snailpebbles

[snailpebbles]

this was amazing !!! the way you write is so so poetic, and I love how you kept kenmas character consistent through everything. the 'build' for the reader also went so well w/ him and all of their little 'appreciating the slowness' moments were so CUTE!! this is defo one of the best kenma fics I've read, it's so well done :) srsly im obsessed why isn't he in my room playing games rn 💔

And they were Roommates 🫐🧃

Pairing: timeskip kenma x female reader (roommates, secret identity, tiny bit of slow burn → smut) Genre: Modern AU, roommates to lovers, secret identity, smut, mutual pining, fluffy tension, emotional comfort Summary: Living with Kenma is easy — quiet mornings, shared takeout, the occasional side-glance that lingers too long. You’re just roommates. Nothing more. Except you’ve been falling for him silently, the same way you’ve been falling for your faceless gaming partner with the calm voice and comforting presence. You don’t know they’re the same person. And Kenma? He’s just as in love, just as hopelessly silent. It takes a power outage, a few candles, and one vulnerable night playing board games in the dark for everything to unravel — secrets, feelings, and eventually, clothes. word count: 9k

The apartment was quiet in the way it always was after midnight — low city noise outside, the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of old floorboards. You were curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over your legs, the TV remote idle in your hand. A video of someone playing a vintage indie game, you weren’t really watching played quietly, mostly to fill the silence.

Kenma sat at the dining table nearby, face lit only by his phone. He had just finished a stream, you could tell — his hair still a little messy from the headset, sleeves pushed up, fingers absently tapping at his screen like he was still mentally logged in. You knew his schedule by heart now. Not because you asked. Just… because you noticed.

"You done for the night?" you asked softly, not looking away from the screen.

"Mhm," he hummed, noncommittal. His voice was low, a little rough with sleep or disuse.

There was a familiar comfort to moments like this. You weren’t really friends — not in the way people talked about friendships. But you’d been roommates long enough to fall into habits. You made dinner when he forgot to eat, he brought you canned coffee when he came back from runs to the corner store. You never really pried into each other’s lives. Not directly.

But that didn’t stop you from knowing more than you were supposed to.

Especially about him.

Your eyes flicked toward his closed door down the hall. You could picture the room behind it perfectly: gaming chair, ambient lighting, that ridiculous cat-eared headset he wore when he played certain games for fun. You’d seen it. More than once. On stream.

Not that he knew.

You kept that part to yourself — how you’d stumbled onto his channel by accident a few months after moving in, and never stopped watching. Not because he was popular, though he was. But because… it was the only place he talked. Not just short replies or sleepy nods. But talked. About games, about random thoughts, about things that made him laugh quietly under his breath.

Things he didn’t say to you.

"You hungry?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "What?"

He glanced up, fingers still tapping. "Did you eat?"

"Yeah. You?"

He shrugged.

That meant no.

You got up with a soft sigh and padded into the kitchenette, grabbing the last two onigiri from the fridge and tossing one his way. He caught it without looking.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Don’t die," you said, half-teasing.

That got a slight curl of his lip — not quite a smile, but close enough to count. You watched him a second too long, then forced yourself to sit back down, hiding under your blanket like it could erase how warm your face suddenly felt.

Your phone chimed. You knew that sound.

A match invite.

You looked at the clock. Almost 1 a.m.

Probably from him.

Not Kenma — but the other Kenma. The one who messaged you under a different name and played co-op games with you late into the night. Who said things like “you’re easy to talk to” and “same time tomorrow?”

The one you didn’t know was him.

You picked up your phone slowly, already seeing the notification pop up.

🕹️ [OfflineButHere]: you up?

You glanced at Kenma across the room. He hadn’t moved, but something in his posture had shifted. Looser. Familiar.

You didn’t think much of it.

You should have.

Instead, you just smiled at your screen, typed always for you, and hit send.

You liked to pretend it wasn’t weird — how often he messaged, how quickly you replied, how it always felt like something tethered you together through your screens.

OfflineButHere never missed a night.

The username made you laugh the first time. A little on the nose, right? A stranger who never turned on voice chat, never talked about real life, but somehow always felt so close. He wasn’t loud. Never flirted. Just… existed beside you. Quietly. Steadily.

It was comforting.

And maybe a little intoxicating.

The game loaded in. Your character spawned just beside his, and you felt your chest ease the second you saw his familiar avatar give you that same casual crouch-hello he always did.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you’re late 🧍‍♀️You: 1 minute late doesn’t count 🕹️ OfflineButHere: was worried

Your hands paused over the keyboard.

It was probably a joke. He did that sometimes — short, subtle things that made your stomach twist. You never called him out on it.

🧍‍♀️You: didn’t know you cared 🕹️ OfflineButHere: didn’t say I didn’t

You stared at the screen a moment too long.

Somewhere down the hall, the soft creak of your apartment’s floorboards shifted. Kenma. Moving around, probably heading to brush his teeth. You could almost imagine him now — hair pulled back lazily, face dimly lit by the same glow of a screen.

Sometimes it scared you, how similar they were.

🧍‍♀️You: you play like someone I know 🕹️ OfflineButHere: oh? 🧍‍♀️You: my roommate. kenma 🧍‍♀️You: you both like the same characters. same weird routes 🕹️ OfflineButHere: he must have good taste 🧍‍♀️You: he does 🧍‍♀️You’re cooler though 🧍‍♀️(but don’t tell him I said that)

There was a pause on his end. Longer than usual. You bit your lip, heart in your throat.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: I won’t

That was the thing about him. He didn’t flirt. But sometimes he said things like that — short, warm, real — and it left your heart lurching toward something dangerous.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself, pushing your chair back and running a hand through your hair.

You were crushing on a stranger you played games with at 1 a.m. And you were also in love with your roommate. And you had no idea which one hurt more.

You played for an hour longer. He covered for you when you missed shots. You revived him without hesitation. It was teamwork built on weeks — months — of instinct and trust.

🧍‍♀️You: same time tomorrow? 🕹️ OfflineButHere: always for you

You stared.

Your fingers hovered, then typed something you didn’t think too hard about.

🧍‍♀️You: if you ever stream, I’d watch

No reply.

Your heart sank.

But just as you moved to log off, his name blinked back to life.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you already do

You stared at it.

And stared.

And before you could reply — before you could even think — he was offline.

You sat back in your chair, heart pounding. Somewhere down the hall, you heard a door creak softly shut.

It’s late — too late — and the apartment is humming with a quiet kind of static. The only light comes from Kenma’s monitor in the other room, the glow of his stream casting faint shadows against the hallway wall.

You’re curled up on the couch, half-scrolling, half-listening. You’ve been waiting for offlinebuthere to log on for over an hour now. He’s usually consistent. Always there when the world goes quiet.

Then — just as you shift your weight, thinking maybe you’ll go knock on Kenma’s door and ask if he wants tea or something stupidly casual like that — everything stops.

A low click. A silence that’s too thick. The whir of the ceiling fan dies. The monitor’s light vanishes.

Darkness.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, tugging your phone out of your pocket — only to find it at 9%, with no signal.

From the hallway: “…Power’s out?” Kenma’s voice, muffled.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to sound more annoyed than startled. “It’s not just the breaker, is it?”

A moment later, he appears in the doorway, barefoot, hair tied loosely back. His phone screen lights his face — soft, golden, shadows clinging to the edges of his features like they belong there.

He shakes his head. “Whole block’s out.”

You try not to stare. You fail a little.

“Oh,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Cool. So no WiFi, no heat, no microwave popcorn.”

Kenma looks at you for a long second, then turns on his heel.

“I’ve got candles,” he says over his shoulder.

When he returns, he’s carrying a half-melted cluster of tea lights and one fat lavender-scented thing you vaguely remember buying during a stress-fueled grocery run. He arranges them on the coffee table like it’s completely normal, like this isn’t already the most romantic lighting you’ve been in with him, ever.

“So.” He sits across from you on the floor. “Wanna play a game?”

You blink. “What kind of game?”

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the shelf behind you — board games, card decks, a stack of unopened strategy boxes that have gathered dust.

“You’re a menace,” you say, trying not to smile. “You planned this.”

He shrugs. “I’m just adapting.”

The room feels different like this — slower. Warmer. The candles flicker against his skin and you try not to let your eyes linger on the way his fingers move, deft and careful as he opens the worn lid of some card game you don’t remember buying.

You sit across from him on the rug, knees almost brushing. His thigh rests dangerously close to yours. You swallow.

“Do I get bonus points if I win?” you ask.

Kenma doesn’t look up. “That depends.”

“On?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours — gold in candlelight, unreadable.

“On what you’d want the points for.”

You go still.

It’s stupid, how fast your heart picks up. How close he is. How easy it would be to lean in, just a little—

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean forward and deal the cards. Let the silence stretch. Let the candles flicker. Let yourself pretend, for now, that this is just a normal game night. And not the moment everything starts to shift.

The game stretches on, laughter light and easy now, the awkwardness melting away like wax from the candles.

You’re both sprawled on the floor, a scattered mess of cards and game pieces between you. Your hands brush once — twice — and each time your breath catches, but neither of you says a word.

You can’t remember the last time you two talked this much — or laughed, or even touched. It’s… nice. Seeing this side of Kenma almost makes you forget about your online friend, the one probably waiting for you to hop on the game. But tonight, you have to break this streak.

To be honest, this feels better — playing board games with Kenma, hearing him mutter quietly when he loses. There was that one time when he almost bad-mouthed you for winning, only to stop mid-sentence, shocked at himself. You both ended up laughing so hard your sides hurt.

That was nice.

“You want to keep playing?” Kenma asks, voice soft.

You shrug. There’s not much else to do, really — board games or sleep. And sleep feels like the biggest waste ever, especially now, when it seems like you two are finally becoming something like friends.

“I don’t know what else we could do, but… we should do this more often. Play games together, you know?” you say.

He chuckles lightly. “Is once every day not enough for you?”

His voice is low, eyes downcast, fingers fiddling nervously. You can tell he’s a little on edge.

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused. You’ve never actually played a game with him before… unless—

He looks up with a shy smile, shoulders shrugging slightly.

It clicks.

Your online friend… it’s him.

That’s why he’s always on his phone when your friend texts you. Why he never sends you an invite while streaming. Why he said you’d watched him before.

You grab a pillow and toss it at him, laughing. “I can’t believe I’ve been so oblivious!”

You throw another, and another, and for once Kenma doesn’t dodge. One or two quiet chuckles escape his lips.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to play a game with you?” you say between laughs. “I would’ve said yes! We’ve been doing this for months.”

His confession is sudden and so silly you don’t know how to react other than laughing until your belly aches.

“I didn’t know if you would have liked to,” Kenma says honestly.

You stop laughing, the air between you softening.

“You don’t have to guess,” you say gently. “You can just ask.”

He blinks, as if the idea surprises him.

For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you.

Then he says quietly, “Maybe… I will.”

Your heart does a little flip.

You glance at him, and he meets your eyes — a little less guarded than before.

No words, just a quiet understanding.

And suddenly, the night feels full of possibilities.

You lean back against the couch, the warm candlelight flickering across Kenma’s face, making his usually unreadable expression softer—almost vulnerable. A slow grin spreads across your lips, fueled by the intimate quiet between you.

“How about we make things a little more interesting?” you say, voice low but teasing. “Truth or dare.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker up, sharp but amused. He blinks slowly, like he’s weighing the idea. Then he nods, voice calm but with that hint of challenge you recognize. “Alright. But don’t expect me to go easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply.

The first few rounds are simple—harmless questions, light dares that don’t push too far. But with each turn, the air thickens; the questions dig a little deeper, the dares inch a little closer to something unspoken.

He asks first. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you say, heart rate speeding slightly.

“What’s the last thing you thought about before falling asleep?”

You catch the glint in his eyes and hesitate, just for a second, then answer, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond—just studies you like he’s seeing you in a new light.

“Your turn,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Dare,” Kenma replies without hesitation, eyes locked on yours.

You bite your lip, thinking carefully. “I dare you to lean in—close enough to feel my breath.”

His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say no.

Slowly, he shifts closer, until the space between you shrinks to nothing.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers as they rest just inches from yours on the couch.

He stops just shy of touching you, voice low and rough. “Enough?”

You swallow hard, the unspoken electricity crackling between you. “Not yet.”

A teasing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—rare and fleeting.

“Truth or dare?” he murmurs.

And the game continues.

You take a breath, heart pounding beneath the quiet hum of the candles. “Truth.”

Kenma’s eyes narrow, the playful glint still there but with a sharper edge. “What’s something you want, but you’re too scared to admit?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question’s weight, the sudden intimacy of it. For a moment, you consider brushing it off, but then you meet his steady gaze and decide to be honest—just enough. “I want… to stop pretending I don’t like you.”

A flicker of something unreadable passes over his face—surprise? Relief? Something softer.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, exhaling slowly, the tension thick between you.

“Your turn,” you say, voice quieter than before.

“Dare,” he replies, eyes darkening just a little.

You smirk, feeling bold now. “I dare you to tell me one thing you’ve never said to anyone else.”

Kenma’s silence stretches, then he shifts, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes. Finally, he speaks, low and hesitant. “I don’t like losing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He glances up, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your breath catches, and the distance between you feels even smaller.

Without thinking, you reach out, your fingertips brushing his arm—light, tentative. He doesn’t pull away.

“Truth or dare?” you whisper.

He smiles—a real, small smile—and says, “Truth.”

You lean closer, your voice barely audible. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Kenma’s eyes flick to your lips, then back up to your eyes, dark and searching. “I’d kiss you back.”

The words hang between you, heavy and electric.

Neither of you moves for a heartbeat.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Kenma shifts, closing the space just a little more.

But before anything else can happen, the soft chime of a notification breaks the spell.

Both of you jump, the moment broken but not forgotten.

Kenma glances at his phone, then back at you, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Looks like the game isn’t quite over.”

You grin, heart still racing. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

The glow from the candles casts flickering shadows around the room as the game’s playful tension shifts into something far heavier. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the silence wrapping you both like a warm, electric current.

Kenma’s gaze lingers on your lips, then flicks up to meet your eyes—searching, hesitant, but undeniably drawn.

You inch closer, breath mingling, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. His hand finds yours again, this time holding on—not tentative, but sure.

The space between you collapses.

Then, slow and deliberate, his lips brush against yours.

It’s light at first—an exploration, a question.

You respond, tipping your head, deepening the kiss.

His hands move from your fingers to your waist, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough of the feeling.

Your hands thread through his hair, fingers tangling gently, careful not to rush what’s blossoming between you.

The kiss grows hungrier, more urgent, the careful teasing turning into something raw and real.

You feel the heat spreading, your body awakening under his touch—the way he cups your face, the gentle but firm pressure of his hands on your back.

When you finally break apart, breaths heavy and hearts racing, Kenma’s eyes stay locked on yours, searching.

He swallows, then murmurs softly, voice almost a whisper, “If you want… we don’t have to stop.”

His words aren’t flashy or bold, but they carry all the weight you need. The invitation is there—quiet, hesitant, honest.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Without another word, he reaches out again, hands gentle but sure, pulling you closer into the warmth of the moment.

The moment lingers between you like the last flicker of a candle flame—warm, fragile, charged. Kenma’s quiet invitation hangs in the air, and you can’t help but smile, feeling bold and nervous all at once.

“Alright,” you say, settling back against the couch, “how about one more game? Something… a little different.”

Kenma quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say no. “What did you have in mind?”

You think for a moment, then grin. “Let’s play something like truth or dare, but with a catch: every time someone refuses a dare or dodges a truth, they have to… remove an article of clothing.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “A dangerous game.”

“Only if you want it to be,” you tease, letting your fingers brush lightly over his knee.

He shifts slightly, the contact sending a small pulse through your nerves. “You start.”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

You lean in just enough to catch the scent of him—something faintly woodsy, familiar, comforting. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone about… me?”

Kenma’s gaze darkens just a bit, and he looks away for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt before answering quietly. “That I watch you when you think no one is looking.”

Your breath catches.

You give him a slow, deliberate smile. “Alright, your turn.”

He considers, then says, “Dare.”

You bite your lip, heart racing. “I dare you to touch me.”

There’s a brief flicker of hesitation, then his hand moves slowly—just a ghost of a touch along your arm, tracing a delicate line that makes your skin tingle.

You shiver slightly but keep your expression neutral, making him lean in just a little more the next time, his fingers brushing lower.

The game stretches on, each round a deliciously slow peeling back of layers—both clothing and walls.

You dare him to whisper something you’d only hear in the dark.

He challenges you to tell a secret you’ve never shared.

You both dodge and comply, laughter mingling with gasps and the soft scrape of fabric sliding away.

Every glance, every touch is a conversation without words—a silent question and answer charged with meaning.

When he dares you to trace the outline of his collarbone with your fingertips, your hands tremble just enough for him to notice.

His voice drops a notch. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”

You smile, the room suddenly smaller, the night far from over.

Kenma’s hoodie lies forgotten between the two of you. Your own shirt is tugged over one shoulder, exposing skin, but not enough to fluster you—yet. The game has slowed down now, cards scattered, your mutual competitiveness replaced by something quieter, weightier.

There’s a silence hanging over the two of you that isn't uncomfortable—just charged. You’re both watching each other a little too carefully. You shift, tug your knees up, and glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone and back up again, fast—like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop himself.

“So…” you start, voice lighter than you feel, “is this still just a game?”

Kenma looks at you for a long second before answering. “It was,” he murmurs, fingers curling into the fabric of the pillow in his lap. “I think it stopped being that when you laughed so hard you almost cried.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone.

“Or maybe when you figured out it was me,” he adds, quieter.

You both fall silent again. This time, the space feels different. His gaze lingers. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you completely for the first time, like he wants to touch but won’t unless you say so.

He shifts again, just slightly closer, the faint smell of his shampoo—something clean and subtle—floating in the still air.

His voice cuts through the quiet, soft but grounding: “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Your breath catches, and god, the way he says it—like he’s asking permission to feel something, like he’s nervous he read this wrong. There’s no pressure behind it. Just curiosity. Want.

You hesitate, not because you don’t want it, but because you do. So much more than you should. You tilt your head, eyes soft but searching. “What if I say yes?”

His mouth twitches in the smallest smile. “Then I will.”

You nod once, slowly. “Then yes.”

Kenma leans in—gentle, unrushed. He kisses you like it’s the second time, like he’s still memorizing the shape of your mouth. This kiss is deeper, longer. It lingers. It drags out like time’s paused just for the two of you. His hand comes up to your jaw, hesitant at first, but you lean into the touch and that’s enough for him to hold you closer.

You shift in place until your knees touch, and the kiss deepens again, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt instead—holding onto something, anything, to ground yourself. It’s warm and slow and burning beneath the surface. You can feel the way he’s holding back—every part of him still careful.

When you finally pull away, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see the look in his eyes, his lips slightly swollen, breath uneven.

He doesn't say anything right away, and neither do you. The air is still buzzing between your mouths.

Then you smirk lightly and say, “I thought you were bad at flirting.”

“I am,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb under your lip. “But I’m good at wanting you.”

Your stomach flips at that—equal parts heat and vulnerability.

“Should we…” You glance down at the forgotten cards, at your state of half-undress. “Keep playing?”

Kenma raises a brow. “You mean, keep losing?”

You scoff, smacking his arm lightly. “I let you win.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

You grin, reaching over for the blanket to pull it over both of your laps, now tucked in close. The tension’s still there, thick and steady, but it simmers under a new layer of comfort. Warmth. Anticipation.

You know this isn’t over. You’re not done. Not with the game, not with him, not with tonight.

And neither is he.

You’re still curled up close, knees brushing and shoulders leaning, but now there’s a noticeable shift in the air. Not just the tension — that’s been simmering for hours — but the way he looks at you. Like he’s taking mental snapshots of every breath you take.

His fingers ghost along your arm again, this time slower. Lazier. You know he’s doing it on purpose, letting his nails barely graze your skin like he’s tracing an invisible line only he can see.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, lips just barely curved into a smile.

Kenma’s eyes flicker from your mouth back to your eyes, like he’s deciding whether to respond or just keep watching you. Eventually, he leans forward again, brushing his nose against your cheek in something that feels more like a touch than a kiss.

“I like looking at you,” he murmurs. “Especially when you’re trying not to squirm.”

It’s stupid how fast your pulse jumps.

You tilt your head a bit, feigning innocence. “I’m not squirming.”

He lets out a soft laugh and presses his palm against your thigh. Not roughly, not to push — just to rest there, warm and grounding. His thumb strokes in absent circles.

“That’s because I haven’t done anything yet.”

You want to reply with something clever, but your breath catches instead. He’s so slow with you it almost hurts, like he’s making a game out of waiting. Like drawing this out is his version of winning.

His lips brush against yours again — not quite a kiss, more like a promise. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

This time, it’s deeper. Slower. Your mouths move together in a rhythm that makes it hard to think, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt just slightly. His touch never pushes. He only gives you space to move into him, to invite him in.

