gasping, your eyes flew open. Sylus stood before you, leaning over your limp body and being the only thing in your line of vision. "You! What are you doing here?" Immediately sitting up, you pulled yourself away and looked up at him. "Did you... follow me?!"

"Yes," he shrugged. 

"Wha— Why?" You shook your head, scooting backwards even further, but Sylus took a step forward. 

"Because, you were right," he answered, slipping his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. 

"Huh?" You narrowed your eyes. 

"I don't agree on how they're handling things," the man before you confessed. 

"Then— Then why don't you say something you questioned. 

"Because, unlike a certain someone, I don't just jump and react. I have self control," he arched an eyebrow as your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, shamefully looking away. "I have a plan and I enjoy seeing their faces when things fall apart due to their greed."

Gulping, you looked back up at him, "kind of cryptic of you, but, okay..."

"I have no interest in being the ultimate face for false relationships. I have enough money to my name for several lifetimes. I don't need all these ploys for attention," Sylus continued. 

"Are you saying that I do?" You crossed your arms. 

"I'm saying your team is terrible and make poor decisions. The only sane one there is your manager. She's the one that actually cares about you. Those fools truly thought a fake relationship would help you," he scoffed. 

"Then... why did you agree? Why'd you get involved?" You asked in confusion. 

"What can I say?" He shrugged. "I enjoy your music, sweetie." Hearing your gasp in return, Sylus couldn't help but grin. "What? Didn't expect that? Oh, right, you see me as a shallow—"

"I didn't— I never said that!" You shook your head. 

Snickering, Sylus pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms, "I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Evil," you grumbled. 

"I have an idea," he said, unfolding his arms and tapping his forehead. 

"An idea... outside of this supposed plan?" You tilted your head. 

"Yes, just for you," Sylus nodded. 

"And what might that be?"

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You didn't think this supposed idea would be this grand. You expected some sort of payback but never to the level of Sylus announcing his own company—his own management team. You figured it was because he had the money to do so, but you were amazed he hadn't done so sooner. He announced during a talk show interview that you would be the first person to sign under his team—Onychinus Management. He expressed his beliefs, claiming he wanted to focus on improving lives for those who are poorly managed while being so incredibly talented. It wasn't just for models, it went for anyone. Actors, artists, anyone who needed managing. You being the first in the lineup was a big step for him, it encouraged many others to reach out to be a part of his team. To work for and with him. 

Of course, it wasn't a Sylus interview as of late if he hadn't brought you out. For once, you were your most genuine self on camera. Expressing your concern and sharing your experiences—even confessing to the world about your faux relationship—NDA's be damned. 

"So you two... never were a couple?" The host asked. 

"No," you shook your head as you were seated beside Sylus. 

"Oh, what a bummer, I'm sure I can speak for many of us and say we enjoyed seeing you two together," the woman nodded with a smile. "I rooted for the two of you!" The crowd then cheered. "But, I'm happy that you two aren't forced to do things you don't want to. I'm sure this helped blossom a strong friendship between you two."

Exchanging looks with Sylus, he gave you a small smile, "I'd like to think so."

After the interview was done and you said your goodbyes, you took Sylus's hand in your own, giving it a firm shake. "Good luck during Fashion Week."

Nodding, Sylus took in a small breath, "thanks. Good luck on your tour, kitten." 

Rolling your eyes at the pet name, and how he winked at you, you sighed. "You'll never let that go, huh?"

"Nope," he grinned. "I'll see you around."

Nodding, you slid your hand from his, hesitant in doing so. "Yeah, you two." You turned away and made your way out, looking over your shoulder to see Sylus standing there, watching you go. 

You couldn't help the flutter in your chest and the small smile on your face. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

It had been a while since you last heard or seen Sylus. Both of you were busy, schedules jammed pack with upcoming events. Every now and then, you'd see a new article or photo of him and you couldn't but let the butterflies run wild in your stomach. He was a handsome devil, you couldn't deny it. 

Scrolling through the numerous photos you took with him during your fake relationship, images you shared on your social media that had since been archived, you bit your bottom lip. You fought a smile at a particular image. Sylus had an arm around your shoulders, holding you to him as his other hand had smooshed your cheeks, kissing your nose. 

"You're on," Jenna's voice cut your recollections. 

Quick to lock your phone and hand it to her, you smiled, "guess it's that time already."

"Mhm, your fans are waiting for you," she said. "You're going to do a phenomenal job out there. You always do."

"Thanks, Jenna," reaching for your beloved guitar, you gave her one last look before making your way out. 

Letting your team do their last minute touch ups, you made your way under the stage and onto the lift, taking in deep breaths. You could hear the crowd cheering, calling your name. You closed your eyes in a silent prayer before you were brought up onto the stage. The music was blasting, your band was going hard and your fans were on another level of wild. Your heart raced, never getting used to moments like these. 

You've done this before. You've got this. 

As your eyes scanned the crowd, they did a sudden double take. You recognized those silver locks. That imposing figure, that... smirk that made your heart flutter, and—was he wearing a shirt with your face on it? You fought off a laugh before your fingers began to work your guitar. You'd ask him later why he was missing Fashion Week, once you gave the people what they deserved: one helluva show. 

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"Making your way out, hugging and high-fiving your crew, removing all the wires and ear pieces, everything that helped you perform—with your trusty guitar now safely stowed away—you made your way out. It was routine for you to go straight to your tour bus, especially if you were on the move for the next stop. If you had time to spare, you'd meet some fans, but the adrenaline rush was wearing thing and you had one goal in mind. 

You knew Jenna had a habit of leaving your phone in your assigned bus so you'd have it the moment you were ready to wind down and reach out to your dear family and friends... you just didn't expect to find the man you were planing to call, inside. "Sylus?"

"You were absolutely breathtaking out there, kitten," he grinned as you sighed. "Not surprised."

"Thank you," you smiled. "Have you been to one of my shows before?" You curiously asked. 

"Several," he admitted. 

"Oh?" Your eyebrows raised. 

"I did say I enjoy your music, didn't I?" He tilted his head as he took a few steps forward, stopping just before you. He pulled his hand out from his back, presenting you with a bouquet of bright red roses—ones that matched his stunning eyes. "For your opening night being an absolute success."

"Sylus, you didn't..." trailing off as he handed you the flowers, your eyes moved from the bouquet, back up to him. 

"You do represent me now, I have to praise talent," he teased and you couldn't help but chuckle. A sweet smile pulled at the corners of his lips, gazing down at you and the faint blush on your cheeks. Reaching over, he tucked some of your hair behind your ear before he held your chin between his fingers. "I mean it, you're fucking magnificent."

Clearing your throat, your eyes shift away, but with a little squeeze on your chin from Sylus, you looked back at him. "Thank you... but why are you here? Weren't you busy with Fashion Week?"

"I was, but I wanted to see you instead," he admitted. 

"Sylus?" You narrowed your brows. 

"Is it so wrong for a man to support a woman he likes?" He shook his head as your lips parted in awe, a faint huh? leaving you. "You can be so clueless, kitten."

"Hey!" You frowned, but Sylus laughed. It sent a shiver down your spine. You'd kill to hear it again. 

"While you were hating every second of our faux dates, I was cherishing them. I'll admit, I was captivated by you. Smitten, actually. You have no idea how much I thought about you when you weren't around. How much I loved having you close to me, even if you didn't want to be."

"Sy—"

"And this isn't an act," he shook his head. 

"I—"

"I also know you feel something, too. I saw how you reacted when that girl grabbed my tie unceremoniously. When they had said I was going to date somebody else that wasn't you. I saw it all," Sylus confessed as you swallowed. "Don't try and deny it. I'm right, aren't I? Tell me, sweetheart."

Blinking several times, you muttered, "you— you are."

He suddenly leaned in, lips inches from yours before whispering, "then, kiss me. Prove it to me that you feel the same way."

Your heart was in your throat, your head spinning at the situation at hand. Your body moved before you could even process it as you leaned into him, hands reaching and gripping onto his graphic tee. 

Sylus patiently waited, giving you the opportunity to back away, to turn him down. He waited for you to make the move, hoping his confession helped you make a decision. He may not have shown it, but his heart was racing faster than it had ever. The moment your lips finally met his own, his fingers twitched with the need to grab you, to feel you close. "Good girl," he breathed against your lips, hands resting on your hips, pressing you flush against him. A small whimper left you, your parted lips allowing him access to deepen the kiss. 

You moaned into the kiss when his tongue met yours, gliding and savoring the taste of your mouth. His hands began to wander, slipping towards your ass, cupping and gripping tightly onto your flesh. A small yelp escaped you when his hips bucked into yours. You could feel the hardness pressing into you that was confined behind his pants. "Sylus..." You breathed. 

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against your skin, kissing across your cheek—from your chin to the edge of your jaw. "Let me hear you."

