#BUT I SUPPOSE I WILL...!!! DO MY BEST...!!!!!

[nanamisgirly]

hey gorgjus, I have a request 😛

Lads men when reader is ovulating and all she wants to do is..well her man. Doesn’t matter where or when she’s just super needy for multiple rounds to the point where maybe even they’re a bit shocked, but up for the challenge~ ofc u don’t have to but I’d die if u did 🤭💕

୨୧ — a/n HIIII it took me so long to write, I was turned on each time HELPPPP, anyway I gave my whole hope you will enjoy!! ALSO sorry I yapped so much (as per usual 😔), COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED MA GIRLIIIIES <3333 (especially comments I love talking to you 💋)

୨୧ — FEAT bestfriend!Caleb, boyfriend!guitarist!Xavier (have the vision IT'S CANON IDCCC), boyfriend!Rafayel (day at the beach), boyfriend!Zayne (grinding on him), boyfriend!Sylus (on mission duuuh) x fem!reader

୨୧ — cw multiple position (prone bone, matting press, cowgirl,..), cumplay, rough & messy sex, degrading (calling her a whore, needy), praise, pet name, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink in Caleb, creampied, cumming dry, oral sex (Caleb giving, Rafayel receiving), squirting in Caleb, cumming on face in Caleb, size kink, big stretch, big cock, masturbation, semi-voyeurism (Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus), Caleb just won't shut up, unashamed reader, fighting for dominance, sub Rafayel, Sylus is down bad for her, mean Zayne, teasing, belly bulge (Xavier), lot of spit and drool, overstimulated reader and men!, they do moan bc as long as I live my men WILL moan!

𓂃۶ৎ CALEB

Caleb is sprawled out beside you on the couch, legs widely open, one ankle resting lazily on the edge of the coffee table. His thighs are stretching the grey fabric of his sweatpants, making your case much worse and making you impossible to focus on the movie playing on the TV.

And the way his hoodie is pushed up to show those big veiny forearms, golden skin stretched on muscles…

You shake your head, trying to stop the thoughts, you’re his best friend for fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to be watching a movie and maybe eating popcorn, not fantasizing about straddling him and grinding against his muscular thigh. You’re not supposed to salivate for the bushy happy trail picking under his ridden-up hoodie.

It’s useless…your skin is so hot, your pulse is thudding behind your ears, and you’re so wet it’s uncomfortable how your pantie is clinging to you. 

“You okay?” he asks, as he saw you shift for the nth time. 

And it’s unfair, unfair how pretty his face is. Soft, boyish lips, tenting you, with a stubble he didn’t bother shaving this morning making you wonder how it’d feel between your legs. And no need to talk about his big round purple eyes, making you go insane. 

“yeah” you say standing way too fast. “I just…don’t feel well. Gonna head to bed early.”

“Oh…” he blinks those giant puppy eyes at you, making you grow wetter. “Okay. Do you need anything?” 

“No, don’t worry. See you tomorrow.”

“Alright. Sleep tight, babe.” His follows you with big concerned eyes. 

Babe.

Babe?!

You swear you’re about to slam your head against the wall. Why is he making everything so hard? Your pussy is pulsing, in need. So in need to be stuffed it actually hurt.

It’s unbearable.

And really, is it wrong to take matters into your own hands?

To grab that big, veiny dildo you keep stashed in your bedside drawer and sink it into your dripping cunt while your best friend sits just meters away in the other room?

Is it really wrong to tweak your nipple with your free hand, imagining it’s his rough palm twisting and tugging, his voice in your ear telling you how tight and messy you are for him?

You gasp as you push it in, slow at first, then desperate. You’re already soaked and your walls clench around the toy greedily. Your eyes flutter shut, jaw slack, hips lifting off the bed as you start to fuck yourself faster, harder.

And all you have in your mind is Caleb. His purple eyes, his strong and big body that could easily manhandle you—roughly. 

You moan—loud, unashamed—and arch off the bed, back taut, lips parted as the waves build fast and wild.