When you shift closer, legs tangled and bodies flush, he lets out a quiet sound that vibrates right through you — almost a sigh, like this is everything he wanted and more.

And then he pulls back again. Not far. Just enough to make you chase after the kiss.

“Kenma—”

His hands slide to your waist, gripping you gently, coaxing you back onto his lap like it's nothing. Like this is just how he holds people. Like the weight of you on him is something he’s wanted all night.

“I like it when you say my name like that,” he says lowly, voice almost teasing, almost reverent.

You roll your hips slightly without thinking, and that’s the first time his control seems to falter — his breath stutters, and his hands squeeze at your hips.

“I thought you liked taking your time,” you whisper.

“I do,” he answers, voice low and a little rough now. “But you make it hard.”

His hands slide under your shirt now, all the way up your spine, like he’s mapping out each vertebrae. Every inch of him still moves with unhurried patience, but the way his eyes look at you says otherwise.

You press your lips to his again, messier this time. More desperate. And he lets you take it — lets you set the pace for a few moments before his fingers tangle in your hair and he’s kissing you back like he wants to memorize every sound you make.

When you finally break away to breathe, you rest your forehead against his. “Should we go to your room?”

Kenma tilts his head slightly. “If we go now,” he murmurs, “I’m going to take forever with you.”

You shiver.

And god, you want that.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Kenma stands up slowly, his hands still on your waist, guiding you with him. There’s something strangely tender about it — like he’s not leading you to bed for sex but for something more sacred. Or maybe it just feels that way because it’s him.

You follow him wordlessly down the short hallway to his room. You’ve seen it before, obviously — passed by it when you did laundry, or when he left his door half-open while streaming — but it feels different now. Warmer. Darker. Lit only by the candles you’d carried here from the living room.

He sits down at the edge of the bed, legs spread slightly, then looks up at you like he’s waiting.

So you climb onto his lap.

You expect him to kiss you immediately, to devour you now that you're finally alone in his room — but no. Of course not. This is Kenma. He lets his hands wander first, fingers dragging up under your shirt again, across your ribs, over the soft skin just below your bra. He’s touching you like he’s committing it to memory. Like if he doesn’t take his time, he’ll miss something important.

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.

You do, and he peels your shirt off slowly, eyes following every inch of newly revealed skin like it’s some secret he’s finally allowed to see.

“I knew you’d look like this,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You don’t know what to say to that — but it doesn’t matter, because he’s kissing you again, soft and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. His hands trail down to your thighs, squeezing gently, pulling you in closer so you’re seated fully against the hardness straining under his sweats. The friction pulls a soft sound from you, and he responds by rolling his hips once, deliberately.

You both shudder.

His mouth moves lower, grazing along your jaw, your neck, right down to your collarbone. When he licks a stripe there — slow, warm — you arch into him instinctively. He hums, satisfied, and does it again.

You reach for the hem of his shirt now, impatient, and he lets you pull it over his head. His body is lean and pale, just like you imagined — soft stomach, sharp collarbones, the golden tips of his hair brushing over his bare shoulders.

You run your hands over his chest, letting your fingers linger at his waist, and he gives you a breathy little laugh.

“You’re more confident than I thought you’d be,” he mutters.

“You’re even quieter than I thought you’d be,” you counter, but your voice is already husky, your body already rocking against him without meaning to.

He smirks — just barely — and leans in again. His mouth on yours is slower now, more open, his tongue teasing until you're practically trembling with want. One of his hands slips between your legs, pressing softly where you need him most — not enough to satisfy, just enough to pull another needy sound out of you.

“Please,” you whisper against his mouth.

Kenma chuckles, and it’s low, throaty, unbearably smug. “Already?”

He dips his fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts but doesn’t go further. Just strokes you over your underwear with that same lazy rhythm that’s quickly driving you insane.

“You’re really gonna make me beg for it, huh?”

His fingers pause.

Then: “Yeah.”

You groan, and he finally slips his hand under the last layer. His touch is soft — slow circles, featherlight pressure, making you grind helplessly into his palm.

“I want to take my time,” he says, watching your face like it’s the most important part of this. “You okay with that?”

You nod. “Yes. Just… don’t stop.”

He smiles — a real one this time, soft and rare — and presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You barely hear the shift of the sheets as Kenma leans you back, easing you gently onto the mattress. He moves with that same dreamy deliberation — not because he’s unsure, but because he wants to feel every moment stretch.

His hand stays between your legs the entire time, slow and certain, fingers curling just enough to make you whimper when he finally slips one inside. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling, head tilting back against the pillow — and he’s watching you again. Always watching.

“I like the way you sound,” he murmurs, voice low and honest.

You reach up blindly, fisting your hands into his hair, and he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then right beneath your ear again — slow, like he knows exactly what it does to you.

“You’re so—” You try to say something, anything, but all you manage is a sigh as his second finger joins the first, coaxing you open with such care it almost hurts.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

You could cry. The way he touches you is reverent — not timid, not rushed. Just steady. Focused. Devastating. His thumb strokes you softly, dragging you closer with every breath, and he doesn’t stop — not even when your hips start stuttering, not even when you’re gasping his name.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses suddenly, voice quieter than ever. “So many times.”

You whine into his shoulder, flushed and shaking. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps moving inside you, achingly slow, until you’re clutching at his arm, your legs trembling.

“Because I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he finally says. “I liked talking to you. Playing with you. I didn’t want you to think I was—just trying to get this.”

You tilt your head toward him, eyes glassy, skin flushed. “Kenma…”

“I just wanted to know what it felt like to… kiss you again. Touch you.” His thumb moves again, firmer this time. “Make you feel good.”

You cry out softly, the pressure peaking in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter.

“And you do,” you breathe. “You really do.”

His forehead presses to yours, and you feel his breath hitch as your thighs tremble around him. The moment hits hard, deep — and he stays with you through it, fingers still moving, thumb guiding you through the waves until you’re breathless and blinking up at him like he’s something holy.

You expect him to stop.

He doesn’t.

He shifts only long enough to tug your shorts off, sliding them slowly down your legs like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted forever. Then he reaches for the waistband of his own sweats, eyes flicking to yours like he’s asking permission — not because he’s unsure, but because he cares.

You nod, already pulling him back toward you. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper. Like he’s trying to say everything without words.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks softly.

You wrap your legs around his waist in answer.

Kenma exhales through his nose, almost like he’s relieved. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s with a quiet, ragged breath that sends a full-body shiver through you both.

He’s warm, steady, intense — like everything about him has narrowed down to just this. You. The weight of his body. The way he holds you, kisses you, buries his face against your neck and whispers your name like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud.

And still, even now, he doesn’t rush.

He rolls his hips with that same quiet patience, dragging it out, watching your face every time you whimper. His thumb brushes your cheek. His nose nudges against yours. He’s inside you like he’s still trying to memorize it all.

“Can I… kiss you again?” he whispers, almost shy now.

You pull him in wordlessly.

The kiss is longer this time. Lingering. He moans softly into your mouth as you move together — a sound so rare, so raw, that it sends another shiver down your spine.

You don’t remember how long it goes on like that — soft thrusts, shaky moans, bodies tangled in the candlelight. But eventually, you feel him tremble above you, forehead pressed to yours again, breath caught in his throat.

And then he’s whispering your name again — broken, beautiful — and you’re both falling together in the softest, warmest kind of silence.

Kenma pulls back just enough to let his lips brush against your skin, slow and tentative, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you. His hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, anchoring himself to you. For a heartbeat, all you hear is the quiet rush of your breathing mingling.

Then, almost like a quiet confession, he lowers his head again — this time moving with a new purpose. His mouth finds your collarbone, then dips lower, lips and tongue teasing the soft skin of your ribs, tracing lazy, featherlight patterns that send shivers rippling down your spine.

You gasp softly, and your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation. His hands slide down your sides, moving with a deliberate, possessive care that sets your skin on fire.

Kenma’s mouth trails lower still, finally settling between your thighs with a tenderness that makes your breath catch — and then, with a slow, careful hunger that’s almost desperate, he parts your legs wider.

His tongue flicks out, gentle at first, exploring, tasting — but beneath that softness, there’s an intensity, like he’s determined to memorize every reaction, every shiver, every little gasp.

You arch into him, breath hitching as his tongue moves with growing confidence, circling and teasing, flicking and licking in patterns designed only to please. His hands hold you steady, fingers digging into your hips, grounding you even as your body floats higher.

He takes his time, savoring every inch of you like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have — a slow, reverent worship that leaves you trembling. You can feel the tension coil tighter inside you, a knot of pleasure and need that builds and builds.

Kenma’s breath fans over your skin, ragged and warm, as he hums softly against you — a quiet, almost primal sound that sends waves of heat crashing through your body. He’s not just giving himself to you; he’s giving all of himself, every quiet, nervous fragment of desire.

His tongue strokes and flicks with such care it’s almost unbearable, and you find yourself losing track of time, lost in the pure, raw sensation of being wanted — really wanted, by someone who’s both shy and utterly devoted.

When you finally reach your peak, it crashes over you like a storm — fierce and overwhelming — and Kenma holds you through it, lips pressed to your skin, grounding you with his steady presence.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes dark and serious, breath still uneven.

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “I’ll do this — all of this — as many times as you want. As long as you want. Because you’re worth it.”

You smile, your fingers curling against his cheek, and in the quiet candlelight, it feels like the beginning of something infinite.

Your body still trembles under him, heart pounding like a wild thing as waves of pleasure slowly ebb away. But even as you start to catch your breath, you feel the ache deep inside you — that fierce, aching need for more.

You look up at Kenma, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “Then… please,” you whisper, voice shaky but desperate, “do it again.”

He catches your gaze, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something almost shy, almost unsure, before his lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “You’re… insatiable,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, like it’s both a question and a challenge.

You can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you, fingers tangling in his hair as you urge him closer. “I don’t care. I want more. I don’t want to stop yet.”

Kenma’s eyes darken with quiet amusement — and something softer, something almost like admiration — but just when you think he’s going to dive back in, he pulls away, slow and deliberate.

Your breath hitches, heart stuttering in sudden panic. “Hey,” you protest, voice cracking, “don’t stop. Please.”

But he just chuckles, a low, teasing sound that sends heat flooding through you all over again. “Patience,” he says quietly, voice like velvet, “there’s a lot more to this than just rushing.”

His fingers trail lightly over your skin, barely touching, leaving a trail of fire where they pass. His eyes never leave yours, and the slow burn of his gaze makes your skin flush hotter than before.

You babble without thinking, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I’m sorry, I’m probably being annoying, I just—this feels so good, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this before, and you’re… you’re so good at this, I don’t even know how you do it, it’s like you know exactly what I need before I even say it.”

Kenma’s lips twitch in a small, shy smile. “You’re not annoying,” he says quietly. “I like hearing it. I like knowing you’re… paying attention.”

He leans in again, brushing his lips just against your ear. “But if I keep going too fast, you’ll miss all the best parts.”

You shiver, both from his breath and from the slow, teasing way he’s dragging this out. The ache inside you grows — sweet, desperate, delicious.

Kenma’s hands settle firm and sure on your hips again. “Ready?” he asks softly, voice low and full of promise.

You nod, barely able to speak, heart racing. “Yes. Please.”

He slides down with slow, teasing movements, lips finding your skin again, slower and more deliberate this time — like a painter tracing the finest details, making sure every touch counts.

And when he finally lowers his mouth to you again, it’s with the quiet hunger of someone who wants to remember this moment forever — every shiver, every sigh, every whispered name.

You lose yourself completely, riding the slow, delicious wave he builds with patient, tender care — and even as your body trembles toward the edge, you know he’s right: the best parts are still to come.

Just when the tension coils tight and you feel yourself about to shatter, Kenma pulls back, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes meet yours, dark and shimmering with something almost vulnerable.

“Not yet,” he whispers, voice low, almost hesitant. “Can I… again? I want to feel you like that once more.”

Your heart races, a breathless ‘yes’ caught between your lips, even though your body already aches from the pleasure. You barely have the strength to speak, but the words tumble out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Please… do it again.”

Your heart pounds beneath your ribs, a wild, aching rhythm that matches his own. Your breath catches as he leans in, pressing himself against you once more. Slowly, impossibly slow, he slides inside, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch, savoring every inch as if memorizing you again.

A soft curse slips from his lips—a rough, almost surprised sound—and your fingers instinctively tighten around his arms. His hand trails upward, hesitant at first, then more certain, cupping your breast with a gentle but possessive grip. His thumb circles your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding himself together. He moves with a slow, steady rhythm, each motion careful, almost reverent, like he’s trying to burn this moment into memory.

You lean into him, matching his pace, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. The way he touches you, the soft curses he mutters when you respond just right—it’s everything you didn’t know you needed.

You gasp as he fills you again, every movement measured, tender but demanding.

He leans down to kiss you again—soft, slow, lingering—and your hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not until you’re mine.”

Your body tightens around him, breath catching as pleasure builds once more, slow and overwhelming.

When you finally come undone again, it’s with him deep inside you, holding you steady—both of you lost in the quiet, messy, beautiful moment.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur, your voice rough and breathless. “Mind if I try something?”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you reach out, hands shaking just a little with anticipation. Slowly, you take him into your mouth, careful and tender at first, your tongue tracing delicate circles, exploring with a gentle pressure that makes him shiver.

Kenma’s eyes flutter shut, a low, surprised sound escaping him. His breath hitching, fingers curling into your hair, stroking softly as he watches you with quiet disbelief.

“Fuck... you’re... so good,” he murmurs between shallow breaths, voice thick with awe. “I didn’t think anyone could… God, you’re amazing.”

You hum around him, encouraged by his praise, your movements growing more confident, more sure. You take him deeper, swirling your tongue expertly, matching the rhythm of his quiet moans. His hips shift slightly, pressing closer, seeking more.

“Keep going,” he whispers, voice trembling, fingers tightening in your hair as if holding on to you is the only thing grounding him.

With every flick, every glide, you feel the tension build—not just in him, but inside yourself. You can tell he’s close, his body tightening, breath shallow and fast.

And then, with a soft curse and a ragged groan, Kenma lets go, shuddering against you as he spills over, his pleasure washing through you like fire.

He stays still for a moment afterward, chest rising and falling, eyes warm and shining as they find yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says quietly, voice thick with gratitude and something deeper. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you could do that.”

The quiet hum of the city outside filters in through the window as you both lie tangled beneath the blankets, limbs entwined and skin still tingling from everything that just happened. Kenma’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile spell hanging between you.

You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for the first time, words begin to surface—awkward and uncertain but necessary.

“So,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “what the fuck was that?”

Kenma exhales, a soft chuckle rumbling in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admits, fingers tightening just slightly on your skin. “I guess… that was a long time coming.”

You lift your head to look at him, catching the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, I never thought this—us—would happen like this.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, voice low and honest. “Me neither. But… I’m glad it did.”

There’s a pause, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging between you. Then you speak, fumbling but real. “Do you think… this changes things? Between us?”

Kenma’s gaze holds yours, steady and sure. “It changes everything,” he says quietly, “but not in a way that scares me. In a way I want to explore. Slowly.”

You smile, heart fluttering, the nervous excitement mingling with a deep sense of relief. “Slow sounds good,” you say. “Because honestly? I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened too.”

He laughs softly, the sound like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And with that, you both settle back into the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, letting the night stretch on around you—soft, honest, and full of the unspoken promise of what’s to come.

The sun creeps in slowly, casting a soft golden hue across the room. It’s quiet, except for the distant sound of birds and the occasional honk of early traffic. You wake up disoriented, warm, sore in a way that makes your breath catch, and completely enveloped in Kenma’s arms.

His breathing is even, still asleep, lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. He looks peaceful like this. Soft. You take a moment to just look at him, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with nerves anymore.

And then, like he senses you watching him, his eyes flutter open. Still hazy with sleep, he blinks a few times before offering you the smallest, laziest smile.

“…Hey,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and warm.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Morning.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. And then—almost cautiously—Kenma brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your skin.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a little more serious now.

You nod. “Yeah… just processing.”

He chuckles softly. “Same.”

The silence stretches again, but it isn’t uncomfortable. There’s so much you could say. So much that still feels raw, unspoken.

“I thought this would be weird,” you admit. “I thought I’d wake up regretting it or feeling awkward or like I ruined something.”

Kenma props himself up on one elbow, his hair messy and falling into his eyes. “Do you?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.

You shake your head. “No. Not even close.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. “Good. Because… I don’t either. I actually—” he pauses, searching for the words. “I liked it. All of it. But not just the sex part. Like... being with you.”

You press your forehead against his shoulder, hiding the stupid smile you can’t stop. “I liked it too. A lot.”

Kenma’s fingers start tracing slow circles on your back. “So… what now?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… was this a one-time thing? Or is this something?” His tone doesn’t change much, but you can hear it — the quiet vulnerability tucked beneath the calm. The nervous hope.

You look up, meet his eyes. “I don’t think I want it to be a one-time thing.”

A small, slow smile spreads on his lips. “Me neither.”

And just like that, something shifts — not dramatic, not explosive. Just… real. You curl back into his side, his arm around you, your fingers gently tracing along his ribs. There’s still so much to figure out, but for now, you’re warm, and you’re held, and he’s here.

“Do you think we should talk about this more later?” you murmur sleepily.

“Definitely,” he replies. “But first… maybe we sleep a bit more.”

You laugh softly, eyes already fluttering shut. “Sounds like a plan.”

And in the still morning light, with your heart a little steadier and your body sore in all the right ways, you let yourself rest. Safe. Wanted. Beginning something real.

It’s well past morning when you wake again.

The light is soft and golden, warmer now as it slips through the blinds and pools over the tangled sheets. The room smells like sleep and skin and something sacred. You’re cocooned in a nest of blankets, half buried in warmth — and him.

Kenma is curled beside you, face buried half in the pillow, half in your shoulder, mouth slightly parted, one arm heavy across your waist like he forgot to let go in his sleep. You don’t dare move.

You just watch him for a while, soaking in the details: the way his lashes cast delicate shadows over his cheeks, the faint imprint of the pillow on his skin, the smallest hint of a frown that softens when you brush your thumb along his temple.

Your heart is so full it aches.

You think about the night before — the way he held you, touched you, looked at you like there was no one else in the world. How slowly he moved, how quiet and intense he was, how careful. How absolutely undone he made you feel.

It wasn’t just sex. You both know that now.

Eventually, he stirs, blinking slowly like waking up takes real effort. His eyes find you, and he hums a low, content sound, pressing closer.

“Still here,” he murmurs.

You smile, brushing hair out of his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles back, sleep-soft and honest. “Good.”

The morning passes in whispers and soft touches, moving only when necessary. At some point, you drag yourselves to the kitchen to eat toast half-naked and laugh quietly about nothing. You don’t talk about what it means — not yet. But the silence is different now. It’s not hiding anymore. It’s comfort.

Later in the afternoon, Kenma moves to his desk and stretches lazily, turning on his PC. You’re still draped in one of his hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, sipping tea on his bed.

He starts to stream without much fanfare, his voice low and a little raspy as he greets chat. For a while, it’s just game sounds and his familiar quiet commentary.

Then he turns slightly, eyes flicking toward you. “Come here a sec.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods once. “Just for a second.”

You walk over, curious, and he tugs you gently into frame — not fully, just enough that chat can see your shoulder, a glimpse of your face, his hand resting lightly on your hip.

“Chat’s been asking why I sound so smug today,” he says lazily.

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Maybe because you’re annoying?”

He grins, barely suppressing it, eyes flicking back to the screen. The chat explodes in emojis and chaotic comments, but he doesn’t care. He just leans his head briefly against your arm like it’s nothing.

“You’re cute on stream,” you murmur to him quietly.

He shrugs, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Only because you’re watching.”

authors note: yaay omg!!! I really hope ya`ll liked reading this :) I haven't really written anything in months, so excuse me if this is a bit all over the place. Also, English is not my first language, so bear with me 😭 btw requests are open just in case anyone is wondering, I am up to pretty much anything <3

[snailpebbles]

in the waning moon

gustave x fem!reader - pt. 1 pt. 2

summary: joining expedition 33 was the right decision - you could watch over Maelle and help form history. Learning more about her illusive brother was merely a potential plus you choose to ignore.

wc: 2k

tags: slowburn (?), they're in love and kinda know it, unrequited love, coworkers (lmao) to lovers, angst angst angst FLUFF, brief graphic description of injuries, SPOILERSSSS FOR ACT 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

“Why is it built like that-” you continue, but Lune quickly grabs your arm to keep you from investigating further. The mime just stands there staring blankly into the distance, its large gloved hands feeling vaguely ominous. Gustave creeps closer, sword materializing in his hand.