A shiver was sent down your spine when his lips caressed your own, breath fanning across your skin as he awaited your response. "Bed... My bed..." You nudged your head in the direction of the bed on your tour bus. Sylus didn't hesitate to lift you up in his arms, lips never leaving your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck. Pushing past the curtain that hid your bed, Sylus settled you on your bed, removing your boots and settling them to a side before slipping off his own. Crawling on top of you, settling himself between your legs as he did so, Sylus continued his assault on your neck, finding that sweet spot that had you nearly rolling your eyes back.

Leaving marks in his wake, nibbling and licking the skin, Sylus hummed against you, "tell me to stop and I will."

"No," You shook your head, reaching for him, pulling him into a kiss. "Don't stop... I want this... I want you..." You breathed as Sylus gave you a small smile, the curve of his lips that had you swooning at such a simple sight.

He licked into your mouth, savoring your taste as his tongue met yours once again. He kept himself propped above you, not wanting to crush you just yet... However, your legs had a mind of their own, wrapping around his slim waist and trapping him against you. For a moment, Sylus lost his strength, nearly collapsing against you with wide eyes. The expression was quick, you almost missed seeing the sudden panic spread across his face, but, Sylus took this as an opportunity to flip you over. He was new pinned beneath you as you adjusted yourself to straddle him. "What?" He arched an eyebrow as you gaped at him. "Thought I'd have all the fun?" He asked, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Given your personality, I thought you would've made it hard to assert dominance... Yet, here you are, offering it to me on a silver platter." Pressing your palms against his hardened chest, Sylus snickered.

"I like having the front row view, sweetie. It's the best seat in the house, aside the one where I get to see you perform live. Maybe this can be your... private show?" He smirked as your heart skipped a beat. Oh, he was smooth. He seemed to know exactly what to say to have you speechless. "What do you say?"

Your actions spoke for you as you tugged off the shirt he wore, laughing at the sight of your face on it, "it's a rather sexy moment, but this is too much."

"What? Don't want her to watch?" Sylus teased as you tossed the shirt to a side.

"She'd rather perform," you said before you began to undress yourself. From unzipping your corset to slipping off your skirt, leaving you in just your panties and your sheer stockings, you straddled his waist once again. Sylus's hands began to caress your thighs, the bit of skin exposed from where your thigh highs ended, up until the seam of your thighs. "Cat got your tongue?"

Gazing up at you, taking in every inch of your exposed chest, Sylus licked his lips. "She certainly has." Feeling his large hands reach towards your ass, grabbing handfuls of your plush skin, he pulled you closer to him, nearly knocking you over as your hands settled beside either side of his head. "Absolutely stunning," he breathed at the sight of your breasts hovering before him. "May I?"

Eagerly nodding your head and humming, you took in a sharp breath as his mouth met your bare skin. Kissing along your mounds, nipping at the surface before giving you the attention you craved and deserved. Wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, licking and tugging the hardened peek between his teeth, his other hand groped your other breast. He spent what felt like hours giving your breasts his full attention, enamored by the size and feel of them in his hands and against his mouth. His moans were so low and sultry, the sound alone making your thighs clench in need to press them together. At some point, you had found yourself rubbing against him, remembering he still had his pants on. It didn't take you long to remove his belt and tug down his bottoms just enough to at least have him in just his briefs. 

Thrusting his hips up to meet your dry humping, you let out a small squeal when you felt him rub against you just right. You continued at this for what felt like eternity, desperately calling out his name as he dug his fingertips into the fat of your thighs. "Sylus..." You breathed.

"I know, kitten," he mumbled against your chest. "I know." And just like that, his pants and underwear were on the small pile of clothing, your thong becoming the cherry on top. Sylus didn't waste any time, letting you grind against him, feeling your heat against his aching cock before he made his move. You cried out in desperation, begging him to fill you—and he did just that.

With one swift movement, he was in you. Filling you deep as you took him, inch by inch until he was buried so far inside you that you almost felt him in your lungs. A loud gasp left you when he shifted his hips, practically pleading for you to move. 

Lifting and lowering yourself, your movements started off steady, setting a pace until the two of you grew desperate enough and needed more. You, at some point, had found your chest pressed against his. His hands gripping so tightly on your ass cheeks you were sure his fingertips would leave bruises behind. Your lips were on his, sloppily kissing one another, panting into each other's open mouths. You didn't seem to care, nor consider, if your tour bus was rocking from the intensity of your shared movements. Especially when Sylus planted his feet to fuck up into you. You nearly toppled over, catching yourself in time and clinging onto him. It only took him a few thrusts before he had you on your back, wrapping your legs around his waist once more as he pounded into you. 

You held him close, arms snaking around his neck, keeping him pressed against you as your lips refused to leave his own. Breathing each other in, sharing moans of delight and listening to the echoes of skin slapping skin, you shivered at the intensity of it all. Sylus's hands gripped on your waist as he thrusted deep and hard into you, knees pressed into the mattress as he made sure he reached where he needed to be—enough for you to go crosseyed, enough for you to see stars.

"Sy— Sylus!" You cried out as your body rocked against his, tits bouncing between the two of you as he left sloppy kisses against your cheek, trailing to your ear and nibbling it, growling at the way your various piercings got in the way. 

"So fucking many," he hissed.

You couldn't help but let out a giggle, squeezing him closer as your chest met his. "Deal with it," you huffed as he growled.

"Only because I like you so much," Sylus grumbled, earning a smile from you. "And because I find them hot."

"Is that so?" You breathed, lifting your head enough to eye him. It was in that moment you realized... Sylus had never looked this sexy before. Above you, flustered, desperate to make you come. Flushed with heat and covered in a layer of sweat. He was absolutely divine and you wanted to devour him whole. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer, sweetie," Sylus winked as you rolled your eyes.

"Ugh, you're insufferable," you shook your head, tugging him down to kiss you again.

Sylus's hand slithered in between your bodies and to where you needed him most. He drew tight circles against your bundle of nerves, encouraging you to find your release. You were so close, you felt it coming, it was right there—!

"We're just about set to head out! Are you ready to go?" A voice called out from outside the door of your tour bus. A groan left you at the interruption, a small snicker leaving Sylus as he buried his face into your neck.

"Perfect timing," you groaned, but it didn't seem to stop Sylus as he kept thrusting into you, this time, at a slow pace. Dragging his length in and out of you so painfully slow that you wanted to sob in frustration. He was doing this on purpose, taking advantage of the moment. 

"Say yes," he suddenly whispered against your ear.

Furrowing your eyebrows, your hands moved to his face, cupping his cheeks so that he'd look at you. "Are you sure? You have Fashion Week and we're going—"

"I know where we're going," Sylus said, eyeing every inch of your beautiful face. "I want to be with you, no matter what."

"But... you have nothing here?" You shook your head, earning a scoff from the man above you.

"You seem to forget that I am a billionaire, sweetie," Sylus smirked.

Sighing, you nodded, "right... you can buy a diamond encrusted toothbrush." Sylus let out a breathy laugh, a sound you had never heard before. It made your heart skip a beat. The things you'd do to hear that sound again from such a impassive man... It had you smiling. So cute. 

"A drugstore toothbrush is just fine, as long as I'm with you, I don't care where I get my necessities from," he said with a gentle smile, caressing your jaw with his knuckles. 

"You romantic," you breathed, gazing up at him with a sensation so strong in your chest that only he gave you. 

"Anything for you," he said as he started to move his hips once again, leaning in to kiss you, "my love."

"Syl—" The sound of knocking reminded you that you had someone awaiting your response. "I almost forgot he was out there..." 

"I think you should answer him, kitten," Sylus grinned as he kissed your neck.

"I'd love to but you're in and on me, Sylus," you reminded.

"You can make it work—"

"Sy—"

Sealing your lips with a kiss, he pulled out of you, earning a whimper from you at the loss of him. Taking your hands in his as he helped you to your feet, he reached for his shirt and tugged it over your head, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves before guiding you to your bus's door. "Go on," he said, giving your ass an encouraging smack, enjoying your little shriek. 

Shaking your head and rubbing your ass cheek from the sudden stinging sensation, you reached for the door. Slightly opening it and peeking out, you gave the man a wide grin, one that had him taking a small step back in surprise. You were smiling a little too much for his liking, it was rather bizarre to see you so happy when you were presumed to be all alone. "Yes, I'm ready."

Unable to keep his hands to himself, Sylus reached for you, squeezing and kneading your ass. You tried to discreetly swat him away, but it was useless. He only leaned in closer, nibbling on your shoulder as you did your best to push him away without looking suspicious. "Hurry," Sylus whispered as you waved a hand at him.

"Right, okay, I'll let everyone know," the man nodded. "Have a good night."