“I work with buffoons..” Lune mutters once more before forming a ball of ice, you not far behind with two guns materialized. The damn thing still doesn’t move and by this point, you’re more than on edge. There isn’t even any wind and the smooth, almost porcelain, texture of its skin makes a slight creaking sound. All three of you glance at each other and nod. With both guns raised, you fire off two shots of chroma at the mime, porcelain not even cracking.

When a huge fucking hammer comes out to build a wall and Gustave stares with his mouth slightly agape, you know this little fight will be mildly entertaining. If you don’t die miserably that is. Lune rushes forward, high in the air as shards of ice go flying at the thing. Barely a crack.

“The wall. Convenient.” Gustave tuts, rushing forward with a quick slash that results in small golden cracks decorating the porcelain of an unblinking mime. You feel it before it actually moves, the air shifting as your training kicks in and your eyes follow to Lune.

“Watch out!” You call in a panic as the mime whips out an even larger hammer, not hesitating to smash it down on your friend. She barely dodges in time, especially at the third swing, and the damn mime doesn’t flinch as Gustave shoots at it. It simply hides behind that invisible wall again, unfazed. Lune sways on her spot, shaking her head as if to rid it of dust. You’re by her side quickly with your nerves on high alert, Gustave fending off the mimes hammer as you check up on her. There’s blood on her collar and her shoulder where the hammer landed, definitely knocking something out of socket. 

“Lune, Lune you need to drink this.” You urge, running out of time as Gustave is hit by the mimes hands. Lune blinks at the healing tint and, with uncoordinated movements, tries to drink it. The moment it’s out of your hands you’re attacking, flipping through the air and firing at the thing while evading that fucking hammer. Luck doesn’t last forever though and by the time Gustave has managed to sort his own swimming head, your ankle is caught by a large hand. 

The golden cracks are blinding this close up even as you hit the ground, ankle practically screaming at you when you stand on it to not be crushed to death by that comically large weapon. Someone yells for you to parry - truly you’re unsure who - and you barely stumble back from the mimes range. Lune’s familiar hands catch you by your armpits and hauls you back, a warm light overtaking you as the screaming dims to a low throb. Meanwhile, Gustave must be taking out his pent up anger with slash after slash - going as far as to call lightning from the sky to fuel his attack. In that moment you forget that you almost died, distracted by the smooth blur that is the brunet. 

Maybe you did hit your head?

“-Up! Get up!” Oh, right. Fighting. Mime with a hammer. Not cool. You’re back on your mostly steady feet, right next to Gustave. He looks worse for wear - sweat dripping down his forehead, blood and dirt staining his clothes and skin. Lune isn’t faring much better even as she throws balls of fire at the mime, golden cracks growing ever larger with each burn it receives. He looks over at you, concern painted on his face, and with the way you feel something spark, you know enough to snuff it before something goes wrong. Distractions end in death and death is something you can no longer afford. Not with Maelle gone and Lumiere resting on all of your shoulders. With a blink and a roll of your shoulders, you lunge. 

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

“...We are never listening to you ever again.” Lune huffs, sitting on the grass while Gustave collects the Lumina. You’re splayed out on your back, trying to catch your breath and unclench your fingers after firing your guns so often. A weak laugh leaves you and you nod in agreement, internally cursing your past self. Really, it did seem like a good idea to come this way earlier, but now as you watch Lune set her shoulder and Gustave bandage his head, all you feel is a deepening guilt.

“Well.” Gustave thinks for a second, sitting down by your feet with a grunt. “Nevermind, I can’t defend you.” He sighs in fake sympathy, patting your ankle. A sharp twinge goes through it and hiss in pain, instantly regretting not hiding the reaction when Gustave sits up straight and mutters multiple apologies. He cradles your ankle like it's something special, your pants in tatters around it and blood a matted mess in your leg hair. You wince when he brushes a finger along the inside of your ankle and he glances at you, then Lune. 

“Is it broken?” You ask, trying to not resign yourself to your fate this early. Lune sits down beside him and takes your ankle as you sit up, Gustaves hand on your back assisting the action. The first look at your ankle has nausea swirling in your gut; what the fuck man. 

There’s a deep gash down the outside of your leg, foot twisted at an awkward ankle that throbs whenever you wiggle a toe per Lune’s request. She stays quiet for a second too long. Based on the fact that this is how it looks after Lune’s healing, you don’t have a good feeling. 

“Somehow, no. Maybe your bones are malleable.” She mutters and you shiver, mildly disgusted. 

“Was the descriptor necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Fantastic.” You sigh and basically use Gustaves hand as the back of a chair; you don’t question why exactly he’s still holding you up. With an elbow tossed over your eyes to block out the glaring Sun and Gustave gathering bandages with his free hand, Lune assesses how to fix your predicament. After a tense minute she gestures for a bandage, warm light once again engulfing your leg. 

“Okay, any actual damage is fixed now, but you still need support.” Lune explains as you nod, still refusing to look at the wound again. Gustave stays silent, only glancing between you and your ankle with a borderline constipated expression that, if not for the circumstances, would have both you and Maelle giggling. 

“Gustave, I need you to hold her steady while I wrap this.” Lune instructs. 

“Sure, yeah.” He hesitates for a moment before moving to be just behind you, legs on either side of you and hands keeping you from jerking back anywhere like you did earlier. One hand rests on your shoulder - so respectful - while the other holds your left leg down. In any other situation you might’ve protested…but it’s Gustave. Maelle’s Gustave. Sophie’s Gustave. 

Guilt sinks further into your soul but you don’t make so much as a peep. Fuck, you're so selfish.

Lune carefully wraps your ankle and foot, providing as much support as she can. It’s a good thing that he’s holding you down because apparently, you’re quite ticklish. 

“We should make camp, right?” Gustave helps you stand, his hold on you lingering as if you’d fall over. It’s over before you blink. 

“Mmmh, yeah. The Sun is about to set and this area seems secure enough.” Lune agrees, rolling her aching shoulder with a grunt. You come to her side, just behind her, and carefully massage the recently healed spot. She sighs in relief and nods, accepting the silent thanks for fixing you up. 

The three of you settle down after making a fire and spreading your rations out, eating quietly. The moon doesn’t shine as brightly as it could and the air is a little too thick to relax fully, your ankle aching as the last of Lunes spell wears off. Gustave had patched himself up awhile ago, mainly having hit his head; that’s at least what he said when you and Lune fussed over him. 

A quiet clinking catches your attention so you lift your head, only to spot something that makes you burst out laughing. 

“What? Do they look that bad?” Gustave grins at you and Lune’s laughing forms, round sunglasses propped on his nose. The tense shifts and ebbs, backing off as the fire crackles. Lune, still giggling, rolls her eyes at his antics and throws a clump of earth at him that she conjured. He gasps in offense and clutches his heart, grin widening as his dramatics successfully make you laugh harder. 

“They look wonderful, Gustave. Very…” Lune trails off, thinking. “Nope, I can’t even think of something good enough to describe whatever this choice is.” She smiles cheekily, shaking her head as the last of the tension fades. 

“You wound me, Lune. Truly.” He sighs, glasses knocking crooked as he fakes a hairflip. You scoot closer on the log, moving before your mind can catch up.

“You look fine, Gustave. Maybe handsome if I squint and blind myself.” You tease as he laughs, giving up on the act. His laugh stutters when you reach up, two fingers stilling his jaw while the other hand corrects the glasses on his nose with a gentle but accidental caress to his temple. For a second - just a second - you think you hear his breath catch, but then Lune hums curiously and it’s over. 

You scoot away to your original spot, finishing up the roll you had previously been picking at.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

It’s late into the night, all of you tucked away in your respective bedrolls when you hear it. A quiet sort of sniffle. Silently, you crawl out of your bed and take a peek at your friends. In the dim light of the dying fire you spot Gustaves shoulders shaking. You quietly call his name and he freezes, one last sniffle echoing in the night. No words leave you as you walk to the ledge facing the paintress, and you don’t glance over when he joins you a minute later. The redness of his eyes and tear tracks still lining his face aren’t acknowledged, nor are the few still slipping down. 

“Your ankle is okay, yes?” He whispers after a long stretch of nothing but the wind in the leaves. 

“Lune did good.” You confirm, but he still seems rattled. With a quiet grunt you pull your leg up so he can see; after a few seconds of an analyzing stare, he double checks your bandages and subtly, the rest of you. You do the same, cataloging every mark and dirt track staining his skin. Your eyes don’t meet for a good bit, too drawn in by any splash of fading red.

“We’re all okay.” You know it isn’t limited to your trio; you know who ‘we��� really is. That’s why you nod in agreement with the same unfaltering belief. 

Nothing happens when his pinkie brushes yours, and nothing happens when the rest of his fingers lay with yours either. For just a minute you allow yourself to daydream as you did in Lumiere, remembering late nights and too early mornings. For just a minute he lets himself breathe, remembering shared glances of approval and amusement during training. For just a minute, both of you shed the weight of Lumiere and the petals still falling around you. 

His fingers are worn and rough, similar to yours with differently formed calluses. His hand is warm where yours is cold and they don’t intertwine; something says it isn’t time. Not yet.

The voice sounds like Sophie. 

His Sophie.

Without a sound you stand, and Gustave? He lets you go with the same name echoing in his mind; that voice haunting him with nothing but love to keep it rooted in.

Your bedroll is still warm when you lay down, a reminder of how chaste whatever that was, was. His bedroll is still damp with tears for the women he loves and doesn’t dry for a long time. 

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

I wrote this while listening to such fairytale-esque music, sorry. anyways part 3 will be out at uhm some point, and I have no clue what I'm doing !

[snailpebbles]

... is no one else seeing the literal dead animal on track or am I hallucinating

[snailpebbles]

silence, and then you

you were supposed to be writing a paper—but instead, you ended up in kenma’s lap, ranting about college stress while he listened with quiet patience. in the home you built together, love looks like chamomile tea, shared silences, and being carried to bed when you fall asleep in the library he made just for you.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance timeskip!kenma, just domestic

wc: 3.3k

author's note: i love domestic kenma fics sm <333

kenma’s gaming room was never designed for two.

it’s dark in the way he likes it—lit only by the soft glow of his monitors and the ambient led strips lining the desk. cables are neatly managed, shelves lined with game figurines and tech accessories. the custom chair supports his back perfectly. his headset rests on a stand like it’s sacred. every inch of the room is calculated for efficiency and quiet comfort.

and then there’s you.

wrapped in a fleece blanket, legs tangled beneath you, you’re curled sideways in his lap like it’s your natural habitat—because at this point, it is.

you were supposed to be writing your sociology paper. you even started off strong, earbuds in, fingers typing, head bowed over your laptop while you sat cross-legged on the bean bag in the corner. it was your “study station,” makeshift but functional. that lasted maybe twenty minutes—until your groupmate ghosted the shared doc again, leaving behind a half-finished bullet point and a timestamp of shame.

so now, your laptop sits abandoned on the bean bag like a forgotten responsibility, and your focus is long gone—buried somewhere between stress and indignation.

because now you’re in kenma’s lap. because now you’re ranting. because that’s what happens when everything feels too heavy.

“she had the nerve to tell me i should be more understanding,” you mutter, your voice muffled against the front of his hoodie. “like i haven’t already picked up the slack for three different sections. and then when i told the professor i’d just do it alone, he had the audacity to say group work builds ‘character.’ i don’t need character. i need a passing grade.”

kenma doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even glance away from his screen.

he hums low in his chest, controller clicking in steady rhythm. “you sound like you’re thriving.”

“i’m dying,” you groan.

“you say that every week.”

you groan louder, your face squishing further into his chest. “i hate school. i should drop out.”

“you should,” he says immediately.

that makes you pull back just enough to squint up at him. “i was joking.”

“i’m not.” he doesn’t miss a beat, not even as his in-game character scales a rooftop. “you should drop out. i’ll take care of everything.”

you blink. “kenma.”

“i already pay the bills. i keep the snack drawer stocked. i buy your oat milk—the one that’s like seven bucks a carton. you could literally just vibe all day and i’d support it.”

your heart stutters, even as you scoff. “so what, you’d raise me?”

he shrugs like it’s a serious consideration. “i kind of already do.”

you swat his chest. “you make it sound like i’m your dependent.”

“you are,” he deadpans. “you live here rent-free, you wear my hoodies more than i do, and your coffee addiction is singlehandedly draining my bank account.”

you open your mouth to argue—then close it. because he’s right.

he replaces your fraying chargers before you even realize they’re dying. he orders your favorite takeout unprompted when you sound tired over the phone. he stocks the fridge with that one brand of yogurt you only mentioned liking once. when the local store ran out of your favorite granola bars, he drove across town to find them without telling you.

he spoils you—without ceremony, without expectation. just quietly, completely.

when he bought this house—a sleek, quiet place a little outside the city—he’d walked the empty rooms with his phone pressed to his ear, telling you about the natural light and soundproofing. by the end of the week, he’d called again with a single question:

"want to live with me?"

you said yes before he even finished the sentence.

you’d been dating since your second year of high school—two quiet kids who found each other through shared projects and handheld consoles, who fell into a rhythm so natural it never needed explaining. there was no grand confession. no dramatic turning point. just steady, quiet gravity pulling you toward each other.

and when you moved in—one battered suitcase, two plushies, and a stack of paperbacks—kenma made space for all of it. for you.

he even converted the spare bedroom into a full-blown personal library. bookshelves from floor to ceiling. warm reading lights. a chair big enough for you to curl up in, and a soft wool blanket he’d picked out “because it looked like something you’d like the texture of.” all because one time—just once—you had sighed dreamily and said, “i wish i had a room that smelled like old books.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you mumble now, more fond than frustrated.

“you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

at that, he finally looks down at you, the corners of his lips tugging up in a subtle, unspoken smile. you think he’s beautiful like this—dimly lit by the glow of the screen, golden eyes soft despite the endless clicks of his controller.

“you talk a lot when you’re stressed,” he says simply.

“i know,” you sigh. “you hate it?”

he’s quiet for a beat. then, gently:

“no. i like it.”

you blink, the rant finally draining out of you.

“i like that you come in here when you’re overwhelmed,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the screen. “i like the sound of your voice. you fill up the space.”

you go still, the kind of still that comes when someone touches something tender inside you.

“so i’m your white noise machine?” you manage, trying for levity.

“you’re my favorite background noise,” he says, and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

you don’t speak after that. not because you’ve run out of words—but because your chest is too full for any of them to make it out.

the game hums in the background—soft ambient music mixed with the occasional digital footstep, a distant gunshot, or a notification ping. it all blends into a kind of electronic lullaby, steady and familiar. the glow of kenma’s monitor bathes the room in low, flickering light, reflecting off his hair like static gold. his controller clicks in slow, practiced rhythm, matching the quiet pulse of the evening.

across the room, your laptop rests forgotten on the bean bag you’d been occupying not too long ago—still open, blinking sleepily at the half-finished document waiting for you to return. but here, now, wrapped in a blanket and nestled securely in kenma’s lap, surrounded by the gentle whirr of his pc fans and the steady, grounding thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the urgency of academic deadlines feels like a distant problem.

here, you feel safe. heavy-limbed and warm, like sinking into the softest part of the day.

at first, you keep talking—low, muffled complaints against the fabric of his hoodie. frustrated mutterings about deadlines and underwhelming classmates give way to stories that spiral out from your stress, things you hadn’t even realized were weighing on you until you’d spoken them aloud. kenma doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t offer solutions. he listens in that quiet, constant way of his—head tilted just slightly toward you, thumb brushing small, rhythmic circles into your side, his breathing slow and even.

eventually, the words dry up.

not from exhaustion—at least, not in the conversational sense—but from the weight of the day finally catching up to you. somewhere between a half-laugh and a breathless sigh, your rant melts into silence, and you let yourself be still. the sounds of the room blur into background noise—the soft clicks of his controller, the gentle shifting of his legs beneath yours, even the occasional rustle of the blanket as you adjust without really waking.

and kenma?

kenma doesn’t move.

more than an hour passes, but you wouldn’t know it. his match ends, another begins. he leans forward just once to mute his mic when he notices your breathing deepen—slow, steady, edged with sleep. he adjusts the blanket over your legs like it’s second nature. his hand never leaves your hip.

there’s no need to speak. no urge to change anything.

kenma’s always been good at silence. he used to cherish it as a shield, a comfort zone no one could breach. but with you, silence became something different. not empty. not cold. just full of quiet closeness—of your presence curled up in his arms, of your breath rising and falling against him, of the small way your hand clutches the fabric of his hoodie even in sleep.

eventually, you begin to stir.

it’s subtle at first—the tiniest shift of your shoulder, a small wrinkle of your brow as the dream fades. then your lashes flutter. a blink. another. you squint into the soft cotton at your cheek, confused by how warm and safe you feel when you should be hunched over a desk, still mildly annoyed.

kenma’s hand is still on your hip, his fingers warm through the blanket, steady as always.

“i fell asleep, didn’t i?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep and embarrassment.

“yeah.” his reply is soft, edged with amusement. “you drooled.”

you lift your head just enough to glare blearily at him. “liar.”

“you’ll never know.”

you groan, more bashful than annoyed, and let your head fall back against his chest with a dramatic sigh. the warmth of his body, the steady thud of his heart—it all tempts you to stay right where you are. but there’s a paper waiting. and despite your best efforts, your conscience won’t let you leave it unfinished forever.

with a reluctant stretch and a quiet yawn, you slowly sit up. your limbs protest, a little stiff from the way you’d been curled into him, and your blanket slides slightly off your shoulder.

“okay, okay…” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. “i should get back to that stupid paper.”

kenma glances down at you, his expression unreadable except for the slight raise of one brow—the universal look of are you sure?

“now?” he asks, voice as calm as ever.

you nod, even as your body sways a little. “yeah. i actually feel better now. like, weirdly better. and if i stay here any longer, i’m gonna fall asleep again and wake up at 3 a.m. in a panic. but if i go to the library room, i might actually focus.”

he hums, noncommittal. but he doesn’t argue.

“want me to bring you tea?” he offers after a beat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you blink at him, a smile tugging at your lips despite the grogginess. “you offering to be my emotional support butler now?”

kenma shrugs, almost convincingly serious. “sure. if it means you’ll stop spiraling about sparkles-and-thumbs-up girl.”

you snort, pressing a sleepy kiss to his lips before carefully climbing off his lap. your legs wobble as you stand, half-asleep and still draped in your blanket like a sleepy little wizard, but you manage to stay upright. the blanket trails behind you like a cape, comically dramatic.

you scoop your abandoned laptop from the bean bag and turn toward the door, padding barefoot down the hall with each step soft and familiar against the wooden floor.

kenma watches you go, eyes quietly following the retreating figure of the person he built a home with.

the hallway is quiet, steeped in the familiar hush of a late evening in a house built for comfort. the wooden floor beneath your feet is cool, smooth. you know each creak and soft dip in the boards like second nature now—just like you know which light switches buzz, which corners of the walls catch the fading sun in the morning, and exactly how many steps it takes to reach the door at the end of the hall.

your door.

well—yours, because kenma made it yours.

the door to the library isn’t extravagant. just an ordinary wooden frame, painted a muted shade of sea-glass green. but when you twist the brass knob and step inside, it feels like crossing into something sacred.

the warm scent of wood polish and paper meets you like an embrace. it’s the kind of smell that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs—not overpowering, just comforting. safe. familiar.

it’s warmer in here than the rest of the house, thanks to the old-fashioned radiator tucked behind one of the lower bookshelves. the walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each packed with novels, academic texts, graphic novels, and that one row of used paperbacks you couldn’t bear to part with even though their spines are cracked and half the pages are dog-eared. kenma insisted on keeping them. said they looked “lived-in. like you.”

there’s a reading nook in the corner, framed by a softly arched window and covered in pillows. a thick-knit blanket is draped across the seat—ivory white with a looped texture you once described as “cloud-like.” kenma had remembered that. you hadn’t even meant it seriously.

but it’s the armchair you settle into now—the one he picked out himself, wide enough to curl into, upholstered in soft fabric the color of stormy skies. your laptop warms your thighs as you open it again, blinking against the sudden white glow of the screen. the doc is still there. still half-finished. still daunting.

but the room? the quiet?

it makes things easier.

you tuck your legs beneath you and exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. the silence here isn’t like the oppressive kind you get in the library on campus, or the awkward kind in coffee shops where everyone’s pretending not to eavesdrop. this is a silence that breathes. that settles around you like a weighted blanket. that makes space for thoughts to form instead of crowding them out.

a few keystrokes.

then a paragraph.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been working until the words on the screen start to blur and your shoulders ache from the angle you’re hunched over. still, there’s a deep satisfaction in knowing the hardest part—starting—is already behind you. you pause for a breath, leaning back into the plush curve of the chair, stretching out your fingers.

your blanket slips off your lap. you don’t bother to fix it.

just as you consider returning to bed, the door creaks open—quietly, like someone trying not to wake you.

kenma steps in, dressed down in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair tucked behind his ears and falling a little messily over one eye. he’s holding a mug in one hand, the steam curling upward in soft spirals.

“chamomile,” he murmurs, like he already knows you’ve hit your limit. “no caffeine.”

you smile, soft and grateful, as you reach for it. “thanks, babe.”

he doesn’t answer—just watches you take a sip, eyes scanning your face the way he always does when you’ve had a long day. looking for signs of leftover tension. of stress you forgot to name. of the part of you that still feels tight, even after sleep.

“paper done?” he asks quietly.

“almost.”

he nods.

then, without another word, he crosses the room and presses a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips warm and still faintly tasting of mint.

you close your eyes, just for a second.

you don’t need to say thank you. he already knows.

kenma doesn’t leave right away.

he lingers, standing by your armchair with his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, the soft glow of your laptop screen casting a faint shimmer over his tired features. his gaze moves over you slowly, quietly—like he’s memorizing this version of you too: tired but trying, frustrated but still moving forward, wrapped in a blanket in the library he built just for you.

you feel the weight of his eyes before you see the movement—the gentle lean forward, the way his hand finds your shoulder, and then the soft brush of his lips against your temple. a kiss not meant to distract, but to ground. to say i’m still here.

“i’ll go finish my last match,” he murmurs against your skin, voice hushed and steady. “then i’ll shut everything off and come back.”

you nod, not really trusting your voice, and offer him a soft smile instead. he squeezes your shoulder gently before he turns to leave, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.

the silence returns—not empty, but full of the warm remnants he leaves behind. the soft throb of affection. the fading scent of chamomile.

you try to keep working.

you manage another paragraph, maybe two, before your eyes begin to blur again and your mind drifts away from your thesis statement and starts circling something far more comforting: the warmth of kenma’s hoodie, the sound of his voice when he’s half-distracted and honest, the solid feel of his arms around you when you’re too exhausted to hold yourself upright.

your fingers fall still on the keyboard.

the library is so still, so warm, so yours—that your body gives in before your brain can argue.

you don’t even remember closing your laptop.

the game room is quiet now—headset hung, pc humming into sleep mode, lights dimmed low. kenma rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes, exhaustion tugging at the corners of his vision as he finally pushes back from his desk. it’s late—he knows by the feel of the air alone, the soft hush that settles into the bones of the house after midnight.

he pads barefoot through the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. he’s already halfway through a yawn when he reaches the bedroom, expecting to find you curled up in bed.

but the room is empty.

the sheets are untouched.

kenma frowns softly, then pivots, turning toward the softest pocket of the house. he nudges open the library door, already suspecting what he’ll find.

and there you are.

curled into the armchair with your laptop shut beside you, blanket tangled around your legs and your cheek pressed against the crook of your arm. your breathing is soft, deep—the kind of sleep that comes only when you finally let yourself stop.

kenma leans against the doorframe for a long moment, eyes on you, his features unreadable in the soft light.

he’s always preferred silence. it made sense. it was simple. predictable. safe.

but this silence—the one wrapped around you now—is different.

it’s full of your breathing, your dreams, the tiny subconscious twitch of your fingers. it’s full of the knowledge that you’re here—safe and close and his. it’s a silence that holds.

eventually, he moves.

with practiced ease, he crosses the room and kneels beside the armchair. his fingers brush softly against your cheek, coaxing you without waking you, and when you stir just enough to lean toward the warmth, he lifts you carefully into his arms.

you mumble something, half-asleep and unintelligible, your arms curling instinctively around his neck.

“i got you,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

he carries you down the hall, every step measured and quiet. the hallway is dim, but he doesn’t need the lights. he’s carried you through this house enough times to know the path by heart.

when he reaches the bed, he lays you down gently, careful not to jostle you too much. you curl instinctively toward the mattress, eyes still closed, a soft little exhale falling from your lips as you reach—still half-asleep—for something. for him.

kenma doesn’t make you wait long.

he slides in beside you, pulling the blanket up over both of you, then curls himself around your body like a second shield. his arm wraps securely around your waist, tugging you close until your back is pressed to his chest, your head tucked just beneath his chin.

“silence might still be my favorite,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head, “but only when it’s like this.”

you don’t respond—not with words. just a soft sigh as your hand finds his beneath the blanket and squeezes, barely awake but still feeling him.

kenma lets the silence stretch. lets the night take its time.

then, in a voice no louder than the breeze outside, he presses a kiss to your hair and whispers, “good night, baby.”

and pulls you closer.

[snailpebbles]

this is finished and posted now :) read it :) please :)

gustave x reader - expedition 33

WIP !!!! - tell me if I should continue this and what you would like to see :) I AM ONLY JUST GETTING INTO ACT 2!!!! NO SPOILERS.

It was a depressing evening. The day of the Gommage was not one for smiles, for laughter, for unweighted love - yet flowers bloomed and people danced, as if those in their hands weren’t destined to flit away in the wind at the stroke of a brush. Lovers, family, friends, and even complete strangers all embraced for one last warmth before their unjust end. A head on a shoulder, a hand in another, tears mingling in a final kiss - all to end in petals. The Gommage was painful, but you kept smiling. Maelle was beside you, ten years your junior, and needed your help in consoling the children. It was necessary that you never break, never falter under the weight of tiny hands needing your comfort. Maelle was still young, regardless of what she believed, and couldn’t handle it all on her own.

Emma makes her rounds, keeping an eye on all those with flowers decorating their doomed bodies. She falters, praying no one sees, but you do. You see how she pauses just a few steps from Gustave, where his entire world is narrowed to one point.

Sophie.

She is - was - a true sweetheart. Loved and appreciated by all; you are no exception. It was only a night prior that she pulled you aside and in hushed tears, begged you to watch out for him - Gustave. Her warm hands held your cold ones, teary eyes meeting solemn ones. It was with a tug at your heart that she made her plea - a final wish, she called it. Who were you to deny? A shadow in the lovers lives, not admiring but not resentful. Merely appreciative, if not daydreaming on days where your strength was weak and the warmth you craved was wrapped away. 

Now she stands there at the end of the harbor, the looming figure of The Paintress overshadowed by the grief of the shattered man holding her. It wasn’t pity or sympathy you felt, only understanding. You didn’t turn away when the petals flew, a glowing thirty-three hanging like an omen in the sky. You didn’t step back when Maelle shied away, tucking her face into your sweater. It was indistinguishable from the little ones hiding behind your legs, clutching your hands and wiping their noses against your clothes. Your own tears fell silently. An apology of sorts.

Gustave was frozen by the harbor, a sort of angel highlighted by an unforgiving God. He never asked for the blessing or the punishment it brings. The love he craved enough to leave was permanently gone. If your heart tugged in his direction it was no one's business but your own.

“Come along Maelle.” The two of you usher the crying children away, gentle sniffling a broken symphony. She follows beside you and occasionally glances back at Gustave, torn between her duty and her support. Deep down she knows he needs time, so she follows you, sticking like a welcomed glue. 

It’s late into the night, the small city a quieter hum now that another number is gone. It made no sense to drink and party, but hey. If you were destined to die on this expedition, so be it. For those who come after. It’s those mumbled words that catch the attention of Lucien, stumbling over from a barely concealed sulking Gustave. 

“And what, pray tell, are we lamenting?” Your friend grins, arm slung over your shoulder as he steers to the very impressive five table layout. A warmth flickers in your chest, the grip loosening.

“The silence I was enjoying.” You say dryly, tilting your head to grin slightly at him. He chuckles, easily amused as usual, and sits down heavily on a table. His hand clutches a bottle, taking a long swig that makes your own liver ache. 

“You wound me dearest, truly.” He sighs. Margot walks past, sliding a token in your hand with a wink before shoving Lucien off the table. He squawks like a bird and a small laugh catches your attention. Gustave. It’s nice to hear, especially when it doesn’t falter as his eyes catch yours.

You look away first. 

[snailpebbles]

a silent kind

gustave x fem!reader - pt.1 pt.2

summary: joining expedition 33 was the right decision - you could watch over Maelle and help form history. Learning more about her illusive brother was merely a potential plus you choose to ignore.

wc: 2.5k ON THE DOT

tags: slowburn (?), they're in love but don't know it, strangers to lovers, angst and fluff, SPOILERS FOR ACT 1!!!!!

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

It was a depressing evening. The day of the Gommage was not one for smiles, for laughter, for unweighted love - yet flowers bloomed and people danced, as if those in their hands weren’t destined to flit away in the wind at the stroke of a brush. Lovers, family, friends, and even complete strangers all embraced for one last warmth before their unjust end. A head on a shoulder, a hand in another, tears mingling in a final kiss - all to end in petals. The Gommage was painful, but you kept smiling. Maelle was beside you, ten years your junior, and needed your help in consoling the children. It was necessary that you never break, never falter under the weight of tiny hands needing your comfort. Maelle was still young, regardless of what she believed, and couldn’t handle it all on her own.

Emma makes her rounds, keeping an eye on all those with flowers decorating their doomed bodies. She falters, praying no one sees, but you do. You see how she pauses just a few steps from Gustave, where his entire world is narrowed to one point.

Sophie.

She is - was - a true sweetheart. Loved and appreciated by all; you are no exception. It was only a night prior that she pulled you aside and in hushed tears, begged you to watch out for him - Gustave. Her warm hands held your cold ones, teary eyes meeting solemn ones. It was with a tug at your heart that she made her plea - a final wish, she called it. Who were you to deny? A shadow in the lovers lives, not admiring but not resentful. Merely appreciative, if not daydreaming on days where your strength was weak and the warmth you craved was wrapped away. 

Now she stands there at the end of the harbor, the looming figure of The Paintress overshadowed by the grief of the shattered man holding her. It wasn’t pity or sympathy you felt, only understanding. You didn’t turn away when the petals flew, a glowing thirty-three hanging like an omen in the sky. You didn’t step back when Maelle shied away, tucking her face into your sweater. It was indistinguishable from the little ones hiding behind your legs, clutching your hands and wiping their noses against your clothes. Your own tears fell silently. An apology of sorts.

Gustave was frozen by the harbor, a broken image of angel highlighted by an unforgiving God. He never asked for the blessing or the punishment it brings. The love he craved enough to leave was permanently gone. If your heart tugged in his direction it was no one's business but your own.

“Come along Maelle.” The two of you usher the crying children away, gentle sniffling a broken symphony. She follows beside you and occasionally glances back at Gustave, torn between her duty and her support. Deep down she knows he needs time, so she follows you, sticking like a welcomed glue. 

It’s late into the night, the small city a quieter hum now that another number is gone. It made no sense to drink and party, but hey. If you were destined to die on this expedition, so be it. For those who come after. It’s those mumbled words that catch the attention of Lucien, stumbling over from a barely concealed sulking Gustave. 

“And what, pray tell, are we lamenting?” Your friend grins, arm slung over your shoulder as he steers to the very impressive five table layout. A warmth flickers in your chest, the grip loosening.

“The silence I was enjoying.” You say dryly, tilting your head to grin slightly at him. He chuckles, easily amused as usual, and sits down heavily on a table. His hand clutches a bottle, taking a long swig that makes your own liver ache. 

“You wound me dearest, truly.” He sighs. Margot walks past, sliding a token in your hand with a wink before shoving Lucien off the table. He squawks like a bird and a small laugh catches your attention. Gustave. It’s nice to hear, especially when it doesn’t falter as his eyes catch yours.

You look away first. 

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

He thought nothing of you at first, not during the festival and not when the expedition first arrived on the beach. You stood beside Maelle so he kept his eyes trained there, always airing on the side of caution. It’s when the man in the suit steps out that he looks away - a fatal mistake. The explosion hits, dread coiling in his stomach with ill intent while his ears ring a violent tune. Only one word, one soul, rips through his mind as a cursed symphony. Maelle. 

“What the fuck is happening?!” Leo curses, Lucien and Margot tucked alongside the two of them behind a rock. Dust and blood fills the lightning-striked air, making it hard to breathe. Before Gustave can even fathom a response, Margot is dead and they’re scattered. His head hits the ground hard, his eyes rattling in his skull as the ringing sharpens. The beach is shaking, why is the beach shaking?

With immense strength, he forces himself to look up - only to be met with the hands of a truly terrifying nevron. His training screams at him to act, to use his sword, to do what they all came here to do! But he falters. 

A blur comes in and he's off the ground, thrown to the side as Lucien yells at him to move! Just as he starts to wake up, to feel the panic and turn it into fuel, Lucien is shot away. Something, someone, is screaming; it’s so loud and his ears are hurting like his throat and - oh. He’s screaming. Screaming for the crumpled girl in front of him being dragged away by other expeditioners he knows he owes his heart to. Light eyes meet his, Maelle’s name ripping out of his throat as she leaves his line of sight. That damned nevron takes her place.

The large ball of chroma forming should terrify him, but he only feels numb. Is this what it means to be an expeditioner? It all goes dark right when a familiar form steps in his place, chroma exploding in a purple light. 

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

The first thing you notice is that your head hurts. The second is the yelling from somewhere below you. 

“Are you alive up there?!” It takes a minute but you roll over, just enough to catch sight of a familiar face. Lune. She sighs when she spots you, out of relief you hope. It’s honestly hard to think when your brain is rattling around. Through some form of magic, truly you haven’t a clue what spell she did, you’re on her level. 

“Sight for sore eyes..” You croak, being rewarded with a rare smile. Lune helps you up and you brush dirt off of your uniform, double-checking for any life threatening injuries. She heals both of you to play it safe. 

“Your mind is an enigma to me.” Lune chuckles as you both take a much needed breath in the fallout of whatever the beach was. You glance around the cave you’re in, brain helpfully blocking out the bodies of who knows how many expeditioners. 

“Cozy.” You comment dryly, the ball of chroma in Lune’s hand lighting the way. She mumbles on about contingencies, a rapid-fire pace you can’t even hope to keep up with. The cave widens and you look around, only snapping back into focus when Lune speaks to someone that isn’t you.

What you say makes your heart drop. Gustave sits with a gun to his head, lowering it not even a second later with Lune crouched by his side. You don’t know the man - not beyond Maelle, at least. The ache in your chest at the thought of her will be settled later. Quietly, you join Lune by crouching at Gustaves other side, pushing his hand down the rest of the way until the gun dissipates. His eyes catch yours and you look away first, pretending not to notice how encapsulating they could potentially be. 

“We will find her.” The whisper seems to waken something in him, your voice and the promise it holds. He’d frankly forgotten that Maelle was important to you too, guilt worming its way into his heart. That’s why he stands up, not saying anything beyond a grateful nod. 

The ground, hell the entire cave, rumbles beneath your feet. Gustave steadies you and Lune - though she’s already floating - as the nevron emerges from the dark. It’s tall as fuck and the ball of chroma at its head is well protected. Thankfully you’re a hell of a shot. 

You don’t even think before shooting at it, dashing to the side to get at the slim opening in that weird cage. Gustave looks at you, then Lune, and then back at you before shrugging and running forward, sword drawn. 

“I work with idiots..” Lune mutters before floating higher, shards of ice striking any weak point her calculating mind sees. Pain hits your side and you spot blood on Gustaves collar, but the attack patterns are quickly taking route in your mind. Within the minute the nevron is gone, Lune is pushing a healing tint in your hand, and Gustave unhooks the infamous Lumina converter from his pack at Lune’s insistence. The tint is sweet as you chug it, watching curiously as the converter actually works. 

Gustave sighs with relief, standing up and rubbing his neck. 

“Good, now let’s go. Any survivors should meet at the Indigo Tree.” Lune takes the lead while the two of you walk side by side. It’s silent for a while as the events of the day seep in, Sun slowly lowering in the sky. To pass the time you admire the landscape, tragedy be damned. Working with kids taught you to appreciate all that there is to see, and damn is it a beautiful sight. The Sun illuminates all there is; buildings older than your world, trees glimmering, and water sparkling at a nearby creek. A sigh leaves your lips, attention so focused on your surroundings that a pair of brown eyes slips by unnoticed. 

He thought you were a little odd. Not in a bad way - his friends and family all tended to be weird as Maelle would say. He could see why she liked hanging around you. It was bothering him that he never paid attention before; you’re strong and for some reason, his mind is telling him he needs to keep an eye on you. That’s why he’s watching so closely, even when your merry little trio runs into two more nevrons. 

“Is that a building..?” Your head cranes back to take it all in, Lune getting a grin on her face that is definitely not dorky. She’s already climbing before Gustave can blink, the two of you sharing an exasperated look. 

“I swear..” He mutters, clicking his tongue before climbing as well. You take a second to wipe the sweat and blood off of your brow - ew - before doing the same. 

The breeze gains strength the higher you go, your eyes watering. Lune seems intent to keep climbing even as the handholds run out. While it is technically mean to force her hand, you’re tired and not too fond of heights. So, you shoot out a window and hop inside, Gustave thumping down beside you.

“This is a safety hazard.” He comments at the destroyed flooring, but he still looks so excited at all he’s experiencing. Beneath that grimace is the same energy any little boy has; you see it all the time at the orphanage during apprenticeship day. 

“That’s what makes it fun. Maelle would be jumping off the walls in here.” You chuckle, remembering how the runner could never keep still. Gustave thankfully laughs with you. You weren’t sure when Lune got there but based upon her unamused expression, it wasn’t just then. 

“Guys, focus. We still have a mission.” She steps further into the house while you shuffle forward, tired of being active. Gustave takes the other half of the building.

It’s after listening to a depressing journal that you all walk out of the building. Lune pats your shoulder to get your attention off of the ground. 

“Indigo Tree, come on.” She ushers you both forward, Gustave now in the lead. Just as you take the first few steps down, crouching to avoid a nevrons sight, you see the handholds.

“Hey. Something might be over there.” You point west just past a large nevron, broken mountains concealing whatever the end point is. 

“We don’t have time for distractions.” Gustave shakes his head, Maelle his priority, but you can already hear how his interest is piqued. Lune debates in her mind, the Sun low in the sky. She knows that it’ll be growing dark soon. 

“The Indigo Tree is far, we might not even make it in time before dark.” Lune explains. The rock digs into your back as you lean against it, smug in your silly victory. Gustave glares weakly at you but relents with a sigh, already forming his sword. 

“There could be an old camp down there?” You suggest in an attempt to get back on his good side. Gustave, the angel he is, takes the obvious olive branch and nods with a small smile. 

“Go on.” Lune gestures at the nevron - more specifically its chroma center. You sigh dramatically but shoot it, Gustave faltering in his own attack. Lune covers with a fire ball, bless her. 

“...Did you just do that without looking-” He parries mid-sentence, grunting at the strength behind the nevrons own sword. You nod, dodging one of Lune’s ice shards with a yelp. 

“Watch the damn ice!” 

Lune quickly apologizes but hides a laugh of her own, floating off the ground as the sword swings her way. The nevron hits the ground, shaking what feels like the entire continent. You almost stumble but catch yourself. Gustave doesn’t have such luck, doomed to be clumsy, and would’ve fallen on his ass if it wasn’t for you catching him. 

“Oh uhm, thanks.” He clears his throat, embarrassment obvious with how his cheeks flush. The urge to laugh is there but you hold back, only nodding with a semi-cheeky smile. 

“Come on, it’s getting dark.” Lune flies forward, forcing you both to jog behind her. 

The ground is fractured beneath you and even with the grappling spots, your stomach still swoops when it disappears. There is nothing but clouds around you now, but you can make out a faint circular looking base up ahead. Definitely a camp. 

Lune lands first, waiting for the fog to clear and you both to catch up. Damn her agility. Your feet hit the ground and you stand still for a second, letting your stomach settle. Heights are decidedly not your friend. Brown eyes glance at you with what could be called concern. You meet them with a practiced dismissive smile. 

The fog clears and all of your heads turn simultaneously to the assumed base.

“Is that a fucking mime?”

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

this will be continued I pinkie swear <3 THERE WILL BE SPOILERS FOR ALL OF ACT 1!!!!!!

[snailpebbles]

gustave x reader - expedition 33

WIP !!!! - tell me if I should continue this and what you would like to see :) I AM ONLY JUST GETTING INTO ACT 2!!!! NO SPOILERS.

It was a depressing evening. The day of the Gommage was not one for smiles, for laughter, for unweighted love - yet flowers bloomed and people danced, as if those in their hands weren’t destined to flit away in the wind at the stroke of a brush. Lovers, family, friends, and even complete strangers all embraced for one last warmth before their unjust end. A head on a shoulder, a hand in another, tears mingling in a final kiss - all to end in petals. The Gommage was painful, but you kept smiling. Maelle was beside you, ten years your junior, and needed your help in consoling the children. It was necessary that you never break, never falter under the weight of tiny hands needing your comfort. Maelle was still young, regardless of what she believed, and couldn’t handle it all on her own.

Emma makes her rounds, keeping an eye on all those with flowers decorating their doomed bodies. She falters, praying no one sees, but you do. You see how she pauses just a few steps from Gustave, where his entire world is narrowed to one point.

Sophie.