"Likewise!" Giving him a thumbs up, you slammed the door close. Not even a second later, Sylus was tugging his shirt off of you, lifting you in his arms and settling you on your small dining table before positioning himself between your legs, filling you with ease to finish what you two had started. 

"Will you make songs about me?" He asked, tugging you closer as he thrusted in and out of you, your body shivering from your bare bottom being pressed against the cold surface. 

"Ugh, you're so full of yourself," you screwed your eyes back—both in annoyance and deep pleasure.

"Actually, sweetie," Sylus cleared his throat, "you're full of me." Shoving your hands against his chest and groaning at his terrible innuendo, he snickered. "And I don't hear you saying no."

"Fine!" You huffed, reaching for the back of his neck and tugging him into a kiss. "A whole album, happy?"

Grinning, exposing his deadly, pearly whites that had your heart aflutter, Sylus murmured, "happier than ever, my love."

[strangelittlestories]

"You know, Red Riding Hood, *some people* consider it rude to comment on a person's physical traits." Grandma's awfully big and bushy eyebrows (above her awfully big eyes) raised in unimpressed fashion. "Like, if it comes up in conversation, sure. But completely unprompted? For shame, granddaughter."

Red considered this. She considered this deeply. She held a brief little internal conference about this.

Red's Super Ego: She's got a point. In an ideal world, this isn't how we'd behave.

Red's Anxiety: Yeah, we fudged it, lads. We've screwed the pooch. Really wrenched the dalmatian. And absolutely bolted the little doggie too. The only thing to do now is apologise and get eaten.

Red's Healthy Boundaries: Hold up, can we consider context? Sure, avoiding physical commentary is usually a good rule, but it's situational right? And the situation we are *currently in* is noticing that our grandma has suddenly developed a severe case of apex predator. A condition that, by the way, is usually terminal ... but not for her.

Red's Lizard Brain: RUN RUN RUN! TEETH! RUN! TEETH! OH GOD! FLEE FREEZE! AAAAAAAAAA! GULLET! MUZZLE HER WITH A DOILIE! USE THE CROCHET LIKE A NET! PUNCH THE SNOOT!

Red's Ancestral Knowledge: Hold up. Something feels ... I dunno. Itchy? Like. Itchy on the inside. There's something we're missing. Why does it feel like night-time when it's not dark? Why do I love this wolf in grandma's clothes? What *day* is it?

Red's Critical Thinking: Sorry I'm late to the party, gang. Hey, if this wolf ate grandma, then why's everything so clean still? Like, no gore or splatter? And if it ate her whole, then how's it wearing her nightgown?

Red's Adrenal Glands: Hey, you guys like 4 Non-Blondes? 'Cos we're about to take a deep breath and then GET REAL HIGH.

All of this happened in moment. But that, it turned out, was still a moment *too long*, because Red's mouth had been talking out loud while the other bits had been talking in her head.

"Grandma, let's cut the crap." Red's voice was blunt, but still fond. "You're a big old wolf and I'm snack-size. But just because you're a danger doggo, doesn't mean you're not *also* my family. Maybe you ate grandma. Or maybe the full moon's about to come out and it turns out granny's always been a bit howly around the edges. It doesn't matter - either way, my gran's in there somewhere. And I love you. You hear me? I love you no matter what you are. So if you're gonna eat me, you'd best do it quick, because the woodcutter usually checks in around this time and he is not a lover of anything lupine. So ... what do you say?"

Red could see two different creatures were warring in grandma's eyes horizon-wide eyes. One hungered for community. Another hungered for flesh.

But, ultimately, both were pack predators.

"My, what a big heart you have, granddaughter."

And the wolf engulfed Little Red Riding Hood with its limbs, rather than its jaws.

"Phew. That's a relief. I wasn't sure who was gonna win there." Red's voice was a little muffled from around the fur and fluffy nightgown. "But I wasn't joking about the woodcutter. So unless he's likely to get real chill with some stuff real quick, you and me have gotta make a man disappear, grandma."

Grandma the Wolf nodded.

"Hey kid. If a tree falls in this forest and no-one's around to hear it?" Grandma's big-ass teeth were all the better for grinning. "Then can they do us for murder?"

"They cannot." replied Red, resolutely. "Let's make this tree-hating motherlover cry wolf."

"I'm actually a little surprised you're so down for murder, Red."

"Well, they do say the best defence ... is a *hood* offence."

[inquisitor-apologist]

Been thinking about Grogu a bit recently, and isn’t it weird that he can’t talk?

He seems to be developmentally around toddler age in Book of Boba Fett/Mando Season 3; he can walk, he can perform complex motor functions like jumping, flipping, and balancing on one leg, and he can effectively communicate with his assistive device. He is able to make noises—you can hear him making cooing sounds in his training montage with Luke—but he doesn’t ever try to speak, or even communicate verbally. We never see/hear him trying to form words, he doesn’t scream or cry, and he never babbles.

Which is fucking weird, for a baby. Babies are literally wired for language comprehension and learning; it’s one of the main things their brains do. Learning to communicate verbally is a vital stage of infancy/early childhood, and it starts only a few months after birth. Babies, infants, and toddlers, unless they have some kind of speech-language disorder or other disability, are constantly talking.

So Grogu should absolutely be talking throughout the Mandalorian, even if he’s just babbling. But Grogu’s not a Human child; while most of the species in Star Wars function more or less like Humans with superficial differences, we famously know nothing about his species, and thus can’t really assume that human standards apply.

And once you think about it, there’s good evidence that human standards around speech don’t apply. One of the only things we know about his species is that they struggle to speak normally. Both Yoda and Yaddle, the two members of his species that we’ve seen in canon, have an extremely distinctive speech disorder, consistently misordering words and phrases.

So, given this common difficulty and Grogu’s unusual lack of speech, it seems entirely plausible that the species as a whole might have language difficulties. Maybe their brains, unlike Human brains, just aren’t wired for verbal communication. They can do it, eventually, but it doesn’t come naturally to them.

However, it does seem like they might be wired for a different kind of communication: telepathy. Immediately upon meeting Luke and Ahsoka, two Jedi who are not telepaths and who don’t communicate using only the Force very often, Grogu is able to have full conversations with them. He’s not just relaying sensations or feelings, like we most commonly see with mind-to-mind communication in Star Wars, but actual words and sounds (see: him telling Ahsoka his name).

That’s not super common in Star Wars. Most Jedi don’t hold full conversations telepathically, yet Grogu’s able to converse like that extremely easily 30 years after the last time he could’ve conceivably talked to anyone in that manner. He seems naturally very good at mental communication, something that we can see from very early on in the series: one of the first things we see him do in Season 1 is use a primitive kind of Beast Control, a form of telepathic communication, to hold the Mudhorn in place (there’s definitely some telekinesis going on too, but he holds up his hand like Jedi do when communicating with animals, so I’m guessing he’s using both to keep it from moving).

Additionally, every single member of Grogu’s species is a Jedi/is Force-sensitive (and I believe this goes for Legends too, where there’s more of them), and extremely Force-sensitive at that. It seems quite likely that they would all be able to communicate through the Force, and given their difficulties with verbal speech, it’s probably their preferred form of communication.

That would also explain why Grogu, who at the time would’ve been developmentally a newborn (aka way younger than the 1-3 year olds the Jedi generally seem to adopt), was in the temple during Order 66. His species doesn’t seem to be very common, and the Jedi are the only other large culture that could communicate with him in his native mental language.

Because kids absolutely need some kind of language in order to develop normally, Grogu’s people might generally give their kids to the Order. This could be another reason Grogu is so slow to develop throughout the Mandalorian, and starts advancing much quicker after he interacts with Ahsoka and Luke: he’s been deprived of his natural language for most of his formative years.

Not sure how to end this, it’s just a thought that I had that kept on making more and more sense as I kept thinking about it

[milkybunnybow]

Hi, Milky! I'm Bonbon! (it/she, grownup age 33, kid age 7) Wanted to say that, as someone who has only recently embraced regressing, your stuff is so beautiful! We keep coming back and rereading your posts for bunnies and angels and jellyfish!

Also wanted to ask, would you be at all willing to make something for a CG Applejack, from MLP:FIM? She's always seemed so big and strong and perfect, we like to think she'd be our caregiver!

⋆｡‧˚𝒞𝒶𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇! ʚ🍎ɞ 𝒜𝓅𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒿𝒶𝒸𝓀˚‧｡⋆

“Ain’t no trouble at all, sugarcube.”