She is - was - a true sweetheart. Loved and appreciated by all; you are no exception. It was only a night prior that she pulled you aside and in hushed tears, begged you to watch out for him - Gustave. Her warm hands held your cold ones, teary eyes meeting solemn ones. It was with a tug at your heart that she made her plea - a final wish, she called it. Who were you to deny? A shadow in the lovers lives, not admiring but not resentful. Merely appreciative, if not daydreaming on days where your strength was weak and the warmth you craved was wrapped away. 

Now she stands there at the end of the harbor, the looming figure of The Paintress overshadowed by the grief of the shattered man holding her. It wasn’t pity or sympathy you felt, only understanding. You didn’t turn away when the petals flew, a glowing thirty-three hanging like an omen in the sky. You didn’t step back when Maelle shied away, tucking her face into your sweater. It was indistinguishable from the little ones hiding behind your legs, clutching your hands and wiping their noses against your clothes. Your own tears fell silently. An apology of sorts.

Gustave was frozen by the harbor, a sort of angel highlighted by an unforgiving God. He never asked for the blessing or the punishment it brings. The love he craved enough to leave was permanently gone. If your heart tugged in his direction it was no one's business but your own.

“Come along Maelle.” The two of you usher the crying children away, gentle sniffling a broken symphony. She follows beside you and occasionally glances back at Gustave, torn between her duty and her support. Deep down she knows he needs time, so she follows you, sticking like a welcomed glue. 

It’s late into the night, the small city a quieter hum now that another number is gone. It made no sense to drink and party, but hey. If you were destined to die on this expedition, so be it. For those who come after. It’s those mumbled words that catch the attention of Lucien, stumbling over from a barely concealed sulking Gustave. 

“And what, pray tell, are we lamenting?” Your friend grins, arm slung over your shoulder as he steers to the very impressive five table layout. A warmth flickers in your chest, the grip loosening.

“The silence I was enjoying.” You say dryly, tilting your head to grin slightly at him. He chuckles, easily amused as usual, and sits down heavily on a table. His hand clutches a bottle, taking a long swig that makes your own liver ache. 

“You wound me dearest, truly.” He sighs. Margot walks past, sliding a token in your hand with a wink before shoving Lucien off the table. He squawks like a bird and a small laugh catches your attention. Gustave. It’s nice to hear, especially when it doesn’t falter as his eyes catch yours.

You look away first. 

[snailpebbles]

some protector

ellie williams x female!reader

main masterlist

summary: being mute wasn't easy. especially in a cruel world like this one. but meeting ellie made it easier. it made everything easier.

word count: 9.7k

BY THE TIME they arrived, everything had been reduced to ashes.

Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the screams had long since faded into silence. Half the village's population laid dead, and most of the survivors were critically wounded. Tommy and the others from Jackson had tried to offer aid, but it was futile. There was no saving what remained.

Ellie arrived at dusk, accompanied by other members of the patrol sent to assist. Her stomach churned at the sight. The village was a graveyard. The smell was unbearable; blood, char, and rot. The auburn haired girl stood just behind Tommy, her face partially hidden by the scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. Her eyes scanned the broken skyline, resting briefly on each ruin, as if trying to memorize every scar the city now wore. They were here to help—if that was even possible anymore.

Jackson's people moved between rubble and collapsed storefronts, pulling out the few who were still breathing, if they could be found. The silence was worse than the screams, it made it feel like the world had already ended.

Tommy looked over his shoulder at her.  “Ellie,” he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion, “check the perimeter. There might still be people hiding. God knows I would be.”

She nodded without a word, shouldering her backpack and tightening her grip on the rifle slung across her chest. She didn’t need to ask where. She knew how these things played out. Survivors fled to the woods if they could—out of instinct. Somewhere, anywhere, away from fire.

She passed the last burned building and moved through the tree line, her boots sinking into damp, scorched soil. The deeper she went, the quieter it became. Just wind and trees, the faint whisper of smoke following her like a ghost. Then she saw something, some odd movement, just barely. 

Ellie froze.  “Hello?” she called out softly, not too loud to startle anyone, or anything.

No answer. Just the rustle of leaves. Cautious now, she took a few steps forward, her eyes narrowing at the form ahead, curled up beside the base of a tree, almost camouflaged by dirt and blood.

That was when Ellie found you. Filthy, bruised, covered in cuts—some old, some fresh. Your clothes were torn, bloodied, and your skin had a ghostly paleness that made Ellie stomach twist. She dropped to her knees beside you, reaching out carefully with trembling fingers.

“Shit,” she breathed, kneeling. “Hey… Hey.” She gently pressed her fingers to your neck. Nothing. She pressed again, harder this time. There, a faint thrum. Weak. But it was there. Ellie exhaled in relief. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

But the moment her hand lingered a second too long, your eyes shot open. And then the screaming started. Or... at least, it should have been a scream.

Instead, your mouth opened wide, terror erupting in a voiceless shriek, body convulsing in panic. Arms flailed, and your fists struck weakly against Ellie’s jacket, lips moving rapidly in a silent scream that clawed at Ellie more than sound ever could.

“Hey, hey—no, no, no—” Ellie backed off slightly, raising her hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear, I’m—”

But you weren’t hearing her. Your mouth moved in desperate gasps, and your hands jerked in odd, frantic patterns—almost like you were trying to say something. Something important. But there were no words. You clawed backward until your body was pressed against the tree trunk, chest heaving, and tears running down your cheeks, blurring your vision. 

Ellie’s heart pounded. “Shit… okay, okay, slow down.” She lowered herself into a crouch again, moving like someone approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not gonna touch you, alright? I’m with good people. We came to help. We’re not the ones who did this.”

You were desperately shaking, head darting side to side, as if still expecting the attackers to leap from the trees. Your lips moved again, but still, no sound. Only tears now. And those trembling hands.

Ellie noticed it again. Those movements. Your fingers twitching in repeated, frantic motions. Not erratic. Repetitive. Intentional. Were you trying to speak?

“You’re—” Ellie hesitated. “You’re not talking. Are you mute?”

Your wide eyes locked with hers. Your hands stilled. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Ellie let out a slow breath, her voice gentler now. “Okay. It’s okay. I got it.”

She moved closer, keeping her body low and her hands visible. “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

You looked at her—really looked—and something shifted. You didn’t flinch when Ellie reached into her bag, pulling out a flask of water and setting it on the ground between you.

“I don’t know sign language,” Ellie admitted, her eyes never leaving yours. “But… we’ll figure something out.”

You blinked slowly, still tired. Your hands twitched once more—this time slower, more careful—but Ellie still couldn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” Ellie repeated, voice quiet and steady. “You don’t have to talk. Just… nod if you trust me, alright?” A long pause. And then, finally… a tiny, hesitant nod. Ellie smiled. “Good. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

She gently wrapped her jacket around your shoulders, ignoring the flinch that followed, then reached for her radio.

“Tommy,” she said, pressing the button. “I found someone. She’s beat up bad. Young. Alone. Looks like she’s been out here a while. Prepare a medic or two.”

“Copy,” Tommy’s voice crackled back. Ellie looked back at you, who now sat curled beneath her jacket, eyes glassy but no longer wild with panic.

She crouched beside you again, softly: “You’re safe now. I promise.” And for the first time, you didn’t recoil when Ellie reached out.

THE ROAD back to Jackson was long. Too long.

The snow had picked up again, dusting the road ahead in cold silence. Smoke still curled in the sky behind, faint against the horizon, like the town they’d found you in was still screaming. Even if no one could hear it, not anymore.

You sat bundled in the far corner of the transport vehicle, if you could call it that. It was an old military truck with benches bolted to the inside, just enough room for the wounded survivors Tommy had ordered to be brought to Jackson. Ten of them. Mostly women. A few kids. One old man who hadn’t stopped crying since they pulled him from the rubble.

They all needed help. Badly. And yet somehow, you looked like the worst of all of them. You hadn’t looked at anyone. Your hands gripped the blanket Ellie had given you like it was your lifeline, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric. Blood still crusted on your face and arms. Dirt smeared your cheeks. But every time someone tried to touch you—to help—you flinched, trembling so hard your teeth chattered, and recoiled like they were going to burn you alive.

Tommy had tried once. He’d crouched beside you, speaking gently.  “You’re alright now. You’re with us.”

But you didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Your eyes stared ahead like you weren’t even there. Like your body had made it out of that place, but your mind was still buried somewhere near the ash and the blood. Tommy stood back up, exchanging a glance with Ellie. He didn’t say a word, but the worry was clear on his face.

Ellie never left your side. Not for a second. She didn’t try to talk much. She didn’t push. She just stayed close. Always between you and everyone else. Like a silent promise that whatever had happened before—no one here was going to hurt you again. Not on her sight, at least.

The closer they got to Jackson, the more tense everyone became. The survivors were coughing. A child had developed a fever. One woman was clearly suffering from internal bleeding, her skin pale, lips cracked. They weren’t going to make it much longer without help. When the gates of Jackson came into view, Ellie finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. You didn’t even lift your head.

At the gates, Maria was already waiting. She scanned the truck as it rolled in, taking in the bloody, battered survivors. Her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“What the hell is this, Tommy?” she asked as he jumped down from the front. The man grabbed his wife’s arm gently and pulled her aside. Still, you could hear their conversation perfectly. 

“People,” Tommy said simply. “What’s left of ‘em.”

“I can see that,” Maria snapped. “But we don’t have room in the medical wing. We’ve got our own people who need care. You were supposed to be bringing back supplies.”

Tommy stepped closer, voice low but firm. “Maria. These people are dying. Kids, too. We couldn’t leave them. They need our help.”

The blonde’s jaw clenched. Her gaze flicked toward you—slumped in the corner, unmoving—and for a moment, just a moment, her expression softened.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Triage in the rec center. I’ll talk to the medics. But if anyone from Jackson dies because we couldn’t spare the meds... this is on you.”

Tommy nodded. “I can take that.”

As people started helping the survivors down from the truck, Ellie reached out gently, touching your shoulder. You didn’t flinch—not from her. Just stared down at the floor.

“She’s with me,” Ellie told Tommy, her voice lower now. “I’ll make sure she gets looked at.”

Tommy frowned, watching the way your eyes still hadn’t moved. “What’s goin’ on with her?” he asked. “She hurt or…?”

Ellie hesitated. Then she replied, “I think she’s mute.”

The word hung heavy in the air. Tommy didn’t press. He just nodded and stepped aside.

Later that day, the rec center looked more like a war zone than a gym.

Medics moved between bodies, and in the corner, on a thin mattress with a frayed blanket, you sat curled up. Ellie was nearby. Sitting in a folding chair, elbows on her knees, watching you. But you hadn’t glanced at her way. At least you stopped shivering, and you finally agreed the medics to check on you, to run a few tests.  

Still, her knee bounced. She couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so... small. Not just physically. You looked like someone who had been shrinking for years.

The door opened, and Joel walked in. Dusty from the road, beard longer than usual, with Dina trailing behind him, scarf around her neck and bow slung across her back. They both looked tired. Patrol had taken them out past the rivers this time. Almost a week gone.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, taking in the scene. “What the hell happened?”

Dina’s eyes swept across the room—until they landed on Ellie. Then you. She moved toward them quickly. “Ellie—hey. You okay?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her jaw was locked tight. Joel followed her gaze, landing on you in the corner. “She one of the survivors?”

Ellie nodded, slowly. “She was alone when we found her. Barely breathing. Beaten up, bruised.”

A medic passed by, glancing at the group. “The girl in the corner? She’s the one with the damaged vocal cords.”

Joel frowned. “What do you mean?”

The medic lowered her voice. “We ran tests. She’s not just mute—she’s been that way a long time. Her vocal cords are scarred. Chemical burns, maybe. Poison. Acid, even. Could’ve happened years ago.”

Ellie felt it all hit at once—revulsion, fury, heartbreak. The kind that rises like bile in your throat. She looked at you again, your back still turned. Your shoulders hunched. Your silence now explained, and still unbearable.

“She never had a chance,” Ellie whispered, mostly to herself. “Not even to scream for help.”

Dina stepped up, arms folded tightly. Her voice broke the silence.

“My sister taught me sign language,” she said gently. “She worked with non-verbal kids in New Mexico.” Ellie turned to her, startled. Dina gave a small nod. “I could try talking to her.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she nodded. Grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Joel stood silently, staring at you. Something heavy behind his eyes. Something haunted. “Whatever she went through,” he said, his voice low, “we make sure it ends here.”

Ellie looked at you again. You hadn’t turned. But now… maybe they were finally close enough to reach you.

THE MORNING LIGHT in Jackson was comforting. The storm had passed, but everything still felt heavy.

You sat curled in a chair near the window of the medical wing, blanket pulled around your shoulders. Someone had brought tea. It had long since gone cold on the little tray beside you.

You weren’t shivering anymore. You weren’t flinching when people walked by or whispered. You were just quiet. Still. Like the air before snowfall.

When footsteps approached, you didn’t turn.

“Hey,” Ellie’s voice came from the doorway. Softer this time. Less like she was afraid of scaring you, more like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile moment you were wrapped inside.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to see her standing there with Dina.

“Mind if we come in?” the brunette asked.

You hesitated. Then gave the smallest nod. They moved in quietly, settling on the bench near your chair. Dina took the spot closest to you, while Ellie sat beside her, leaning forward, hands between her knees.

Ellie tried first. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked. Looked down at your lap. Then, slowly—almost unsure—you raised your hands. Your fingers moved with care, like it had been a long time since someone had truly watched you speak this way.

Dina leaned in. “She’s saying... she’s better today,” she translated, glancing at Ellie. “Tired. But not scared.”

Ellie smiled, just a little. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

You watched her for a moment. Then signed again, slower this time.

“She wants to tell us something,” Dina said. Her voice dropped. “She’s going to tell us what happened.”

Ellie’s posture stiffened. She glanced at you, her chest already tightening. No survivor have had the guts to explain what happened. A man tried once, but panic overtook him before he could finish. 

You began signing. Dina translated, her voice quieter now, more careful. Like she was laying out pieces of you with every word. “She says… after her father died, she lived in that village for a few years. Alone mostly. The others… they knew she was there, but no one really asked her about it. She couldn’t talk, so they just… let her be. She fixed broken things. Helped tend the crops. People were kind enough, but it wasn’t home.”

You paused. Your face was blank, but your fingers tightened before moving again.

Dina continued. “She had a place at the edge of the houses. Close to the woods. Far enough that she could sleep without hearing people at night.” Your hands kept going. “She says one morning, a group of men came. Not infected. Just people. They looked like they’d been traveling for weeks—scarred, armed, desperate. They claimed they were traders at first. But they started asking about supplies. Ammunition. Medicine.”

Your hands stopped briefly, fingers trembling, then continued. 

“They found out the village had nothing to offer. No luxuries. Just the basics. So they… they took what they could. Someone had hidden away rations, alcohol, painkillers—things scavenged over the years. When the men couldn’t find more, they got angry.” Dina paused, her throat tightening. “They lit the houses on fire.”

You looked away now, your shoulders hunching inward. “She tried to help. Tried to pull someone out of a burning home. But one of the men hit her—hard. Threw her against a wall. And when they noticed she couldn’t talk, they took her to the forest. The men—uh—”

Dina stopped talking. Ellie didn’t need to hear the rest of it.  You didn’t look at her, but you heard it. The room went quiet. You finally looked at Ellie. And signed, slowly: “And then you found me.” Dina translated it. But she didn’t need to. Ellie understood that one.

Ellie’s eyes met yours, and something cracked inside her. Not pain. Something warmer, something painful but… human. She didn’t say anything. She raised her hands awkwardly, fingers a little stiff. Then, slowly, clumsily, she moved them. “You. Safe.”

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But you understood it. Your throat tightened. You gave her the smallest nod.

A WEEK had passed since your arrival. 

The snow had finally started melting around the outskirts of the town, revealing muddy patches of earth where winter had gripped too tightly for too long. Ellie stood near the wooden gate, arms crossed, watching the group of survivors getting ready to leave.

The ones from the burned village were chattering quietly, packing up what they'd been given. Fresh food. Blankets. Maps. A promise of an escort back to whatever scraps of family they still had waiting. They were smiling. Everyone was grateful. Excited, even. All except you.

Ellie spotted it immediately. You were off to the side, near the stone edge of the wall, body drawn in tight, like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your arms were shaking. Your fingers twitching against your thighs. 

She took a step toward you just as Dina’s voice called from behind her, “They’re almost ready to head out. Maria’s gonna do the final check-in.”

But Ellie wasn’t listening. Her eyes hadn’t left you. You looked like you were about to vomit. Then it happened: a sharp shake of your head. Violent. Repeated. Your breath caught. You stumbled back, and then you were trembling, hands raised, desperate to sign something, anything, but your fingers were sloppy, frantic. You couldn’t get the shapes right.

Ellie was already moving. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” she said, dropping beside you.

Dina and Tommy were just behind her, closing in. Maria walked fast from the other side of the gate, frowning. Tommy crouched, reaching gently for your arm. “It’s okay, kiddo. We’re gonna get you back to your people—”

But you yanked away like his hand burned. The panic boiled over. Your eyes wide, breath sharp, and you were signing in quick bursts now, so messy even Dina had to pause before translating.

“She says—she says she doesn’t want to go back,” Dina murmured. “She says there’s nothing left fot her there. No family. No one waiting. It’s… it’s bad there. She says she can help here. That she wants to help. Please—she’s saying please over and over.”

Maria frowned. “We agreed Jackson doesn’t—”

“She can stay.” Ellie’s voice cut clean through the air.

Everyone looked at her. Maria blinked. “Ellie.”

“No, listen.” Ellie turned to her, stepping between you and the others. “She’s not sick. She can learn to help here.”

“She needs care—” Maria started, but Ellie didn’t flinch.

“—so give her care,” she said. “You did it for me. For Joel. You do it for people all the time when it’s the right thing. This is the right thing.”

Maria looked like she wanted to argue. But Tommy stepped forward, hands resting on his hips. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “Let her stay.”

Maria turned to look at you then. You were still shaking, eyes wide and full of raw, silent fear. But you weren’t signing anymore. You were just… watching. Waiting. And something in Maria’s face cracked.

She exhaled slowly. “We’ve got one unoccupied space down by the south end. It’s small, but it’s clean. I’ll clear it with the board. But this is your responsibility, Ellie. If it doesn’t work—”

“It will.”

Maria nodded, tight-lipped, and turned away.

The space wasn’t much more than a glorified shed.

An old maintenance room near the edge of the farming district, with one small window and thin walls. The mattress was clean, the oil lamp on the table was half-full, and someone had left a knitted blanket at the foot of the bed—blue with crooked stitches.

You sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

Ellie knocked once and stepped in.

“You, uh… you decent?” she joked half-heartedly.

No answer, of course. You looked at her slowly, eyes rimmed red from earlier. She walked in anyway, looking around. The room was bare. White walls. No posters. No clothes. No books. Just a silent girl and an untouched space.

“No pressure or anything,” Ellie muttered, “but this place kinda sucks.” Your mouth curled, barely. Just enough for her to notice.

Ellie reached into her jacket and pulled something out. A folded square of paper.

She handed it to you and waited while you unfolded it. A sketch— rough pencil strokes, smudged shading. A moth, wings spread wide, drawn on the corner of a windowsill.

You traced the wings gently. “I dunno,” Ellie said, fidgeting with her fingers. “Figured maybe you could put something on the walls.”

You didn’t sign anything. But you nodded. It was the first nod you’d given all day.

Ellie stayed until the sun dipped low, and the light faded into that soft blue shadow you only get in the mountains. When she stood to leave, you reached out—not to stop her, but to hand her the drawing again.

She shook her head, smiling at you. “It’s yours now.”

You didn’t smile. But when she left, you pinned the drawing to the wall above your bed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you slept through the night.

YOU WEREN’T used to peace.

At first, it made you feel anxious. Like quiet was something dangerous. But days passed, and nothing shattered. No fires. No screams. No alarms. Just the thump of boots on snow-soft ground, the whinny of horses, and the occasional dog barking across the fencing.

And people? They weren’t what you expected. No disgusted stares. No cruel whispers. No pity in their eyes. Just… quiet nods. Respectful distance. Some even smiled when you passed. They didn’t expect you to speak. They didn’t press. They just treated you like a normal human being.

It felt strange. But not bad. You kept yourself busy, anyway. Staying in your room made the silence loud again, so you found ways to fill the hours.

At the stables, you brushed and fed the horses. At the medical wing, you helped sort herbs, stitch torn blankets, organize kits. The nurses didn’t talk much, but they smiled in thanks when you caught their mistakes. You were good at reading patterns. Noticing things.

And at the storage barn, you worked beside Dina. She didn’t say much at first. Just stacked crates with you, passed you water, bumped your shoulder when you looked tired. But by the second day, she started moving her hands in a way that caught your attention.

Sign language. Half of it wrong. You raised a brow. She laughed, shrugging. Then signed: “My sister taught me, but lost practice.”