🧡 Keeps snacks on hand; apple slices, warm pie, and juice boxes

🧡 Wipes your cheeks when you’re teary, no judgment in her eyes

🧡 Brushes your hair real gentle, hummin’ soft lullabies

🧡 Packs little lunches and tucks love notes in ‘em

🧡 Tells you stories of the farm, of her family, and makes you feel safe

🧡 Doesn't mind if you're nonverbal or too small to talk, she gets it

🧡 Keeps your plushies safe in a lil basket beside your bed

🧡 Lets you help with chores when you’re in a helpful mood; “you’re my best helper, sugar”

🧡 Tucks you in tight every night with a “there ya go, snug as a bug”

🧡 Always smells like apples and hay

🧡 Reminds you how strong you are, even when you don’t feel it

🧡 Teaches you how to be kind, honest, and gentle with yourself

🧡 Takin’ you to the orchard to pick apples just for fun

🧡 Letting you wear her hat when you're feeling down

🧡 Makes sure you always feel safe, even when storms roll in

🍂 She’s your safe place when things feel too loud, too fast, too scary. 🍎 With Applejack, you’re never too small or too much... Just enough.

Hii Bonbon!! 🍎🌾 First of all thank you so so much for this message, it seriously made me do the biggest happy wing flutters ever!! 🪽💗 Hearing from other grownups in the agere community always means the world to me. As someone who's still really shy about their own regression, it’s suuuper comforting to know I’m not alone. Interacting with other adult regressors like you makes things feel a little less scary and a whole lot more welcoming 💞

I'm so happy you’ve been enjoying my posts. It's honestly the sweetest thing to know people find comfort in them! Though not gonna lie… the sudden wave of attention and nonstop requests lately has had my brain doin lil spinny circles 😵‍💫💌 but I’m doin my best to keep up because I love makin things that make others feel seen and cozy!!

Also YESSS Applejack as a CG??? I'm in FULL agreement with you!! She's such a strong and steady presence, the kind of pony who’d always make sure her little one felt safe and cared for. 🍏🐴💚

Sending you and your system the biggest cuddly angel bun hugs!! ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა💫

[notaplaceofhonour]

my annoyance with people exaggerating & misrepresenting the extreme fringe of Jewish antizionism as being in any way representative of the Jewish community aside, one of the most common talking points that illustrates how little antizionists actually consider the implications of their positions outside the symbolic is the “and there have always been antizionist Jews since the beginning! look at Edwin Montagu; he opposed the Balfour Declaration! look at this 19th Century Bundist! etc.” talking point.

if you think about it for even 2 seconds, Zionism (and thus opposition to it) is in an inherently different place before 1948 and after, and thus it does not necessarily follow that a 19th or early 20th Century anti-Zionist’s position lends any support to the position of a 21st Century anti-Zionist.

1897-1947, the goal of Zionism was creating a hypothetical state. then Israel was created. from 1948 on, Zionism became about the continued existence of a country full of millions of people.

regardless of whether you agree that Zionists were justified in creating Israel, saying “I don’t think this state should exist” is an entirely different statement depending on which side of that state’s establishment you exist on. one is saying “I don’t think we should create x”; the other is saying “I think we should destroy x”. and when “x” is an entire country, with millions of people in it, with a distinct national and cultural identity, that is not an inconsequential difference. because it is one thing to say in 1897 or 1917, “I’m not in favor of creating a hypothetical state” and a fundamentally different one to say in 2024, “I want to destroy the existing home, national identity, and culture of 9 million people”

in literally any other situation, on any other issue, we recognize this difference between something that could be and something that is. take abortion: on the pro-choice side, this distinction is fundamental to the argument that a fetus is not a baby or a person; hypothetically, it could grow to be, but you’re not a murderer if you abort the fetus before that happens—because something that could be is fundamentally different than something that is. (and even the anti-abortion side makes this distinction, but drawing the line earlier, anywhere from the first brain wave/heartbeat to conception—very few will say “not impregnating someone is literally the same as abortion, which is the same as murder” because on some level even they understand something that could be is fundamentally different than something that is)

post-1948 antizionism is to pre-1948 antizionism what infanticide is to abortion. in the same way that “we should kill our newborn baby” does not follow from “we should use contraceptives to avoid having kids”, “it’s fine to say we should destroy a whole ass country” just does not follow from “so and so said in the 1910s that they didn’t want to make a hypothetical state”.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Previously... "How you wished your phone hadn't died few days ago"

Me: Gentlemen,Ladies and Enby's. I have an solution >:)

OKAY OKAY SO,The party fights Yellow Loong and after defeat,they get their thunder staff,yeah? Reader thinks it's so cool and then it clicks to them to CHARGE their phone by the use of the staff!!! Which does work HAHA instantly goes %100 in span of 5 seconds lmao

And reader shows the destined one some photos (like their family,friends of school/college,time they went to zoo and hold finger monkey,yes. It's a thing,look at it up hehe)

At last,reader takes selfie with The destined one and Zhu Baige cuz they don't want to forget them c:

Also drink water,gotta stay hydrated! 💜🫵🏻

"This will never work."

"And if it works, you'll be so sorry you had doubted me, old man!"

Bajie, sighing, Just pointed out the destined one, who was holding that small black tablet in his right hand with the nail of his pinky in the small hole at the base of the same object.

"Kid, stop indulge her! Be the rational one here!"

"What can I say?" He said, shrugging his shoulders, "I'm quite curious too about this phone thing."

"Oooh, yes, of course! Cuuurious, he said. Well, if it's turned out to burn at a crisp, do not come cry to me, young lady!"

You just laugh it out; even if it were true, you knew that the old pig was a soft heart for you and would surely comfort you.

"Ok so," you started to explain for the last time, "go really low on the voltage, enough to the cilinder with the green liquid to appear. Once Is full and made a sound, stop!"

"It seems simple; sure, is it going to work?"

"Well, maybe? ... Anyway, it doesn't matter! Just go!"

So, what were you up to this time?

A few days after your arrival, your phone, as you suspected would have happened, had died since the lack of electricity.

Between a deadly danger and another being eaten attempt, your mind completely forgotten about the device's lost usage until, after the fight against Yellowbrow, the idea of using that newfound power struck you.

You weren't sure that it could work; you were prepared to lose forever your phone, to be fair, but a small try never hurt anyone, right?

And fortune favorite, the bold!

After the small sound front the phone, you started to jump in happiness, finally with the last connection of your original world in your hands.

"AH! YES! IT WORK IT WORK! AHAH!"

The other two laughed a little, noticing how your fingers were able to move in the device with knowledge and security.

"All right, all right," said Bajie, sitting next to you when you decided to calm down. "Now, what does this little thing do?"

"Okay! Basically, we use It tò call people, message them...communication in general!"

"Oh so..." Yuán Fèn seemed startled when, after touching one of the apps on the screen, the color changed "is like... a bird or... and Messanger?"

"Well yes? Everything happens in seconds instead of hours or days! Unfortunately, without connection, it's useless for that part."

"Ah! So I was right! "

"Buuuut It can do something more intriguing for you!"

Once you shot the camera, your two friends, after a brief moment of surprise from their own faces showing up inside that small box, seemed more interested than before.

"Is that a mirror?"

"Nope! It's a camera! We use it to make photos!"

"What's a pho-u-toh?"

"Photo! Or photograph!" You laugh after Bajie misspells "it's like a panting, but far more precise. Using light, you can press the image on paper. Now, a phone camera doesn't exactly work like that, but you get the idea."

You stod up and put the device in front of the pigface.

"Now smile! I'll show you!"

After you took the picture, with the image of a still confused Bajie on it, you showed it to him. After a moment of silence, he started to laugh about it.

"You are surely full of surprises!"

///

"HEY! Is that a baby?!"

"Baby, aren't you that small, you dork!"

"Yes, they are! They smal like your brain!"

Once again, you have to save yourself and your phone from another monkey's fist fight between the children. Now that you had shown them your small magic box, like they like to call it, they were always eager to make one with you or ask you to make one for them, only to laugh about their own faces or what was happening. You even make a few videos of them, which just make them go more crazy than before. 

But then they discovered your other photos.

They seemed to enjoy, especially the ones that you had taken the day you had decided to help your auntie in her school trip at the Zoo. They loved the ones that you had taken at the monkey enclosure; they loved to see that you were familiar with their kind even before the change of world!

Well, they weren't the only ones that enjoyed the device. Once, you decided to show it to the youngest of the spider sisters, showing her the video that you took of her while dancing, and she laughed all the time, enjoying it to see her own performance.

You even took the chance to use it to make ohotos of every place that you and the Destined one were able to visit. Yellow ridge, the snowy fields, the mountains...every place was a new set for one of your photos, and every time he was inside too.

He had never shown quite the interest like everyone, but he seemed still happy to know that you wanted to cherish the memories that you had there with him. But what he really loved were your own memories, the photos of your past, and your family. He loved sharing them with you, knowing you deeper.

"This is your..."

"Cousin. My cousin."

"Oh yes, yes...and this is your cat, right?"

"Sorta, it shows up now and then. I like to leave it some food for it, so it doesn't starve."