From then on, every time you worked together, she practiced. She corrected herself when she got it wrong. You teached her simple phrases that could be useful for patrols, like— “Are you okay?, help me, stay quiet, Danger.”

Sometimes, Ellie joined you both during free time and watched, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t interested. But you caught her mouthing the words. Her fingers twitching, trying to mirror yours.

Still, there were people who found odd your… limited vocabulary, to say the least. You were mute, but not deaf. The elders sometimes offered fake kindness, and a couple of teens treated you like you were a sideshow. Whispered jokes behind your back. Laughed when you turned, knowing you couldn’t call them out.

You were at the stable, finishing your chores for the day, when a group of young teenagers snuck inside. As you stepped into the storage room to grab some tools, the door slammed shut behind you. The door slammed shut behind you. At first, it was just the sound. The thud of it. Then came the click of the latch. And then, darkness.

You froze. No light. No cracks in the wood. No way to see the space around you. 

And just like that, it hit you. The woods. The smoke curling up into the treetops. The cries. The screams. The pain. Your body limp and bloody in the snow.  Now here you were again. Trapped. Powerless. Alone.

Your breath caught. You pounded your fists against the door, over and over. You wanted to scream. Your body tried to scream. But nothing came. Just air and desperation.

You crumbled against the wood, nails scratching at it like an animal. Tears blurred your vision, heart hammering. You were shaking. Falling back into yourself, into the dark part where the only thing that existed was fear.

Time slipped away. You didn't know how long you were in there. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? It didn’t matter, because it was long enough. Long enough to collapse into the floor, fear and guilt eating you alive. 

Ellie noticed you were gone the moment she got to her room.

Your notebook was still on the table. The CD player she'd brought you was untouched. The blanket folded the way you always left it when you planned to come back. Something was wrong.

She went to the medical wing first, and asked if you'd stopped by to help with the supply run. Then the town hall. Then Dina’s greenhouse. Each time, her voice got tenser, sharper.

“No, haven’t seen her.”

“She was supposed to help with the stables today, wasn’t she?”

Ellie froze. The stables. Of course. You always stayed late there. Shimmer was like your therapy, your comfort. If something had happened—

She was already running. By the time she got to the stables, the sun had dipped low, and the place was nearly empty. Most of the horses were asleep in their pens, the lights dimmed to a faint amber glow. It was quiet.

Too quiet. Ellie’s stomach dropped.

She walked past the rows of stalls, listening. Nothing. Nothing but the quiet huffs of horses and the creak of old wood. Before she could leave, she heard a sound.  Muffled. Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

And it was coming from the supply room.

Ellie rushed over, her heart now pounding in her ears. The door was closed. No light leaked from under the crack.

She pressed her ear to it. And heard a whimper. A cry. Shaky, broken. Yours.

“Shit—”

She threw herself at the door. It didn’t budge. Again. And again. On the third try, the old hinges groaned, and the door burst inward.

The sight stopped her breath.

You were huddled in the corner, back against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. Your chest was heaving. You were soaked in sweat. Your nails had blood under them. You didn’t even look up at first— just shook violently, stuck in the loop of whatever memories had come rushing in.

“Hey,” Ellie said, dropping to her knees. “Hey, hey—look at me. It’s me. I’m here.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide and full of terror. Then softened. But the tears kept falling.

You reached for her. Barely. She pulled you into her arms. She held you so tightly, you could feel her heart thudding against yours.

“You’re safe,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She stayed there with you until your breathing slowed, until the shaking lessened. Until the memory began to dissolve just a little. She didn’t let go.

Later that night, wrapped in a blanket in Ellie’s garage, you sat beside her on the old couch. Your eyes were red and tired. Your hands moved slowly, shakily.

“I thought I was back there,” you signed. “In the woods.”

Ellie nodded. “I know. I know.”

“It felt the same.”

She reached out and gently brushed your knuckles with her thumb. “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “It was not your fault.”

Ellie sighed, then moved closer. “You're here now. That’s what matters. You're safe. And I won’t ever let anyone do that to you again.”

You let her lean her forehead against yours. You exhaled softly. Your fingers moved once more.

“I was scared.”

She pulled you against her side, her arm around your shoulders.

“I was scared too,” she admitted quietly. “When I couldn’t find you. I thought—” she stopped, swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

You nodded, slowly. Then leaned your head against her shoulder.

Outside, Jackson carried on with its usual rhythm. But in that garage, all that existed was the hush of breath, the warmth of touch, and the unspoken promise that Ellie would never let you fall into the dark alone again.

She couldn’t wait to speak to those kids and show them real fear.

THE GARAGE  Ellie had turned into her room was dim and quiet that night.

Her guitar sat in the corner, dusty but cared for. A pile of comic books sat untouched next to her bed. And pinned to the wall beside her drawings was something new.

A sketch. It wasn’t finished, but it was clearly you. It was you, brushing Shimmer’s hair. A gentle expression on your face, eyes closed in focus, hair loose around your shoulders. Ellie had started it the night before, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how peaceful you looked.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“You drawin’ again?” Joel’s voice broke through the stillness.

Ellie jumped, stuffing the sketch under her pillow in one sharp motion. “Jesus—don’t sneak up like that.”

Joel chuckled, arms crossed. “I knocked,” he said. “You just didn’t answer.”

Ellie shifted, awkward. “Just… sketching. Helps me sleep sometimes.”

Joel looked around the room, taking in the quiet. He nodded toward the pillow.

“That her?”

Ellie’s face went red. “None of your business.”

He smiled, soft. Not teasing, just… knowing.

“She’s a good kid,” he said. “Saw her helpin’ over at the stables this morning. Gentle hands. Real focused.”

Ellie looked down, playing with her fingers nervously.

Joel leaned against the workbench. “Listen. I was talkin’ to Maria. Said some patrol members were askin’ about hand signals. Quiet communication. Stuff you can use when there’s infected close and you don’t wanna make a sound.”

Ellie blinked. “Like… what Dina’s teaching me?”

Joel nodded. “Exactly. She told me the new girl has been helpin’ with that.”

“She’s smart,” Ellie said quietly. “Learns fast.”

Joel gave a low hum. “Sounds familiar.” Ellie shot him a look, but he was already walking toward the door. “She keeps it up,” he said, “it might be worth havin’ her on patrol. Not now, but down the line. Could teach the others what she knows.” Before he left, he added, without turning. “You’re good with her, kid. She trusts you.”

And then he was gone. Ellie exhaled. She pulled the sketch back out from under the pillow. Then pinned it to the wall. 

IT WAS A Thursday when Ellie showed up at your door holding something behind her back. You opened it slowly, a blanket still draped around your shoulders, hair messily braided from the day before. You blinked sleep from your eyes.

Ellie grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a bomb or anything.” You tilted your head. “I brought you something,” she said, stepping inside without asking—because by now, she didn’t need to.

From behind her back, she pulled out a CD player. A real, beat-up, scratched little thing, with worn buttons and cracked volume dials. But it had a soul. And inside it, she'd already loaded the first disc.

“I figured… I dunno. You’ve probably never had time for music. Not real music, anyway. Not the stuff that doesn’t come from a panic radio signal.” You reached out, gently touching the top of it. Ellie was already kneeling, plugging in the cord to the wall, twisting the dial.

A click. A soft whirr. Then the warm crackle of static turned into music. Not loud. Just enough to fill the room. The guitar riff was old-school. Something from the seventies, maybe. You didn’t recognize the song. But Ellie was tapping her foot and mouthing along.

“Fleetwood Mac,” she said with a smirk, glancing at you. You gave a ghost of a laugh. Silent, but real. Then nodded. You liked it. Ellie watched your face carefully.

She sat down cross-legged beside the little player, then reached into her coat and pulled out three more CDs. She fanned them out on the floor like they were cards in a game.

“This one’s The Police. This one’s the Talking Heads. And this—this is my personal favorite.” She held it up proudly. “Aerosmith: Greatest Hits.” You squinted, amused. “Don’t give me that look,” Ellie muttered, clearly flustered. “I know the covers are cheesy. But it slaps, okay? You ever heard Crazy? No? Oh man, you’re in for a ride.”

You reached out slowly. You didn't sign anything, but your eyes said enough. This meant something. Ellie just smiled at you, cheeks red but eyes proud.

“Press this button to open the tray,” she explained, showing you patiently. “And this skips tracks. Here’s the volume. And if it makes that grinding noise again, just smack the side like this.” She did it and immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not that hard.”

Two days later, Ellie woke up to a soft knock on the garage door. When she opened it, no one was there.

But lying on the step was a gently folded note, creased twice, smudged in the corner where a thumb must have pressed too hard. Ellie’s heart jumped. She recognized your handwriting immediately. It was small, tidy, with the slant of someone who’d taught themselves without anyone ever correcting them. She unfolded it slowly. Inside, in careful words, was a list:

CD 1 – Fleetwood Mac: Landslide CD 2 – The Police: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic CD 3 – Talking Heads: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) CD 4 – Aerosmith: Dream On 

At the bottom, just beneath the last line, was one more word, written in smaller script: “Thank you.”

Ellie stared at the page for a long time. She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, tracing her fingers over each song like they meant something more now. Like they were your voice. Oh. Your voice. There wasn’t a day she didn’t grieve your voice. She was sure it was the best melody of all. Above from every track. Above from any music note. 

But maybe, just maybe, this was enough.  Ellie sank down into the chair near her workbench and smiled—really smiled, one of those rare, crooked things that made her freckles stand out and her nose scrunch just a little. “She likes Dream On,” she mumbled to herself.

From that day on, music became part of your language. There wasn’t a day when your small cabin wasn’t flooded with melodies from decades ago. 

Ellie would bring new CDs each week—stuff she bartered for, stuff she found on abandoned shelves, anything that might work. And every time, two or three days later, she’d find a note on her doorstep.  Your handwriting. Your picks. Sometimes you’d even underline lyrics. Other times you'd draw a little doodle beside a title—a heart, a star, a tiny sketch of Shimmer or a cassette tape.

It wasn’t long before you started leaving music playing in your room when Ellie visited. The sound would greet her before you did, like a secret message. One day, she walked in and found you swaying slightly in your chair to David Bowie, and she nearly dropped the water canister she was carrying.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” she muttered, trying not to smile too big.

And you? You just gave her a thumbs up and kept dancing.

Ellie wasn’t sure when it happened. The shift.

She’d always liked being around you. She liked the quiet, the lack of pressure. But somewhere between the notes and the signs, something deeper started to bloom. Something that made her stomach twist in weird, ridiculous knots.

She caught herself watching you more.

Not just because she was worried or curious. But because she liked the shape of your laugh, even if it was silent. She liked the way your face lit up when she remembered something you didn’t think she would—like how you always skipped track three, or how you preferred peppermint tea over chamomile.

She liked how your eyes crinkled when you teased her with hand signs, “slow down, you talk too fast.”

And she really, really liked when your fingers would brush hers while passing a note, and you didn’t pull away.

WHEN spring came, you were a completely different person.

Gone was the ghost of the girl who’d arrived trembling and blood-soaked on the edge of Jackson’s woods. The one who wouldn’t let anyone near. Who flinched from a soft touch and couldn't fall asleep without checking the windows five times.

Now, you stood taller. You looked people in the eyes.

Your hair had grown longer and shinier, often braided back with a little green ribbon Ellie found in the trading post. You’d gained weight, enough to make your clothes fit better, and your eyes look less sunken. You looked healthy. You looked present. And you looked happy. Words weren’t necessary to notice it. They never were.

By now, sign language had spread across Jackson like wildfire.

Dina had started it—volunteering to teach lessons in the evenings at the town hall for anyone who wanted to learn. What started as a curiosity quickly turned into something vital. Because once people realized how useful quiet communication could be during patrols, it was no longer just a gesture of kindness. It was about survival.

There were stories—a team who spotted a runner too close thanks to a signed warning. A pair of patrol members who navigated around a horde without making a single sound, all because they could speak with their hands.

You became the unofficial teacher, alongside Dina.

Some nights you’d stand in front of the room with a small notebook, writing down sequences and watching the crowd mimic you. Kids learned fastest—teenagers who liked how slick it felt to talk in silence. Old folks struggled with the finger speed but didn’t give up.

And Ellie? Ellie learned just for you. She still fumbled sometimes. Signed something completely wrong and ended up telling you she was a “sad fly” instead of “feeling tired.” But she always made you laugh. And the look she gave you every time she got something right? Pure gold.

It was early, the sun still low behind Jackson’s rooftops, when someone knocked gently on your door, The Cure making everything softer. You opened it to find Maria, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes kind but serious.

She waited a beat before speaking. “You’ve been doing real good around here.” You tilted your head, unsure where this was going. “You’ve been… helping. At the stables. Organizing supplies. Teaching.” She paused. “We’ve been watching. You’re steady. And smart.”

“Thing is, there’s a patrol scheduled tomorrow,” she continued. “North route. We could use someone with your skills. Think you’re ready to head out there?”

Your heart pounded. Ready? You hadn’t left the gates since the day you were brought here. You looked down, fingers twitching slightly, signing the word for yes, slow but certain.

Maria smiled softly. “We thought you might agree to that.”

Ellie was the first one to volunteer. The only one, really. The next morning, you stood by the gate—nervous but prepared. Bow slung over your back. Hands steady.

She grinned when she saw you. “Got your game face on, huh?”

You signed “fuck off,” and she burst out laughing.

“You’re too good at that, it’s not fair.”

You rode side by side out into the woods. The snow had mostly melted. Green was returning to the world, shy and slow. Birds chirped above you, and the air had that damp, earthy smell of thawed soil and new beginnings.

Ellie showed you how to spot tracks, how to tell the difference between deer and runners, where to look for broken branches and disturbed dirt. You, on the other hand, taught her how to signal danger in complete silence, how to hold up a closed fist to stop, how to sign clicker or infected or hide in seconds.

You worked like you'd been doing this together for years.

And when a pair of clickers stumbled too close to a creek where you rested, you didn’t panic. You touched Ellie’s shoulder and signed two, right, close— and she nodded instantly, pulling her knife free. It was very effective, to say the least.

That patrol became two. Then four. Then a dozen. You and Ellie became a team. Every time your name was on the board, so was hers.

The rhythm of riding out, scouting, signing small jokes, and sharing your rations. Watching the sun rise over misty hills. Sitting in watchtowers with your boots kicked up and her shoulder brushing yours.

Sometimes you caught her staring. Sometimes she caught you doing the same. Neither of you said a word about it. But everyone else could see it.

IT HAD STARTED like any other patrol. 

The clouds were heavy that morning, hanging low and gray over the mountain ridge. You rode out alongside Jesse and another scout, Cal, toward the outskirts of an abandoned rail line two hours away from Jackson. You were tracking a runner sighting someone had reported near the water tanks.

Ellie was on a separate route that day. She’d offered to switch with Jesse when she saw your name on the roster, but Maria insisted she stay on her scheduled path to cover more ground. You kissed her knuckles before separating at the gates, your silent way of saying, be safe.

She signed back, “always.”

You felt something wrong about five minutes before it happened. 

Cal had to take a break a few minutes ago, staying by the station, leaving you alone with the other man. Jesse walked ahead, scanning, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You stayed back, close to the train tracks, half-swallowed by grass. You were just signing to Jesse that you thought something was off when a gunshot cracked through the trees. Then pain. The next few seconds blurred into chaos.

You hit the ground, hard. Your ears rang. Two masked men came out of nowhere—one of them slammed Jesse’s head into the ground with the butt of a rifle. You tried to pull your knife, but a boot pinned your wrist to the mud.

They weren’t infected. They weren’t raiders looking for supplies. They were looking for you. Sudden flashbacks of that one night came running through your mind as more hands grabbed your arms. You kicked and thrashed, but they hit hard and fast, knocking the wind out of you. You reached for your belt, trying to scream for help. But nothing came out.

Just air and silence. Your throat pulsed, desperate and useless.

They laughed when they realized you couldn’t scream. One of them leaned down close, breathing in your face. “That’s new. Ain’t that something?” He shoved your face into the mud. “Try to scream. Come on. Do it.”

You gasped, silent, your body wracked with panic.

They started to beat you then. Not enough to kill you, but almost. One of them held your arms while the other kicked your ribs, again and again and again. Another hit your face with a rifle stock, splitting your lip, knocking your head sideways.

“Let’s see what sounds she makes when we break her.”

You couldn’t scream. So they kept going.

By the time they dragged you into an old barn nearby, Jesse was still unconscious, and you were barely breathing. Where the hell was Cal? Did they got them too? Blood trickled down your jaw and pooled in your shirt. You tried to sign for help, your hands shaking uncontrollably. The tall man laughed and tied your wrists.

And that’s when they brought Ellie in.

Tied. Kicking. Bloody from a fight of her own.

Her eyes met yours across the barn, and she screamed.

“NO! No, no— DON’T YOU DARE TO TOUCH HER!”

They slammed her into a beam and tied her arms above her head. One man punched her gut hard enough to make her gasp, but Ellie barely flinched. Her eyes were locked on you, face contorted in pure rage. 

“What the fuck did she ever do to you?! HUH?! You cowards!”

“Leave her alone!" Ellie shouted. "She didn’t do anything!”

They laughed. One of them stepped close to you. He grabbed your face, turning it side to side. When they saw how Ellie screamed for you, cried for you, they smiled. That was the fuel they wanted.

They pulled you forward again, cut your shirt open, and shoved you to the floor. Ellie thrashed wildly in her restraints.

“Stop it! STOP—PLEASE!”

“STOP! YOU FUCKING COWARDS!”

You couldn’t scream. You could only gasp, your body shaking violently, your lungs burning as you tried and failed to make a sound.

And when they got tired of you, they started hurting her.

One of them stabbed her leg. She howled in agony. Another one broke a rib with the heel of his boot. You could hear the sickening snap. And you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t save her.

Until something inside you twisted. The man pinning you laughed as Ellie cried your name. Something feral surged through your chest. You watched as his arm pressed roughly on your throat. And you bit it down. Hard.

So hard, you tasted blood and tendon.

He screamed and tried to jerk away, but you didn’t let go. You bit through him until he fell back, blood pouring down your chin. You grabbed the knife he dropped in panic, and before the others could react, you plunged it into his neck. Once. Twice. A third time. Screaming silently, stabbing again and again, the blade punching through soft flesh and cartilage.

You acted fast. One of the others lunged toward Ellie. He had no time to react. You tackled him and drove the blade into his chest, over and over, until your hands were slick with red, and his body stopped moving.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until Ellie—barely conscious, bleeding out—whispered your name. “Hey. Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

Your hands trembled as she reached for you.

Her fingers were slick with blood— her own. You dropped the knife, gasping in silence, eyes darting across her wounds.

“Blood. Blood.” You signed frantically. “Blood. You. Blood. Bad.”

Ellie reached up, her touch featherlight.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. You saved me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Her voice cracked with emotion as she whispered, “We’re okay. You did good. You did so good.”

You curled into her, hands clutching her jacket like a lifeline, heart pounding against hers. Ellie, still bleeding, still aching, pulled you closer like she could protect you from everything.

You sobbed without sound. And she held you until the others found you both.

THE RIDE back to Jackson was a blur.

You didn’t remember mounting the horse. You didn’t remember Cal helping Ellie stay upright in the saddle, or Jesse—bruised but alive—riding close behind.

You didn’t remember the whispers. Or the way people gasped when they saw the blood all over you, sticky and dried in layers.

You kept your eyes on Ellie the whole way. Her head leaned against your shoulder, barely conscious, breath hitching with every step the horse took.

You’d already cleaned the blade before anyone found you. You didn’t know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe shame. Maybe you didn’t want her to see how much you enjoyed it— how much of yourself you'd left in that abandoned building.

They took Ellie straight to the med bay.

You refused to let go of her hand. Even as Maria shouted for you to step aside. Even when they pulled back her jacket and revealed the cuts, the bruises, the deep gash along her thigh. You stayed. Not a single nurse tried to fight you on it.

You sat beside her as they stitched her up, cleaned the wounds, reset the cracked rib. She didn’t flinch once. She kept watching you the whole time, her green eyes tracing the dried blood on your cheeks, the tremble in your fingertips.

“...You okay?” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. But you weren’t.

Later that night, when the sun dipped behind the mountains and Jackson returned to its soft yellow haze of warm lights and guarded walls, Ellie knocked at your door.

She looked tired. Wrapped in a blanket. Her face was pale, the bruises starting to darken. A strip of gauze around her arm, another across her ribs. But she was walking.

And she was alone. “I can’t sleep,” she said quietly. “Wanna come to mine?”

You nodded and followed. The garage was dimly lit, smelling faintly of old leather, music, and a little bit of her. Posters lined the walls, drawings pinned in uneven rows. 

You’d been here before—but never like this. You sat cross-legged on her mattress, across from her. Hands tucked in your lap, still trembling a little.

The silence stretched long. But it didn’t hurt. You watched the way she stared at her hands. The gauze on her fingers. The small cuts beneath her chin. The melody of Take On Me was caressing the walls of the garage. Ellie knew how much you loved that song. 

You smiled sadly. Then your hands moved. “I’m sorry.” Again. “I’m sorry.” Your signs were shaking. Urgent. Repeating. Over and over.

Ellie moved to sit beside you. Close enough to touch. She placed a hand gently over yours. “Stop,” she said, softly. “I’m not sorry. Not for what you did. Not for any of it.”

Your breath caught. You looked at her. Her fingers trembled as she raised her hands.

She signed—slowly, carefully, but certain. “I love you.”

No stutter. No mistake. The motion was clear. Firm. Honest.

Your lips parted. Not for sound. Just for breath. You stared at her, eyes wide. And then, you smiled. For the first time since the barn, a full, real smile. And you leaned forward. Ellie met you halfway.

Her lips were warm, soft, trembling against yours.

She tasted like peppermint and tea, and the metal tang of healing wounds. Her hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing the bruise on your cheek. She was careful with you, and you were careful with her.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

You nodded, and your fingers rose again. “Me neither.”

A FEW WEEKS had passed since the attack.

Your injuries had healed for the most part. The bruises faded, the cuts scabbed and softened to scars. But the ache lingered. Neither of you spoke about it anymore. Not in words. Not in signs. But you both knew. You always did.

Ellie had promised you one thing the night she kissed you, forehead to forehead in the garage: that someday, she’d take you somewhere no one else knew about. Somewhere quiet. Safe. Yours.

And one morning, when the sun broke through the trees in soft shafts and the air smelled like early spring grass, she showed up at your door with a half-smile and a bag over her shoulder.

“Come with me,” she signed.

And you did.

It was a three-hour hike outside the west perimeter of Jackson. Off patrol routes, through pine forest and over mossy, half-rotted logs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got. Just birds and your boots and the sound of Ellie humming under her breath, almost unconsciously.

By the time you reached the lake, your chest ached with how beautiful it was.

It wasn’t large, but the water was glass-clear and edged by smooth, sun-warmed rocks. Pines framed it like watchful giants. A single wooden dock jutted out near one edge, old and mossy but still solid.

You smiled, wide and open, and turned to Ellie in a flash of excitement.

She was already looking at you, grinning.

“Told you it was worth it,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

You nodded, signing, “Beautiful.”

Ellie shrugged, bashful. “Yeah. You are.” You blinked, and she coughed. “I-I mean—yeah, it’s beautiful. It. The lake. Shut up.”

She scratched the back of her neck, trying not to look at you directly as you began to pull your jacket off. You stripped down to your underwear slowly, mostly because the sun felt good on your skin and your bruises no longer hurt. Your scars caught the light, silvered now. You stood barefoot at the edge of the lake and glanced back.

Ellie was very visibly trying not to stare. Her face was beet red. You smirked at her.

“Come on,” you signed, beckoning her.

She cleared her throat and peeled off her flannel, boots, and jeans until she was in her tank top and boxers. When she joined you at the water’s edge, she couldn’t meet your eyes.

Then you both dove in. You both gasped at first, laughing breathlessly, flailing for a moment before adjusting. You swam circles around her, light and weightless in the water, while Ellie trod with a smile so big it almost looked painful.

You splashed her. She splashed back harder. You dove under and tugged at her ankle. She yelped and nearly went under, laughing.

It was like time slowed down. The world, so often filled with tension and noise and pain, had simply fallen silent. The only sounds were water ripples, quiet laughter, the distant call of birds.

At one point, you floated on your back beside her, arms out like wings.

Ellie watched you, eyes soft. The cut across her nose had faded, but her lip still had a tiny scar where the stitches had been. 

You signed to her lazily, hands moving across the water’s surface. “So pretty.”

She blinked. And then she realized you meant her.

Her cheeks flushed deep red, like the sun had suddenly turned up just for her.

“Oh,” she muttered, blinking fast. “Um. You too. I mean—not that you didn’t already know that. You’re, like—yeah. You’re a lot.”

Later, you both climbed out of the lake, dripping and shivering but grinning. Ellie laid out her flannel and you both sprawled on it in the sun, half-dried, steam rising from your clothes.

Your hair was damp and tangled. Her arm was loosely draped over your thigh, fingertips idly tracing the old scar above your knee. You were still. Safe.

You’d been practicing something all week in your cabin, when you arrived at night after doing your daily chores. Ellie had shown you a few times, patiently, her fingers in her mouth, her whistle sharp and clear.

It had taken days to figure it out. You couldn’t hum or sing or shout. But this—this was yours. So, you puckered your lips and whistled. A little shaky at first. But then steady. A tune Ellie liked—one she’d played on her guitar months ago. Future Days.

She froze, and looked up at you.

You kept going. The little melody warbling gently into the air.

Ellie stared, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. She leaned up on one elbow, and her hand stayed on your leg.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You are the best.” You tilted your head, a questioning smile. She just shook hers. “You don’t even know, do you?”

You shrugged playfully. She leaned in and kissed your shoulder. Then your cheek, and finally your chapped lips. Then rested her head just below your collarbone, eyes closed.

“Stay here a while longer,” she murmured.

You wrapped an arm around her. Fingers tangled in her damp hair.

The sun was warm. The water glinted. And for the first time in what felt like years, the world didn’t feel cruel. 

Before the sun set, you were already packing to go back home. Ellie was checking Shimmer when you nervously opened your bag. Inside was a folded-up piece of paper. You chewed your lip and stared at it for a second before finally walking over and nudging Ellie’s shoulder gently. She turned, and you held the drawing out with both hands. Immediately shy.

Ellie sat up straighter. “What’s that?”

You didn’t sign. Just pushed it gently into her hands, already starting to blush.

She unfolded the page slowly, and her eyes widened the moment she saw it.

It was her. A little smudgy in some areas, sure. Maybe the proportions weren’t perfect; her jaw was a bit too square, her nose slightly off-center,  but it was her. Sitting under a tree with her guitar in her lap. Her brows furrowed in focus. Hair curling beneath her ears. A little crease at the corner of her lips like she was about to smile.

She stared at it longer than she probably realized.

When she looked up again, you were biting the inside of your cheek, shoulders hunched slightly, like you were bracing for her to laugh.

Instead, Ellie smiled. Soft. Real. Almost awed.

“Are you serious?” she said. “You drew this?” You nodded, sheepish. Ellie looked back down at it. “Holy shit. This is awesome. Like— actually awesome.”

“You're just being nice.”

She looked up, scandalized. “I am not just being nice!”

You signed with a playful grin.  “Says the girl who draws like a professional comic book artist.”

Ellie huffed. “Okay, rude. Yours is just… different. It’s good. Like, warm, you know?” You tilted your head. “Like,” she continued, waving the paper, “you didn’t just draw me. You got the way I sit. That stupid thing I do with my fingers when I’m thinking.”

You lifted your brows. “Stupid?”

She gave you a look. “Yeah, you know, the thing where I— okay, you’re making that face again. Stop!”

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking.  She carefully placed the drawing in her pocket, smoothing the edges.

After a few moments of quiet, you signed again. “You’re my favorite thing to draw.”

Ellie’s ears turned red. She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, shyly, “...Will you show me more sometime?”

You looked up at her with a small nod. Ellie leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“I wanna hang that one up,” she whispered. “Right next to our music notes.”

“You’re such a loser”

“Yeah.” She signed back, now more smoothly. “Just for you, baby.”

perm taglist !

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[snailpebbles]

i said this before, & i'll say it again: i want a girlfriend.

[snailpebbles]

you are the only exception, from vi

ᰔ pairing . . . d. wayne !

ᰔ category . . . fluff , one - shot , requested ᰔ requested by . . . @xoxorory !

ᰔ with . . . a wonder!fem!reader !

ᰔ in which . . . you & damian bond quietly over time▰through missions, late-night snacks, & rain-soaked walks. until he realizes you’re not trying to fix him, just choosing to stay.

ᰔ tags . . . 3.9k slowburn(ish). tension. quiet understanding. strangers to teammates to something more. subtle affection. team dynamics. mutual respect. gentle banter. protective!damian. observant!reader. late-night walks. rain scene (classic). reluctant softness. grumpy x calm dynamic. titans tower bonding. canon divergence(?). reader lowkey has mythological trauma. emotional healing. damian wayne character study. teasing under affection. enemies to allies to "maybe." relationship misunderstanding. very ooc. reader is low-key flirty af.

ᰔ look around . . . m. list, d.wayne & detective comics m. list

────── vi whispers . . . ᰔ

001. woah.

002. i acc made this in my mom's office lmfao😭😭

003. not proofread obvi

004. "damian is a vege —" in other storylines,, he eats meat btw ! i js forgot which comic essit

the first time you got to meet damian wayne wasn't anything compared to the rest. at least, not the rest who were also members of the teen titans.

the first new recruit to enter was always eyed with suspicion. the team was a machine, & each new piece of machinery had to fit exactly, or it would break down. but when damian wayne arrived at the titans, it was as though a storm entered the room. the rest of them did have their misgivings▰some put theirs more squarely than others. some rolled eyes at his brashness, his refusal to work with. others, like gar, tormented him pitilessly, but you knew better. you saw a guy who'd been toughened up by an existence he never solicited, a life that had been too grim to shatter.

you could see that.

whereas the others were, you weren't all smiles and forced smiles. your calmness, your unobtrusive confidence, didn't stem from naivety. it stemmed from knowing the depths at which people could reach when life didn't give them a moment to be children. and, in spite of everything, you recognized that damian was a child, although he refused to acknowledge that.

it wasn't that you were naturally great at relating to people▰it was that you were simply more aware of the fact that everyone had his or her own silent wars. yours just happened to have been against the gods.

but the first time that you spoke with him? you could almost sense the electric shock in the air. as if zeus striked you for no reason. damian wasn't a big talker▰he never was, unless he was compelled to drop some biting comment. the others were,, well, acclimating to him, but there were still missteps. still moments when the words didn't align with the intention. but you? you'd been taught by someone who could step into a room, & the entire room would sense the presence. you weren't intimidated by damian's intensity; you saw it.

it began as a mission, something straightforward. stopping a gang who'd somehow fallen under the influence of an ancient magic. it was meant to be simple, a routine patrol for the team. but things had gotten out of hand fast, & there was damian, barking orders sharply while gar attempted to make jokes. it was your responsibility to maintain the peace in times like those.

"damian," you said, your voice cutting through the mess of noise around you. "focus."

he scowled but didn’t look away. "i’m always focused."

"clearly." you raised an eyebrow at him, then shifted your attention back to the enemy. “just. don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

there was a beat of silence before he scoffed under his breath. “i don’t need you to babysit me.”

you laughed, your tone gentle but distinct. "nobody needs to babysit anyone here, damian. but one of our duties is to be a team. which means cooperation is a must.. you don't go off by yourself unless you're willing to face the consequences."

& it was there, in that shirt conversation. where the tension lessened with unspoken reality▰that something moved. the ire in damian's eyes grew a little softer. you weren't attempting to gain control. you were attempting to keep him alive. & for some unknown reason, that mattered.

it wasn't friendship in the beginning, no. but there was mutual understanding that grew with time. you weren't like the rest. you didn't view him as some lone wolf to be controlled or combated. you viewed him as someone who merely needed a bit of space, a bit of trust.

then, after that mission, when the team met back at the tower, it was not hard to tell how much stress had still accumulated between him & the rest of them. but you weren't going to be swayed. you approached him, standing a bit taller than normal, but not quite invading his space.

"you good?" you asked flatly.

damian raised an eyebrow. "i'm fine."

"you don't look fine."

"i said i'm fine."

you shrugged. "alright, then."

it was the little things that warmed him up to you in the end. the gentle side glances, the times when you both slipped into the same rhythm without words. small things, such as when you'd grab the last piece of pizza, & he didn't complain, didn't snatch it away. & you would catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye, like he was still unsure, but maybe▰just maybe▰he didn’t mind your presence. you didn’t force the conversation. you just were there.

it was a few years on, after one particularly draining mission, when you and damian ended up walking the city streets at midnight, out of costume, just a couple of weary titans hoping to recharge.

the mission had drained everyone, but when the team went back to the tower you could tell that damian was. well, not exactly in the best mood.

"damian," you started, casting him a sideways glance from the corner of your eye, "i don't know about you, but i'm famished."

he shot you a sideways look. "i'm not hungry. i have better things to do."

you rolled your eyes. "come on, just one kebab. i'm not going to accept no for an answer."

he scowled but didn't argue further. that was the thing with damian▰you didn't push too hard. if you made it seem like you weren't desperate for his company, he'd eventually give in. you didn't need to ask twice.

& so, there you were, sitting on a street corner, having a midnight snack of kebabs like you didn't have anywhere to be. the quiet between you wasn't uncomfortable. it was relaxed, organic. like you have done this multiple times.

but you noticed something as you sat there, working on your food: damian wasn't generally like this. he wasn't this at ease. the tension in his shoulders had relaxed, the sharpness around his eyes eased, & there he was, simply. eating.

you couldn't help but stifle a laugh. the look of him▰this tough, near-royalty hitman who was now sitting on the curb, attempting to eat a kebab without vomiting from sheer contempt was truly priceless.

damian gave you a bewildered stare, furrowed brows as he chewed. "what?"

you couldn't help it. you bursted into laughter.

"nothing," you said between giggles. "you just… look different."

damian's scowl intensified. "i look fine."

you brushed a tear from your eye, still smiling. "i know, i know. but it's just. you never drop your guard, not even for food."

he growled something under his breath, something that might have been an oath, but you didn't hear it. the tension crept back into his voice, but the warmth remained. he was embarrassed, yes, but for once, he didn't hide it.

the evening dragged on, & as the two of you walked back to the tower, the rain started falling.

"great," damian grumbled, his face darkening further. "now i'm going to get soaked."

you didn't let him get away with it. you were already wading into the downpour, a smile fixed on your face. "oh, come on, it's just rain!"

he huffed, standing there & watching you spin about in the rain, dancing as if you didn't have a single worry in your head.

"you are insane." he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"that's the point!" you shouted back, still turning, relishing the cold, the wet, and the sense of freedom. "you should give it a go!"

& to your surprise▰after a moment of silence, damian trailed behind. he wasn't smiling, not even slightly. but there was something in the fact that he observed you that tempered his irritation with something a little less bitter, a little more. affectionate.

as you moved, you couldn't help but blurt out a random fact, something that just felt appropriate in the moment. "did you know the greeks used to think rain was the gods' tears? maybe it's aphrodite weeping for us. or zeus, having a tantrum again."

damian gave you a look, his face half-obscured by the rain, but you could see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"you are strange."

"yeah, but i'm your strange," you teased, grinning even wider as you drew him deeper into the downpour.

by the time the two of you stumbled back into the tower, soaked but happier than you'd been in days, you discovered the other titans waiting for you inside, giggling at your dripping condition.

but before you even got the chance to tell them what happened, damian sent a glare their way & glared. "she pulled me out there."

the rest of the team laughed, but you & damian both knew there was something more than just the rain between you now.

the doors of the elevator slid open softly with a dinging sound, & you walked out first, your shoes making squelching sounds on the wet floor. damian followed you, his face unreadable but his body tense. the rain had penetrated through both of you, although it didn't seem to affect you as much. he, however, was obviously upset, though you could glimpse the tiny flashes of something more in his eyes. was it. affection? perhaps, just barely?

"well," you said, attempting to shake off some of the wetness, "this is where you're supposed to tell me to go get dry. go take care of yourself."

damian glanced at you, squinting slightly. "you're the one who got me into this," he stated sharply, but there wasn't actually any venom in the tone. he was still dripping, & his characteristic scowl was lessened, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the moment.

"i didn't drag you. you volunteered." you smiled, jabbing him in the ribs with your elbow.

he didn't respond initially, his jaw clenching. then, to your surprise, he put a hand on your shoulder. "come on, i'll escort you to your room."

you blinked, slightly taken aback by the offer. "uh, damian, i can make it myself."

"it's the least i can do after you pulled me into the rain," he insisted, voice low and steady. his eyes flashed to you once more, his softening just slightly, something you were still growing accustomed to seeing. "besides, you're still wet. it's… not safe for you to be out like this."

if you told your younger self that the damian wayne just placed an arm in your shoulder, she would've laughed at your face.

you laughed softly, although his seriousness tickled you. "i think i can do it, damian. i'm tougher than i appear."

he didn't release your shoulder. "not this time."

you rolled your eyes, entertained by his persistence but thankful for the effort. you'd been through a lot as titans & as teammates who had to learn to trust one another. after a moment, you released a gentle sigh and nodded, your lips curving into a smile. "okay, lead the way then."

the jwalk to your room was silent, save for the dripping of your clothes. you couldn't help but look over at damian, still attempting to understand this iteration of him. he was no longer the prickly, withdrawn young man who had originally joined the team. there was a serenity to him now, a quiet concern that he kept masked beneath his stern expression. it was odd how much he'd changed since the time you'd known him, & it made you notice just how much you'd changed as well.

you paused at the entrance to your room, turning to him as you inhaled deeply. "appreciate you for walking me to my room, damian. i really appreciate it."

he looked down at you, his mouth set in a thin line. "it's no trouble."

it wasn't a rejection, but it wasn't exactly a compliment either. typical damian. but you didn't mind. the fact that he'd even suggested doing this in the first place was a small win.

"well, you can go now," you said, pushing him gently towards the door.

damian didn't budge right away, his dark eyes examining you with interest. it was sometimes difficult to read him, but something in the way he regarded you now, a spark in his eyes, caused your heart to beat just that little bit faster. you swallowed hard, full of conflicting feelings, but before you could get a word out, his voice stopped you.

"if you need anything," he said softly, "don't hesitate to ask."

your eyes went soft as you nodded. "i won't."

there was a moment of silence. then, to your shock, you moved closer to him, tilting your head up slightly. you reached up & kissed him on the cheek, the gentle touch of your lips on his skin a moment that seemed to catch him off guard.

damian froze, his whole body rigid as if he didn't know what to do with himself. his breath caught, & you couldn't help but smirk silently at the sight. the angry scowl came back onto his face as he sharply turned his head away, although there was something there, something more.

"damian?" you said teasingly, your voice gentle, your lips still retaining the remnants of a smile.

he didn't respond immediately, & you could see the blush rising up his neck, hardly perceptible but enough to make you laugh.

"well," you said, taking a step back, "thanks again for the escort, & for the rain dance. i'll see you around."

before he could respond further, you hastily turned & glided into your room, closing the door softly behind you. you stood leaning on the door for a moment, your heart racing. you hadn't anticipated the kiss to be like that. & you certainly hadn't anticipated damian's reaction. you really wanted to go back out there and taunt him some more, but the thought of leaving him in such a state was too hilarious to let pass.

you smiled to yourself, removing your shoes & gazing at your image in the mirror. this had been a night you wouldn't soon forget.

in the meantime, beyond your doorstep, damian was frozen, his hand still suspended in mid-air as if to knock but was unable to muster the courage. his head was spinning from the kiss, & he couldn't even determine how he felt. that odd sense of heat rising in his chest had caught him totally off guard.

the silent corridors of the tower were suddenly too noisy, and damian couldn't help but notice the odd feeling of exposure he had. he grumbled to himself, irritated by the entire episode but unable to dispel the way his heart was pounding. why did she have to do that?

it wasn't as if he hadn't enjoyed it. far from it. but that she had kissed him. it changed something within him. he despised how quickly it had impacted him. this was not something that was to happen.

as he finally turned away from her, he couldn't help but relive the moment in his head. he couldn't help but think of her smile, the laughter she brought forth, the way she always lightened the load. she's impossible, he could think, though there was a small smile that danced at the corners of his mouth. totally impossible.

but somehow, he couldn't even be mad about it.

it had been two days since that kiss.

damian was behaving… differently. to say he was behaving out of character was a gross understatement. he was still damian, naturally. the perpetually serious, overly-disciplined, stubborn & almost insufferable young man▰but there was something off. new. extra. he was softer, his normally sharp edges a little less rough around the edges when it came to you.

you didn't resent it. in fact, it felt pleasant. his body language, while still damian▰infrequent, was a bit more considerate. the manner in which his eyes lingered on you when you spoke, or the way he'd make an effort to include you in all plans. he'd even begun to be a bit. protective? it was weird, but you assumed maybe it was only his way of demonstrating that he was growing more trustful. you didn't really give it much thought. at least, not at first.

you had taken, at least, for granted that the two of you had progressed to a new, greater depth of friendship. that he had let you in his palace. there wasn't an outright point where you & damian had professed anything to one another. you hadn't even assumed there was a need for one. the kiss had come as naturally, but perhaps it wasn't something substantial. perhaps it was simply an expression of warmth between friends. perhaps he was trying to ignore it. perhaps he wished you didn't lean in & kissed his cheek.

of course, the rest of the titans were paying attention. you'd been with them long enough to recognize when they were baffled▰hell, when they were flat-out stunned. they were used to observing you & damian bickering at each other. to them, your dynamic was as much about reciprocal frustration as romance. but now? something had changed, & they were not overlooking it.

you, on the other hand, were happily oblivious to their speculation. your attention was primarily on damian, who had become accustomed to lingering around you more than ever before, his subtle displays of concern a tad too overt to be overlooked. his little touches on your arm when he gave you something, his eyes tracking you as you moved across the room, the way he'd insist on walking you to places with that added tinge of insistence. you just assumed it was damian being. well, damian.