"Ah, got it..." then another photo, that you tried to pass fastly, had passed under his eyes of you near someone.

"And that one? The one with the guy?"

"Ah, it was nothing." Your tone seemed almost off, like to avoid the discussion.

"Nothing?" He raised his eyebrows. "I saw you smiling! How was it nothing?"

And soon, you get back on the photo and delete it.

"As I said, nothing."

It seemed that he still needed to know you better.

@sun-jglim @crimsonflameproxy @everlastingmoonlightsworld @biankanoir

@miraclecherryblossomsblog @certifiedsimpinggalore @sleepingdramaqueen @cromboloni @masksandfeathers

@cinnamonroll-anon @justrandomlypassing @cute-angi @luckyangelballoon @dressycobra7

@naarra @virtualexpertanchor @phoenixeclipse-lmkau @szynkaaa @kirax-the-lazy-girl

@sleepydang @weaverworks @kishimiest @marcu-bug @thepoweroffiction

@riolu4 @angryvampire @s0rr3l @rootin-tootin-morgan @lightlumi

@cleverfeststarlight

[sharksfrommars]

For the Reverse Portal/Asylum Ford AU?

How does Ford feel about after everything? I mean… one his worst nightmares came true. He’s not a super scientist extraordinaire, he’s now known as just the “satanic freak with six fingers.” Whose name they don’t know.

I feel like when he gets lucid enough and Stanley comes back… I feel like he’d not really be all that forgiving to Him… he still hold a grudge about that project being broken 😡 and how it was the catalyst for everything wrong in his life, case and point. Going to a shitty school like Backupsmore, him meeting Bill, him getting nearly executed and sent to an Asylum for 30 years. All leads back to Stanley’s “sabotage”.

He’d also be very resentful of Stanley for he turned out. As when you think, Stanley got to live out his childhood Fantasies and Dream of being an amazing Adventurer and hunting and tearing monsters to shreds, all while Ford’s dreams were completely and utterly crushed by Stanley. And that realization makes ford angry.

I like to imagine that the part where the Zodiac Sigil happens, it isn’t Ford who draws it, it’s instead Stanley who makes it. And instead of that whole grammar dialogue that cause the two to fight. It was something akin to Ford bitterly saying how Lee thinks of himself a heroic knight and shining armor. And Stanley remarks, well, I did get knighted in several medieval level dimensions and plane… that was the boiling point for Ford. He pounces and throttles Stanley for bragging in a Crisis Situation.

What do you think?

Mate. Anon. You are a genius.

Ford’s been kind of off-kilter since coming to gravity falls. No one really remembers his case back in peidmont. He struggled to get along with people during the best of times, and spending half your life in a mental institute certainly didn’t help matters.

But in Gravity Falls, it was somehow worse. the people didn’t recognise him, didn’t remember his name. But they didn’t trust him, especially the older members of the community. Something in their brains told them that Ford couldn’t be trusted. The only people to remember Ford was the librarian, and Tate McGucket. Neither of them were fans. But The town remembered what he had done. He left a scar on the town, his case having given gravity falls a bad reputation. They whispered about the satanic worshiping scientist who kidnapped and ate people. That was his legacy, it was something he could never escape from.

Ford’s dreams of being a world renowned scientist died when he was 30.

Part of him blamed Stanley. If it wasn’t for the science fair, if Stan didn’t act selfishly that day, would he have ever met Bill? His therapist told him not to focus on “what ifs”, but how could Ford not? He had multiple PhD’s at 30, was well respected in his field. He basically got a blank check to study anything he wanted! He should have been set for life. Stan would never have fallen for Bill’s ploy. If Stan had never left, then They would have had everything.

Ford missed his brother. He needed him, more than ever. Ford still kept that photo in his pocket, held it close whenever he needed that comfort.

Stan apparently didn’t need Ford though. Maybe he never did.

Stan came out of the portal full of bravado. He spun epic tales of his adventures in the multiverse, of all the friends he made and things he stole. The Niblings were enraptured. Actually, the whole town was. Even with Ford having been proven innocent, they didn’t like him. But they LOVED Stan.

Hearing about Stan’s adventures left Ford feeling hollow. It was everything they wanted, right? Adventure in uncharted lands, finding treasure and fighting monsters. It was the life they’d dreamed about when they were kids. And Stan was living it. Without him. Whilst Ford was rotting in an asylum, Stan was becoming a badass sci-fi hero. A lovable rogue. Like Ford but better.

and hadn’t it always been that way? Stan was the strong one, the one who could understand people. He let awkwardness run off his back like it was nothing. He could talk to girls, make jokes that land. He had a normal number of fingers.

Stan was bragging, he wasn’t even trying to hide it. He said he “deserved to feel proud after living through hell”. Ford didn’t think Stan knew just how hellish things could get. What was worse was that everyone else seemed to hang off his every word. With most people, Ford didn’t mind. But Dipper and Mabel were obsessed with their cool new Grunkle. Especially since Ford still felt lingering betrayal from Dipper and the portal. He didn’t hold it against him, but it hurt none the less.

Ford had half expected that bringing Stan back would fix everything. But it didn’t. They didn’t know how to interact. It was like being 16 again, struggling between the love and frustration that lingered between them. Except this time Stan was the one leaving Ford behind.

——

I love your idea about the zodiac. That feels super in character tbh. I changed the consept slightly to fit better, at least I think it does.

[sixpounder]

replicated memories

deadpool (wade wilson) x reader

summary: in which deadpool is hired to kill you, only to realize you two were once best friends.

based on this request: “For the request, I wanted a sfw one where Deadpool and the reader character were good friends in high school but drifted apart after graduation. They meet later on where the reader is now a bitter scientist with a facial scar that causes them to wear a mask, and Deadpool was hired to kill them, but he somehow recognizes them. (Bonus points if you could have the reader character also be a mutant that has the ability to replicate themself)”

warnings: none, hurt/comfort

word count: 1.1k

lowercase intended

the first time wade wilson met you, you were both fifteen, sitting in the back of a detention room, trading insults like currency. you were sharp, mean even, but funny. funny enough that he liked you immediately. you were also the only person who could match his wit, who could take whatever nonsense he threw your way and launch it back twice as fast.

you and wade were inseparable for a while, two misfits finding comfort in shared sarcasm and bad decisions. then high school ended. life happened. and somehow, you lost each other.

so it’s a little ironic that the next time wade sees you, he’s supposed to kill you.

“so, who’s the unlucky bastard this time?” wade asks, flipping the manila folder open. he’s perched on the edge of a rooftop, legs swinging like a kid on a swing set, while weasel leans against the railing, sipping a beer.

“some scientist,” weasel says, glancing at his phone. “been making waves in the mutant community. rumor is they’ve been messing with some high-profile genetics. pissed off the wrong people.”

wade hums, eyes scanning the file. the picture is grainy, security footage most likely, but he can make out the basics-lab coat, dark gloves, a mask covering the lower half of their face.

“ooh, mysterious. i like it. any superpowers i should know about? do they explode? teleport? please tell me they explode.”

“they replicate.”

“…come again?”

“they can make copies of themselves. like, full-on clones. real bodies, not illusions. makes them a pain in the ass to fight, apparently.”

wade whistles. “hot damn. that’s kinda cool. and by ‘cool’ i mean ‘deeply annoying for me.’ you know i hate math. having to count how many people i’m fighting? ugh, exhausting.”

“just get it done, man.” weasel shakes his head. “client’s paying big for this one.”

wade salutes. “aye aye, captain. murder mission accepted.”

breaking into your lab is easy. too easy, honestly, and that should be his first clue. the building is state-of-the-art, all shiny metal and sterile lighting, but the security is laughable. no guards, just a couple of cameras and a keycard system that takes him all of three minutes to bypass.

it almost feels like a trap.

but wade’s been doing this long enough to know a trap when he sees one, and this? this just feels… off.

he creeps through the hallways, twin pistols drawn, until he reaches the main lab. inside, various pieces of high-tech equipment hum softly, monitors displaying streams of data he doesn’t understand. and in the middle of it all, hunched over a workstation, is you.

he doesn’t recognize you at first. the years have changed you. your hair is shorter, your posture is different, stiffer, more guarded. and then there’s the mask, sleek and black, covering your face.

but your eyes.

your eyes are the same.

and when you finally glance up, some kind of instinct kicks in, because his brain short-circuits and the only thing he can say is:

“holy shit.”

your eyes narrow, and suddenly there are three of you.

“who the hell are you?” all three of you ask in unison, voices overlapping in eerie harmony.

wade lets out a low whistle. “okay, that is deeply unsettling. but also kind of hot? no? just me? cool, cool.”

the clones move fast. one of them lunges at him, but wade sidesteps easily, pistol-whipping it in the back of the head. it stumbles but doesn’t fall.

“damn, you’re strong. do you work out?”

another one swings at him, and he ducks, twisting to fire a shot, only for the clone to dissipate into nothing.

“oh, come on,” wade groans. “fake-out clones? that’s just rude.”

the real you, or at least, the one that doesn’t vanish when he swings at it, grabs a scalpel from the desk and slashes at his arm. it cuts through the suit, drawing blood, and wade gasps dramatically.

“betrayed! by my own high school bestie! this is worse than that time you ate the last slice of pizza during our senior year movie night!”

you freeze. just for a second.

and that’s all it takes.

“oh my god,” wade breathes, stepping back slightly, lowering his guns. “it is you. holy shit.”

your grip tightens around the scalpel. “how do you know that?”

“babe, please. nobody roasts me like you do. it’s a very specific skill set.”

you stare at him for a long moment, then scoff. “wade wilson.”

“the one and only. except for that one guy in minnesota, but he spells it with a ‘y,’ so he doesn’t count.”

you don’t laugh. wade thinks that might be the biggest tragedy of the night.

ten minutes later, you’re sitting on a metal table, bandaging wade’s arm because “if you’re gonna stick around, at least stop bleeding all over my lab.”

the silence is heavy. thick with unspoken things.

“so,” wade finally says. “mask. cool look. very ‘mysterious anti-hero.’”

your hands pause for a second. “it’s not for style.”

wade gets it before you even have to explain. the way you won’t meet his eyes. the tension in your shoulders. his voice is softer when he says, “what happened?”

“an accident,” you murmur. “lab explosion. i got lucky. but my face…” you exhale sharply. “it’s not exactly presentable anymore.”

wade is quiet for a moment. then, carefully, he reaches out, gloved fingers brushing against yours.

“yeah, well,” he says, tone deliberately light. “neither is mine.”

you let out a soft, almost bitter laugh.

“besides,” wade continues, “if i had a dollar for every time someone told me i was hard to look at, i’d have, like, at least twenty bucks. which, for the record, is a lot of times.”

this time, when you look at him, there’s something gentler in your gaze.

“you’re still an idiot,” you mutter.

“yeah,” wade agrees, shifting slightly closer. “but i’m your idiot.”

there’s a beat of hesitation, just long enough for you to make a choice. then, slowly, carefully, you reach up and pull your mask down.

your scar runs from your cheekbone down to your jaw, healed but unmistakable. wade doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even blink.

instead, he tilts his head and grins. “badass. very villainous. ten out of ten.”

you huff a laugh, shaking your head, and before you can think too hard about it, wade leans in and presses his lips to yours.

it’s not dramatic. not a hollywood kiss. just something warm, solid, grounding.

when you pull away, wade’s grinning like an idiot.

“i’ve wanted to do this since high school” he admits, almost fangirling. “so,” he says, “does this mean i don’t have to kill you?”

you roll your eyes. “just shut up and kiss me again.”

and he does.

a/n: let me know you liked it, and if you did, don’t be scared to like, comment or reblog, it would really help me since this blog is new. let me know if you have any kind of request, not just for deadpool, it can be of any marvel character or more, i’m happy to write them <3

[phoward89]

Dealer!Coryo x Reader

Weed, drugs, guns, cussing, fighting, parties, Coriolanus Snow being Coriolanus Snow, p in v, degradation, overstimulation, breeding kink, Dom!Coryo, Bratty!Reader, um that's bout it

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2:

Coriolanus swore that he was cutting you loose, but that didn't happen. Well, it happened for exactly 2 weeks, but then he walked into a party on the right side of town (Capitol Estates- a high end gated community full of super rich people. The Plinths tried to buy in the development, but the HOA didn't think the family was a good fit since they moved to Panem, Colorado from Dos, New Mexico roughly a decade back. Stuck up HOA bastards) with the intention to deal to some dumbass rich kids only to see your ex with you.

Wasn't Odysseus Odair supposed to be in California right now? What the ever loving fucking hell is he doing here flirting with you; giving you his charming manwhore smile? After seeing that, well, the dealer knew that he had to protect you from that motherfucker. He also felt jealous and very, very possessive of you.

Snow's possessiveness over you was primal. Almost caveman like in a way. Fuck! He just wants to toss you over his shoulder and yell for all to hear that you're off limits. That none of these dickweeds here are good enough for you.

So, without giving it a second thought, he went up to you. Slinging an arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his chest, he tilted his head and growled at your ex, “Back off, Odair, she's with me.”

“Oh, really?” Odysseus laughed, not looking convinced.

Craning your neck to look at Coryo, you ask, “What're you doing here?”

Giving you a hard look, icy eyes cold with anger, Coriolanus retorted in a dry, deep baritone, “Working, what're you doing letting your manwhore ex push up on you?”

“We're talking, Snowball. That's all.” You assure your dealer. You want to roll your eyes at how he's acting, but don't. You know he's worried about your ex wooing you back, but he's got nothing to worry about.

But try telling him that.

“Yea, Snowball,” Odysseus mocked, his voice over exaggerated with a saccharine syrupy tone. “we’re talking so why don't you go off and sell some drugs.” With a provoking smirk, he jeered, “Isn't that what you do, being a drug dealer and all?”

What the hell? Does your ex have a death wish? Doesn't he remember how Coryo beat the ever loving shit out of him for cheating on you. Odysseus can't be that stupid, can he? You know the man with sea-green eyes is a pretty boy, but he has to have a brain underneath all that bronze hair, right?

“Snow, this peacock giving you trouble ‘bout your girl?” Sejanus asked, coming up on the scene. Festus was next to him, already half drunk and high, and was giving Odysseus a nasty look.

Great, now Coriolanus’ dealer buddies have come to back him up. Great…the last thing you need is to be caught in the middle of a fight cause your dealer’s acting like a jealous asshole right now.

“Yea, Plinth.” Snow tells the broad bear of a man that he considers a friend. No, a brother. “Fucking manwhore thinks he can dis me; push up on what's mine too.”

Oh Jesus…what the hell's going on?! Since when are you Snowball's? As of two weeks ago he said he wanted to stop hooking up; told you he'd do weed exchanges at your house- that you guys can't keep fucking in his apartment.

Mhm…

And now the motherfucker’s being crazy possessive and jealous cause he saw you talking to somebody at a party. Okay, it was your ex…but still…

“You better not piss on what belongs to Snow. Might get shot.” Festus advises Odysseus, taking a drag off his joint before passing it over to you with a pointed look. It's as if he knows you're going to need all the loosening up and relaxing tonight that you can get.

Coryo grabs the joint from Festus and passes it to you before lifting his arm from your shoulder and getting up into Odysseus’ face. Oh shit! This ain't good!

This ain't good at all!

Coriolanus gives Odysseus a hard look with his icy blue eyes while telling him in a sharp, threatening tone that oozed danger, “If you value your useless, fucking life I advise you to leave and not come back.”

“You think I'm dumb enough to come to this party without having friends here? Oh, Snowball, maybe you should lay off that coke you sell.” Odysseus taunts your dealer with the platinum buzz cut. Looking over his shoulder, your ex calls out, “Vinny, Hector! Gotta Snow problem!”

“Coryo, leave him alone.” You tell the tall blonde while reaching out to grab his arm. “Please, Coryo, let's just get outta here.” You plead as Livinius Cardew and Hector Heavensbee, two rich but very rough customers when it came to booze and dope, crawled out of the woodwork and appeared on either side of Odysseus.

Looking at you over his shoulder, Coriolanus gritted thru his teeth, “Don't call me that right now, baby.”

Festus snatched his joint back from you, since you're too busy trying to keep Coriolanus from fighting instead of smoking.

“Please, let's just go. I don't want you getting hurt or tossed into jail tonight.” You beg your dealer fuck buddy while tightly holding onto his arm and trying to tug him away from the three men that he's about to get into a throw down with.

Coriolanus wanted to strangle you right now. He's trying to take care of business and you're begging him to leave. Fuck, if he leaves with you he'll look weak. He can't afford to look weak. He's a drug dealer; it'll screw up his street cred.

Yep. You're his weakness. But he can't afford to show it.

Yanking his arm free from your hold, he tells you, “Go wait by my car.”

“Cor-” You begin to protest, only to be cut off by his deep baritone loudly snapping, “Bitch, I said go wait by my fucking car!”

“Fuck you, Snow.” You spit in his face, causing everyone crowded around to let out a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘dayumns’, before pivoting and storming off.

And you meant it, fuck him. Coriolanus can do whatever he wants. Bastard wants to call you a bitch and disrespect you all cause he needs his fucking street cred, then fine. So be it. But you're not sticking around or waiting by his car.

No.