& then, at last, it all boiled over.

it was a relaxed scene in the common room, nothing unusual. the titans were lounging about in different locations. cyborg fiddling with devices, raven reading, gar cracking awful jokes, and you & damian observing. the rest of the team were generally occupied with their own activities, but there was an underlying tension that you couldn't pinpoint.

damian had only just given you a drink, & you grumbled your thanks, taking a sip as you settled back into the couch. your gaze wandered over to him, where he was standing at the window, arms folded, gazing out at night. there was a gentle sort of sadness in his stance, or was it concern? something that caused you to feel you should go & ask what was on his mind in that clever brain of his.

but then it happened.

damian, as if out of nowhere, whirled on you & exclaimed, "beloved, i would rather that you stayed away from there so late."

you stopped mid-sip. "what?"

damian, oblivious to your shock, kept going with a scowl. "you know it's not safe for you to go out by yourself at night. i'm not requesting your safety. i'm commanding it."

you blinked. beloved? did he just refer to you as beloved? be.lov.ed? is aphrodite playing games?

the room fell silent. raven's gaze narrowed suspiciously from the other side of the room. gar stopped in mid-chew of whatever food he was eating, his mouth agape with shock. cyborg, who had been fiddling with his arm, looked up at once. they were all gazing at you & damian, their faces screaming, you're dating!?

you, however, were blinking frantically, still trying to process the word beloved that had so readily fallen from damian's mouth. you turned to look at the rest of the titans, who were obviously waiting for some kind of explanation.

"we're… dating?" you said, finally able to get the words out, your voice full of confusion.

the rest of the team looked at you like you had just uttered something in another language.

"what?" raven asked in her deadpan tone, looking clearly confused. "wait… you're dating?"

gar leapt to his feet. "hold on, hold on! you & damian are a thing now??”

"the lone wolf & twilight sparkle?" cyborg questioned, obviously having trouble understanding what he was being told. he swiveled around towards damian, who had stiffened slightly at the focus. "seriously?"

you spun around towards damian now, waiting for an explanation. he lingered there for a second, as though he was going to speak, but then closed his mouth, blinking as though the truth was only registering on him as much as it was registering on you.

damian had opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again, his eyes flashing to the others in the room, his jaw clenching. "i▰ i thought we were▰i thought the kiss▰"

“kiss!?”

"the kiss?" you asked, a flush rising to your cheeks as you recalled that night. "that kiss was just▰just… a kiss! it wasn't like▰"

damian let out a deep sigh, massaging the back of his neck. "i thought.., after the kiss & everything that happened afterward▰ i assumed… i'm not good at this." his voice caught for a second before he appeared to pull himself together. "i'm not accustomed to such things, but i thought▰ we were... & you leaned in."

you blinked in shock, now totally confused. "wait, wait. you thought we were dating because of a kiss?"

damian's stance improved. "it was not the kiss alone. the way you. behaved afterward. it was the way you remained with me. the way you▰”

"wait, wait, no," you broke in, shaking your head, finally beginning to put the pieces together. "you thought we were dating just because of,, that kiss?"

he scowled, clearly frustrated by the misunderstanding. “yes. i thought you knew.”

you stared at him for a moment, then shook your head, biting back a laugh. this was damian wayne, the same guy who could go toe-to-toe with the best of them, & yet, here he was, utterly flustered & confused over a kiss. you couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. "damian," you started, attempting to suppress your giggles, "we never really discussed it. i didn't know you were. i didn't know you thought we were going out."

"i didn't know you didn't know," he retaliated, obviously irritated. he touched his wayward hair, his expression nearly agonized. "this is. complicated. i▰"

you put your hand on his arm, halting his tirade. "you don't need to apologize, damian. this is… this is just you, & i understand. we'll sort this out, okay?" you smiled at him softly. "& perhaps we should discuss this properly. not in front of the entire team."

damian seemed to relax a little, but his expression remained intense, like he was still processing the whole situation. the titans, however, were still whispering in disbelief, with gar having the audacity to go “this is so cute, bro!” from across the room.

"fine," damian grunted. "we'll discuss this later. but it is complicated." his gaze softened as you met his eyes, & for the first time in a very long time, there was actual warmth there.

after a few seconds, you laughed again, more due to how damian was behaving than the actual situation. "alright," you said, taking a step forward. "let's say. dating, then. for now."

damian arched an eyebrow, as though expecting some validation. you touched out, cupping his cheek & drawing him down for a kiss▰a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips, which left him more than a little taken aback. you drew back hastily, your heart pounding at the contact.

"that's official enough for me," you said, smiling up at him. "now, we can work out the details later, okay?"

damian looked at you for a very long time, his breath caught in his throat. his scowl was still there, but now it was accompanied by a new softness, a reluctant warmth.

"alright," he said, voice softer now.

expect the team( mostly gar & cyborg ) teasing you for months, though.

© MINORLYATFAULT

[snailpebbles]

school is ending soon for me... fics will be out ... probably

[snailpebbles]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

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

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

"You already did."

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

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

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

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

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

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

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

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

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

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

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

"Tempting," you said.

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

"Allegedly."

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

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

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

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

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

Your smile widened despite yourself.

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

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

"Fancy seeing you here."

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

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to see something fun?”

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

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

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

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

“Mm-hmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

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

You followed his gaze.

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

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

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

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

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

You didn’t respond.

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

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

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

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

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

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

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

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

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

“You following me now?”

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

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

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

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

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

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

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

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

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

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

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

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

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

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

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

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

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

But he smiled. Just slightly.

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

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

“This is me.”

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

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

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

You turned to go.

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

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

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

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

You looked down at the card, then back up.

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

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

…

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

Happy bday x

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

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

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

And then there was Lando.

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

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

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

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

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

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

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

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

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

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Sure?”

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

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

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

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

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

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

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

You looked back up at him.

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

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

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

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

“Oh no.”

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

You glanced up. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to go back to him.

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

…

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

He had promised he’d come.

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

Running late. Take a cab? x

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

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

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

Then headlights curved around the bend.

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

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

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

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

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

You didn’t move.

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

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

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

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

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

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

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

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

Then, quieter: “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

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

You snorted. “He did not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

“Some say?”

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

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

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

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

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

Then Lando turned off the main road.

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

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

“That’s reassuring.”

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

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

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

He followed up, minutes later:

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

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

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

You showed up with your boyfriend.

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

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

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

But then—you spotted Lando.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

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

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

A Monet.

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

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

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

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

You blinked once.

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

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

You said nothing.

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

You turned toward him.

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

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

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

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

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

And then you walked.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you mingled.

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

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

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

But you did anyway.

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

Then he stopped laughing.

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

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

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m begging.”

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

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

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you did.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t speak right away.

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

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

Lando froze.

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

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

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed still, listening.

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

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

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

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

You stepped closer.

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

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

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

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

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

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

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

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

And then you kissed him.

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

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

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

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

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

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

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

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

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

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

…

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

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

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

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

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

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

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

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

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

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

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

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

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

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

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

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re awful.”

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

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

[snailpebbles]

Jet Lag & Pancakes - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Reader

Summary: After Miami, Kimi returns home early to surprise his girlfriend before as wakes up.

Contains: Established relationship, fluff, use of Y/n (sometimes)

The smell hit her before consciousness did.

Sweet, warm, unmistakable—vanilla, cinnamon, something sizzling on the stovetop. Y/n blinked slowly, her cheek still pressed into Kimi’s pillow, crumpled on the left side of the bed. The morning light streamed through the linen curtains of their Bologna apartment, soft and golden, diffused just enough to make the room feel like a dream.

Andrea wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

Her brain, still hazy with sleep, struggled to remember the race schedule. He’d been in Miami—it wasn't the worst track but the timezone differences definitely ruined it for him. He was due back tonight. She’d triple-checked his texts. His flight was scheduled to land at 8:45 p.m. 

So why did their little kitchen smell like pancakes?

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. A creak of the floorboards outside their bedroom confirmed she wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was out there. But there were no signs of panic in her chest. No creeping dread. Only a bloom of curiosity.

She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet finding the cool wood floor. She grabbed one of Kimi’s sweatshirts—gray, oversized, still faintly smelling of his cologne—and pulled it over her head before padding out toward the kitchen.

He was there.

Kimi Antonelli stood at the stove in grey joggers and a black tee shirt, his back to her, his dark curls still damp from a shower. He was humming something under his breath. There were pancakes in the pan, a plate already stacked high beside him. A half-cut banana rested on the counter next to Nutella and a small jar of Y/n’s favorite strawberry jam.

She stopped in the doorway, the breath catching in her throat.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

Kimi turned at the sound of her voice, his whole face lighting up the moment he saw her. “Ciao, amore.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It never was with him. Not after the long years they’d spent figuring each other out, with time zones and circuits and days full of noise. What made Andrea special was this: the way he could make a simple thing feel like everything. Like standing barefoot in the kitchen, holding a spatula and smiling like she was the win he was proudest of.

“I thought your flight—”

“Changed it,” he said, flipping the last pancake with a little flourish. “Didn’t tell you. Wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” Her voice was still sleepy, soft with disbelief and something that felt like awe. “God, I missed you.”

Kimi crossed the room in three steps, wrapping his arms around her. She tucked her face into his neck and breathed him in—soap, coffee, something faintly citrusy. Her hands curled into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I was counting the hours,” he murmured against her temple. “Miami was hell.”

“You finished P6.”

“And I hated every second.” He leaned back enough to look at her, brushing his fingers over the curve of her cheek. “You weren’t there.”

“You know I wanted to be—”

“I know,” he cut in gently, thumb stroking over her skin. “It’s not about that. Just… nothing feels real without you.”

Her throat tightened. He said things like that casually, not to impress her, not to make her swoon. He just meant them.

She reached up to kiss him, soft and slow, and he leaned into it with a sigh like he’d been holding his breath since he left. The kiss deepened, then broke, and he smiled.

“Pancakes,” he said, stepping back. “Before they get cold.”

They ate at the little kitchen table by the window, where the plants she loved had grown wild and green. Kimi poured syrup like he always did—too much—and Y/n tried to pretend she didn’t find it endearing. He told her about the race, about a near miss with Turn 11, about how Max had nearly clipped Lando, and how no one on his team could figure out what Miami was doing with the tire strategy.

“And the hotel room had a leak,” he added with a grimace. “I woke up at 3 a.m. to dripping water. Thought it was a dream. Nope. Just Florida.”

She laughed, and he beamed like he’d just taken pole.

“What about here?” he asked between bites. “Did the plants survive?”

“Barely,” she said. 

“I knew it.”

They lingered over breakfast, letting the morning stretch out slow. Kimi eventually leaned back in his chair, full and content, watching her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

"I'm so proud of you Drea." She told him softly, before adding, "My champion."

He looked at her then, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. All that subtle restraint he carried with him, the careful balance between focus and modesty, slipped.

“You really think so?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I do.” She stood up, rounded the table, and slid into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do you have any idea how hard I cheered when I saw your name at the top of the timing sheet? I almost threw my phone.”

Kimi laughed, breath warm against her cheek. “Now I really wish I could’ve seen that.”

She pulled back enough to look at him. “I don’t want you to downplay this. You’ve come so far. I remember when you were finishing P14 and still calling it ‘a good learning weekend.’ Look at you now.”

His hands found her waist, holding her steady like he wasn’t quite sure she was real. “I think I just needed to hear it from you.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it.” She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then finally his lips. “I’m proud of you, Andrea. More than you’ll ever know.”

He kissed her back, and this time it wasn’t soft. It was full, deep, a little desperate—like the kind of kiss that came when someone finally let themselves believe they were worthy of being celebrated. She clung to him, hands tangling in his curls, and he held her like he didn’t ever want to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered.

“You’re here now,” she said, her voice barely audible. “And I’m not letting you go for at least two days.”

Andrea grinned. “Fine by me. But I might need a nap first.”

“I warmed the bed for you,” she said, sliding off his lap and tugging his hand. “Come on, pole sitter. Let’s make jet lag your co-pilot.”

Back in their room, they curled up together like muscle memory. Kimi tucked himself behind her, arms locked around her waist, their breathing syncing in quiet rhythm

═══════๑♡⁠๑═══════

word count: 1.1k

[snailpebbles]

an act of pure defiance ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you know, moles are where your soulmate kissed you the most in your past life.” 

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.3k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. mention of alcohol; profanity. established relationship, pinch of manhandling, title from the script’s science & faith. ꔮ commentary box: kae stop writing about oscar piastri challenge: failed 🤷 miami race winner, baby! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You hadn’t even been dating yet when the ‘fact’ first came up in conversation. 

You were virtual strangers at one of Lando’s infamous house parties. Oscar had only met you a couple of hours prior, and it was the point of the night where everybody was sufficiently sloshed. Not in a destructive way, but enough to kind of lose grasp on reality. 

Oscar had been bleary-eyed and regretting his third shot of tequila when you loudly announced, to no one in particular, “You know, moles are where your soulmate kissed you the most in your past life.” 

It had been so absurd, so out of the blue, that Oscar couldn’t help it. He let out a snort of laughter that even the thumping music couldn’t hide, and you’d glared at him with the fury of a drunken woman scorned. 

“What?” you had demanded, and Oscar remembers finding you pretty in the moment. The flush in your cheeks—from the alcohol and indignance—and the fire in your eyes, not at all dulled by the Jägermeister you had chugged before graciously inviting yourself to the loose circle Oscar was hiding in. 

“It’s bullshit,” he had responded easily. 

“What’s bullshit?” 

He glared at you like he didn’t quite understand why he had to explain. “Soulmates,” he said exasperatedly. “Past lives.” 

“Well,” you had shot back, voice pitching higher, “you can go take your orange rocket ship and shove it up your—”

Somebody slapped a hand over your mouth. And Oscar had smiled, the barely-there grin hidden behind his red solo cup, without thinking for a moment that he was going to go down the deep end in record time. 

Falling in love with you hadn’t taken time; convincing you to date him was a completely different story. You still sometimes bitched about his anti-soulmate mentality, and Oscar had resolved to rubbing the migraine out of his temples if it meant agreement would keep you happy. 

It was just—so insane. Karmic justice and reincarnation made no sense to Oscar the same way telemetry might baffle an average person. He was not a man of faith. He liked to think everything could be broken down. 

The precision needed to make an impossible turn. The aerodynamics of his car that could make or break his race. 

The parts of his brain that lit up whenever you’re around. 

The serotonin he felt when you agreed to a date. 

Oscar believes in science. It’s tried, and tested, and true. 

His marks were products of melanocytes. He knows, because he drunkenly Googled it on the way home from Lando’s party. That night you met, he searched up a typo-laden why do people have moles, took a screenshot of the Mayo Clinic page that came up, and kept it in his gallery for three whole weeks. 

He had thought of you for three whole weeks. 

Now, Oscar gets tagged in memes about being an Aries. He finds himself taking ‘personality’ quizzes he swears have no purpose, but he’ll indulge you with his damn MBTI if it keeps you from pouting. He doesn’t understand the tarot cards you pull or why you have notifications on for an app called Co–Star.

He learns to live with it, chalks it up to being so horribly down bad that he’ll give you the benefit of doubt for nearly everything. 

Nearly everything. 

It’s another hotel room, another race weekend. The two of you are sprawled out on the bed, doing your own things, when Oscar feels your fingers absentmindedly tracing the back of his neck. It’s a touch light enough that it doesn’t tickle, doesn’t distract. There’s nothing provocative about it either, so Oscar keeps his gaze firm on the cricket match he’s rewatching. 

After a couple moments, you let out a huff. “Pay attention to me,” you grumble, and Oscar rolls his eyes—feeling so unbearably fond of you, he thinks he could die from it. 

(An exaggeration of epic proportions, of course. Oscar knows there’s no recorded deaths due to ‘fondness’, but he allows himself a hyperbole every now and then. A little treat.)

He shifts in the bed until you can lean on him more comfortably. “You could have just led with that,” he points out, even though he’s never truly minded your whining. 

You don’t answer, instead opting to burrow yourself into his side. He tries and fails to keep himself from smiling.

When your face tilts upward, lips brushing against his throat, Oscar’s eyes flutter shut. He’d never admit it out loud, but this was one of his favorite things about you. How tactile you could be. How generous you were with your affection. How—

Huh. 

This isn’t new. You’ve always been the type to shower Oscar with kisses, whether it was a prelude to something more or a show of affection on its own. For the first time ever, though, Oscar notices something. 

Two kisses near his Adam’s apple. One to the side of his neck, below his ear. A couple across his jaw—seemingly random, except they’ve always been in the same place, and now Oscar is laughing. 

“What’s so funny?” you murmur accusingly, your lips brushing over the constellation on his cheek. 

“You are,” he answers, arms looping around your waist. 

In one deft movement, Oscar pulls you on to his lap. You go without resistance, taking the change in position as an opportunity to lave his face with more chaste kisses. 

“Trying to one-up my soulmate?” he teases. 

You pause, realizing you’ve been caught. Instead of backing down, though, you only move to press your lips to his. Oscar can feel you smiling, and it makes the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. 

“I’m your soulmate,” you murmur without breaking the kiss, and he hums a vague ‘mhm’ in response. When you have him like this, he’ll agree to anything. 

You keep up with your trail of kisses, and the sudden rationale behind it all makes something treacherous thump, thump, thump in Oscar’s chest.

That very thing aches when you mumble, all trademark petulance, “You didn’t love me enough in our past life.” 

Early into your relationship, you had pointed it out. How Oscar had a lot more visible marks than you. You’d mapped them all over his body until he felt like there wasn’t a part of him he could hide from you, and he’d mentally compared it to the glaring lack on your own skin.

He’d thought you liked it, that you didn’t have as much blemishes or moles. But now, you’re burying your face into the crook of his neck and kissing up his throat, complaining like he had a hand in it at all. 

He uses the grip he has around your waist to flip you over. Your back to the mattress, your head cushioned by his hand. 

“What the hell!” you squeak, indignant, but Oscar’s already moving. 

Bracing himself on top of you, he kisses along the line of your jaw. Over your collarbone. Down the column of your throat. It’s methodical, still, even here. Brushes of his lips, each one pressed with intent.

Despite your earlier protest, your fingers find purchase at the short hair at Oscar’s nape. “What’s this all about?” you breathe.

Oscar peeks up at you through his bangs, noticing the way your eyes have fluttered close in contentment. 

He’ll take that. He’ll have that over you claiming he didn’t ‘love you enough’ in whatever past version of you might have existed. It’s so out of character for him, but something inside him had flicked like a light switch at your taunt. 

“I’m making it up to you,” he answers, voice hoarse, as he goes back to trailing kisses over each part of you that he can reach.

Jaw, collarbone, throat. The slope of your shoulder. The inside of your wrist. Places where, if you’re right, you’ll find moles in your next life. 

Oscar still doesn’t believe in a lot of things. But you’re laughing affectionately underneath him, pulling him closer, taking what he has to give, and Oscar—

Well, Oscar believes in you. ⛐

[snailpebbles]

ᡣ𐭩 content — 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌.

Brat.

He says it with a mix of exasperation and fondness when you're clearly testing his patience on purpose. Maybe you hid an injury from him, left a dirty mug on the table, or flashed that mischievous grin from across the couch.  “Again with this, you little brat? One of these days, you’re gonna make me regret being so soft on you.”

Doll.

That nickname slips out in fleeting moments of unspoken tenderness—when his gaze softens, and he watches you quietly: reading, sleeping, or fumbling through a task he could finish in a heartbeat.  “You’re shivering. Come here, doll, let me warm you up.”

Pet (Intimacy).

He whispers it low and steady into your ear, his voice tight with control as he moves with complete command. It’s not about dominance, but about the fierce devotion between you—possessive, almost reverent.  “Good girl. That’s how I like you, pet.”

Girly.

It slips out in moments of weakness—after a fight, during a quiet breakdown, or right before he leaves on some uncertain mission. It comes soft, unplanned, heavy with everything left unsaid.  “Don’t make that face, girly. I’m coming back. I always find my way back to you.”

Mine (Intimacy).

He only says it then—when he's inside you, when his need for affirmation spills over. It's not a nickname, not really. It's a word spoken like a name: burning, ravenous.  “Say it again. Tell me who you belong to. That’s it… mine.”

[snailpebbles]

hi gorgeous

[snailpebbles]

bro last night was comme ci comme ça