You'll just walk home. Too bad the buses stop running in Panem at 6:45pm, otherwise you'd be able to catch one. And you can't call Ashlie, your brother's girlfriend to get you since she's currently working as a barmaid at the Hobb right now. You're lucky she was able to give you a ride to the party in the first place. And your brothers prolly 3 sheets to the wind right now on moonshine…

Damnit, looks like you get to walk across Panem to go home to the shitty trailer park you live in on the edge of town.

Fuck…

Snow would be a jackass tonight.

As Coriolanus wiped the spit off his face he made a mental note to punish you for that later. Yea, he's gonna have to fuck some respect and manners into you cause you're being a brat. You gotta learn how to behave around him while he's in his element; while he's working.

Odyssey cocked his head to the side, only to goad Coriolanus with a syrupy tart remark of, “I see you told her off. No wonder Y/N is letting me hit her up, you're obviously not doing it for her with your hood boy vibe.”

Without a word, Coriolanus balled his hand into a fist and took a swing at your Odysseus’ jaw; knocking him to the ground. The drug dealer grabbed the collar of your ex’s shirt, pulling him up so that he could punch him again.

And again.

And again.

Some people gasped, some screamed and shouted, but just about everyone stopped what they were doing to watch Coriolanus beat up your ex. The platinum blonde dealer has a rep for being a brawler, so everyone watches him fight- wonder if he's gonna kill somebody with his fists.

But when Livinius and Hector came forward to join the fight and push Snow off of Odysseus (who’s nearly unconscious at this point), Sejanus pulled Coriolanus off of your ex while Festus pulled his gat, threatening to pop some caps in their asses if they even dared to go after Snow in an unfair fight.

“Thanks, Sej, Festus, but I could've handle ‘em. I got a gun of my own, ya know.” Coriolanus told his friends as they walked out of the large house that was hosting the party.

Clasping his friend on the back, Sejanus said, “We know you can handle yourself, but you need to deal with your girl right now.”

“Yea, Snow, you need to bring her home and fuck her.” Festus crudely added in.

“Creed, shut up.” Coriolanus ordered his friend. Festus was such a perv, always talking about fucking and hooking up with anything that has two legs. God, Coriolanus cringes at the thought of how many STDs Festus must've had by now. Boy’s like a walking petri dish.

“I'll catch up wit’cha later. Gotta get to my car and deal with Y/N.” Coryo told his friends.

“Yea, you let her know who's boss.” Festus said while at the same time Sejanus wisely advised, “Don't be too hard on her, she's a nice girl; you don't find those easily.”

“Yea, I know.” Coriolanus dismissively snaps, only to walk off towards where his car was.

And when he reached his car you weren't there waiting for him, which nearly gave him a heart attack. Where the fuck were you?

Getting into his black luxury sedan (cause slinging dope really paid off) he pulled his iPhone out of his back pocket and called you. It was ignored, making him mad. So he called you again and again, only to keep having his calls ignored.

He would’ve kept calling you, but the sound of sirens blaring in the distance made his blood run cold.

Fuck! Somebody called the cops cause Festus pulled a gun. Damn, Coriolanus needs to get outta the gated community before he's stopped and taken in for questioning cause he's Snow- a known drug dealer.

And of course you're being a stubborn fucking bratty bitch right now.

Tossing his phone on his dash, Snow cranks on his car and quickly pulls away from the large party house. He speeds down the winding streets and manages to exit the gates community of Capitol Estates right before the cops can notice him.

And he's speeding down the road, heading home, whenever he spots your figure walking along the desolate highway I-70: which is very unsafe if you ask him.

Rolling down his window and slowing down to a cruise, he comes up on you and barks, “What the fuck a doing walking down the highway, baby? Trying to get snatched and killed by some creep?”

“I'm going home, Snowball. Gotta walk since the buses stopped running hours ago. Why else would I be walking down a fucking highway for?” You tell the platinum blonde hood with so much animosity in your usual sweet voice that it's not even funny.

“Come on, I'll take you home.” Snowball tells you, clicking the button to unlock his car doors for you.

“No thank you, Snow.” You turn down in offer in a polite, but clipped tone as you continue to walk down the road.

“Baby, don't be like this.” The platinum blonde dealer sighed. “You can't walk half an hour late at night back to the trailer park. It ain't safe.”

“What? Like you give a shit?”

“You know I do, Y/N. So get in the car, yea?”

You looked between Snow's black luxury sedan and the stretch of open road you're currently trekking down. You decided to be a lil bitch, give him the cold shoulder, and keep on keeping on down the highway.

Or at least you planned on continuing your walk, but Coriolanus’ baritone stopped you right in your tracks as he heavily announced, “The cops busted the party, we better get outta here before they come back and decide to pull me over for a traffic stop. Don't wanna get arrested for hauling shit in my car.”

Of course, Snowball has drugs in his car. After all, he's a dealer.

You heard the sirens; saw the cop cars whizzing by too. You didn't care. Let them bust the party. Everyone knows that Sejanus Plinth's father will buy him out of trouble, his friends too. So you weren't too concerned about Snow or anyone you knew at that house party in Capitol Estates getting busted.

But Coriolanus is right, him sticking around the area's risky since the cops are lurking around. If he got caught up in a traffic stop, searched for dope, and was arrested, then you'd be stealing money from your brother and sister-in-law to pay his bail- cause you know Snow would call you to bail him out.

It happened a couple of times before.

And if your brother catches you stealing his money again to pay the bail bondsman, well…you'd probably get a smack across the head and thrown out on your ass. Definitely the latter, maybe the former.

Sighing, you relented. “Fine, you can give me a ride.” You round the car and get into the passenger’s side.

The ride along the stretch of highway that leads into downtown Panem (and out of it to the outskirts and the trailer park you live in) feels long and stifling. The radio’s on low, providing the only noise in the car- the stero’s bass booming with Coriolanus' playlist. You're looking out the window; giving the dealer next to you the cold shoulder.

“I'm taking you back to my place.” Coryo told you, his voice loud over the radio.

“Why?” Was the one word question that flies out of your mouth

“What'd you mean ‘why?’. You know full well fucking why.”

Whipping your head around to look at his profile, as he drove down the road illuminated by his headlights and a few scattered street lamps. “Actually, Snowball, I don't know why. Last time I checked, you said a couple of weeks ago that you don't wanna hookup anymore; will just do weed drop offs at my front door.”

“Yea, well, after putting me thru hell tonight I'd say that you owe me a fuck.” Giving you a pointed look, he shrugged, “Or at least deep throat my cock.”

“I don't owe you shit.” And you'd stand by that too. Snow's nostrils flare angrily and he cuts his icy eyes at you. Rolling your eyes at his temper, you remind him of why you don't owe him. “You're the one that decided to come to my rescue; I didn't ask for your help. In fact I was fine just talking with Odysseus.”

“It's never just talking with you and Odair. It always ends up with you taking him back; trying again.” Coriolanus snaps, taking a hand off the steering wheel and reaching into the ashtray for a roach. “I ain't gonna sit back and watch him hurt you again, babygirl.” He pulled the roach out and brought it to his lush lips.

“So, you're jealous?” You ask, letting out a giggle of disbelief, as Coriolanus digs his lighter out of his pocket and lit up the roach.

“I'm not jealous, just a bit protective of you’s all.” The dealer half lied, since he was jealous, before tossing you his lighter. Pointing to the ashtray, he orders, “Grab yourself a roach.”

“You gonna charge me for it, Snowball?” You ask, reaching forward to grab a roach from the ashtray.

“No.” Coriolanus shook his head. “And call me Coryo tonight, yea?” He says as you light up.

“Whatever you say, Coryo.” You shrug, tossing his lighter onto the dash as you smoke your roach.

His roach teeters against his lips as Coryo smacks your bare thigh (since you're in shorts) while telling you in a deep, dark baritone, “I’m gonna fuck some sense, respect, and manners into you tonight, baby.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. Coriolanus has a big cock and you always enjoy getting fucked by him. But by his tone, he's pissed and is going fuck you hard tonight to prove a point. Do you care? Not really.

Hey, you're getting dicked down tonight, so you're not gonna complain about why it's happening.

After arriving at Coryo's apartment, he literally tossed you over his shoulder and carried you to his bedroom. Despite hooking up with him a few times, you've never been inside of his room. You’ve always hooked up on his couch in the living room. But it seems like Snow wants to fuck you in his bed tonight.

He unceremoniously tosses you onto his bed, making you bounce slightly. Coriolanus pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the side before pulling his gun out of his waistband and placing it on his bedside table. All while you just lay in the middle of his bed, silently watching him.

Pulling some bags of various drugs out of his pockets and putting them on the bedside table, the dealer tells you, “After tonight you won't be a bratty bitch with me anymore.”

“And what if after tonight's fucking I decide to still be a bratty bitch?” You countered, watching the platinum blonde as he kneels on the bed, causing the mattress to dip slightly with the added weight of his body.

Coryo's hovering over your body. One of his hands is flat against the mattress while the other goes straight to your hair. His long fingers tangle in your hair, pulling it and making your neck crane so your face is close to his. Your eyes lock onto to icy blues, now blazing with lust and an unchecked emotion, as he tells you, “Then I'll just have to keep fucking you til you're not a bratty bitch anymore.”

Before you can even think of a retort, Coryo's lips are smacking against yours in a heated, dominant kiss. A kiss that he poured out all of his jealousy, obsessiveness, and possessiveness into. A kiss that you respond to right away.

The taste of beer, weed, and mint sets your senses on fire as Snow deepens the kiss by shoving his tongue into your mouth as soon as you let out a tiny gasp for air. Air that you'll never get since Coryo's determined to suck all the air out of your lungs with his hungry and raw kisses.

Kisses unlike any other you've ever had before.

Coryo kissed like a starving man who couldn't satisfy his hunger. Like a parched man with an unquenchable thirst. He kissed like he wanted to suck the very soul out of your body, only to swallow it whole and make it one with his own.

He pulled away, breaking the kiss, and just gave you a dark smirk before grabbing the hem of your dress. He didn't need to tell you what he wanted to do, you just knew. So, you lifted your arms up and let him pull off your tank top. Then, you lowered your arms and let him unclasp and pull off your bra. He tossed the black lacy thing across the room before taking one of your nipples between his teeth; causing you to moan and arch your back.

Coryo chuckled against your boob, only to swirl his tongue around your nipple while palming at your cloth covered cunt. The friction was only enough to tease you, which drove you insane.

“Coryo, please, fuck me.” You beg in a mewling moan.

“Oh, I'm going to fuck you alright. I'm gonna fuck you til I blow your back out; til you learn some respect and get it into that goddamn stubborn skull of yours that you belong to me and ain't gonna be talking with no other dudes.” He darkly promises before trailing open mouth kisses down your torso. Swirling his tongue into your belly button, he quickly unbuttons and pulls off your jean shorts, leaving you in just your lacy panties.

Panties that won't be on for long.

You're not sure how long you've been fucking Coryo for, but you do know that the bed's soaked, the sheets are prolly ruined, and you're in your third? fourth? position of the night. You also know that your pussy’s a wet, weeping, swollen, oversensitive mess. Also, you're so cockdrunk that your brain’s just about turned to mush right now too.

“You’re not so mouthy anymore, are ya, bitch?” Coryo asks, pounding mercilessly into your pussy from behind as you lay bonelessly on the bed with a pillow propped under your lower belly/hips. The cool metal of his dog tags drags up and down your spine as he taunts you with, “Look at you, so cockdrunk that you're a dumb, submissive, little slut for me.”

“Mhm…” You garble out, drool pooling out of your mouth and onto his pillow.

“Fuck…your greedy cunt's creamin’ my cock so good. Got a thick creamy ring at the base, baby.” Coriolanus groans, harshly snapping his hips to thrust even deeper into your tight, abused hole. His breath is hot against your ear as he dirtily asks in a husky, deep, baritone, “You gonna soak my sheets again, you dirty little slut? Huh, babygirl? Gonna squirt all over my big balls as they slap against that puffy clit of yours?”

“Yes, yes.” You nod. “Coryo, ‘s feels good and too much all at once.” You tell him as the tip of his cock hits your cervix, causing your toes to curl and your fingers to dig into the sheets.

“Yea?” Coryo asks in a deep, throaty chuckle. “You can take it, tho, babygirl. You're my bratty lil slut and can take my dick like a goddamn champ.” He tells you, a moan caught in the back of his throat, as he ruts into you at an ungodly speed.

“Coryo…so close…” You gasp, feeling dizzy from getting your brains banged out by your possessive and primal weed dealer.

“Cum right now. Be my obedient good girl and cum all over my cock right now.” Coryo orders you in a deep, but firm tone.

His rough, lust-husky voice being so commanding sends you over the edge. You cum babbling his name over and over into the pillow your head’s resting sideways on.

Your moans and high pitch chants of “Coryo, Coryo, Coryo.”  is music to the dealer’s ears.

Coriolanus prides himself on how good he fucks you, on how he can make you cum multiple times; make you a crying, rambling mess just with his cock and by manhandling you into whatever position he wants you in. 

“I'm gonna fuck you til I fill that tight cunt full of my cum.” Coriolanus promises in a loud grunt as he plows into you, hard and deep. Little squeals fall from your lips as he huskily remarks, “Gonna knock ya up with my lil bastard.” His fingers dig deep into your hips, no doubt leaving bruises and crescent shaped marks. “We're gonna be able to collect all kinds of benefits once you're carrying my baby.” Coryo's icy eyes start to roll into the back of his head and his balls start to tighten up as he sloppily ducks into your tight cunt. “You're gonna look so sexy all full and round with my kid. You'll be glowing.”

One, two, three more fast thrusts and Coryo's filling your womb up with thick ropes of his hot, white seed. Instead of pulling out, he fucks his cum deep into you. He only pulls out once he's sure that every drop has been fucked deep into your greedy, awaiting womb.

You're a boneless, exhausted mess whenever Coryo's cock slips out of your overfucked and overstimulated cunt. A cunt that's still twitching. The platinum blonde dealer can't help, but smirk at your form laying on the bed all cockdrunk and fucked dumb.

He climbs down from the bed and goes over to your side. Pushing some sweaty strands of hair away from your face, he asks, “You good, baby?”

“Yea.” You barely whisper, nodding with a glassy-eyed look.

“I'll be right back. Gonna get something for ya to drink; something to clean you up with too.” Coriolanus told you before walking out of the room.

You smile as you watch his perfect ass leave the room and head down the hall. Yes, you'll admit that Coryo's ass is perfect. His broad shoulders, tapered slutty waist, and muscles are perfect too. Hell, the dealer’s an Adonis crafted by the ancient gods, that's how hot he is.

It doesn't take long for Coryo to return with a wet washcloth and a bottle of water that he's added some Liquid IV too. He usually drinks that stuff after a long night of heavy partying to afford hangovers, so he figures it'd be good as an aftercare drink. You can use all the electrolytes you can get after he went hard with fucking you.

After cleaning you off, he tosses the washcloth onto the bedside table and joins you in bed. He arranged your tires, fucked out body so that you’re snuggled into his side. Kissing your forehead, he reaches for the bottle on his bedside table. “Here, this’ll help hydrate you.” Snow says, handing you over the water bottle. 

“Thanks, Snowball.” You smile, taking the bottle from him. You open it and take a sip. “Ugh, what is this shit? It's not water, Coryo.” You ask, making a funny face from the weird taste lingering on your tongue.

“It's gold cherry Liquid IV.” He told you, only to tip the water bottle up towards your mouth. “It'll hydrate you faster than water, so drink it.”

“It doesn't taste like golden cherries.”  You mumble before taking another sip of the enhanced water.

“Stop complaining and drink it, Y/N. We don't want you passing out from being fucked too hard, now so we?”

You roll your eyes at him and take a longer sip from the water bottle. Passing it over to him, you say, “You should drink some too since you have the stamina of a stallion and nearly fucked me to death.”

“Don't be so dramatic, babe.” Coryo scoffed, taking the water bottle from you. “You like me fucking some manners into you.”

“Of course I liked it. I'd be stupid not to.” You tell him, watching as he gulps down the water. Better him than you drinking that stuff. Too bad he doesn't have any bottles of Gatorade in the fridge. Now that you wouldn't mind drinking.

“Got work or anything you gotta be up early for?” Coryo asks, capping the bottle bottle and placing it on his bedside table.

“No.” You shake your head against his chest. “Still haven't found anything yet, but I got an interview in a couple of days at The Hobb.”

“Yea…” Coryo trails off, only to firmly order, “You're not working there.” 

“Why not? It's a busy bar so I wouldn’t be laid off.” You pressed, needing to know his reason for not wanting you to gain employment at the biggest bar in Panem.

“It's not a bar, it's a honkey tonk.” Your dealer dryly corrected you. “And it's just not somewhere I want my girl working at.”

You raised a curious brow while looking up at the man whose arms are wrapped around you, whose side you're tucked into. “Since when am I your girl, Snowball? Thought you didn't do the boyfriend-girlfriend thing?”

“I’m usually the type of guy that doesn't want a girlfriend, but, baby, it's different with you.”

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls you deal to.” You say in an attempt to brush off Snow's words; the seriousness of their nature. Because if he really has feelings for you, then you're screwed. Hooking up with a dealer and dating one; belonging to one's are two very very different things. Things that could make your already rocky life even rockier.

“Actually, babygirl, no, I don't say that to all the girls I deal to.” Coryo honestly admitted. His usually cold icy eyes melted into a crystal blue as he looked into your eyes. “Just you, baby, cause you're special to me.”

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