You don’t hear the door creak open.

Not until—

“I keep hearing you making noises, I’m worried you—”

You freeze—only for a second—when your eyes, heavy and glassy, blink toward the doorway.

Caleb is frozen mid-step, one hand on the doorknob, his brows dawn in confusion that melts into something darker. His mouth parts, his eyes drop to the way your legs are spread, how your hand is working that dildo inside you like you need it to breathe.

But at this point? You truly don’t care. Your hips keep jerking, desperate and out of control, slick coating your thighs in glossy streaks. Your gaze meets his—blurry with tears of frustration—and you let out the most fragile, needy whine.

He doesn’t move, he simply stares—like he’s watching the holiest, dirtiest thing he’s ever seen. You can only see his chest rises and falls, nostrils flaring.

His eyes drop to the soaked sheets, the obscene squelch of the toy still buried between your legs and your fucked-out eyes begging him to do something are driving him into oblivion. His cock already hard and painful.

“you’re fucking yourself…” his voice is low, “lying in here whining for me like that. Thought you were sick.”

You watch as he approaches—slow at first, like he’s afraid the dream will vanish—before he kneels at the edge of the bed. He grabs your wrist, almost gently, and yanks the toy from your cunt with a wet, messy pop. You keen at the loss, hips bucking, slick spilling onto the sheets. 

“You needed this bad, huh? So bad you couldn’t ask me? So bad you were ashamed to sit next to me on the couch?”

You can’t answer—just nod through the haze, cheeks flushedyour walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty it hurts.

His gaze drops to your empty hole and how your hips keep twitching.

“Are you in heat or something?” his eyes are still fixated on your cunt, almost like he’s talking to her. “You smell like it. Like you’re ready to be bred.”

You whimper, spreading your legs wider, offering yourself. “Caleb... Fuck, do something ‘bout it. I can’t... it’s too empty... I need—I need—"

That’s all it takes.

Caleb lunges, hands bruising on your thighs as he pulls you down to the edge of the bed. 

“fuckin’ hell.” He buries his face between your legs with a groan that sounds like agony and bliss all at once. “This pussy’s crying for cock, babe.”

You gasp when he wraps his arms under your thighs and locks you in place, dragging his mouth through your folds—tongue’s everywhere sloppy and greedy, licking everything you could give him.

“mmmh such a sweet taste.” His voice’s muffled by your puffy lips. “You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Please, let me have it, please. I want you to mark me. Wanna be drenched in you. I’ve waited so long to be covered in your cum, your sweet liquid all over my face, hot and warm.” 

His lips suck on your clit, hard—creating suction.

“No more toys. No more hiding in your room touching yourself when I’m out there. All this cum going to waste? Not in my watch.” You’re lips part in a silent scream when he suddenly inserts two long fingers into your soaked pussy, curling them just right—just onto your spongy spot.

“Caleb, don’t stop—ah!—feels so good,” you pant, rocking into him. “Your tongue—oh! Right here! Yes, fuck—need more…”

“You’re gonna get it—mph keep tugging on them—” Caleb’s eyes roll back as your fingers grope his hair, pushing him deeper in your cunt. “gonna give you the real thing if you make a pretty mess on my face. You can do that right?”

Your heart is pounding so hard, and your walls keep clenching and clenching. At this point, you’re gushing all over his face. 

The pleasure overwhelming your sense. “Caleb move your fingers faster..”

And he does just as you asked. His fingers soaked, filthy sounds escaping your pussy every time he moves them in, they’re white. White of your arousal.

And when he sucks on your clit once again, you cum harder than ever. Back arching, scream ripped straight from your lungs as you convulse around his fingers.

But when you collapse, breath ragged, the ache in your core only gets worse. Your body aches, womb throbbing—begging for him and only him. A hunger that no toy, no fingers and no tongue could satisfy.

You prop yourself on your elbows, eyes blown wide and pupils sharp as you look down the thick, flushed length already in his hand. Veins running up the shaft, the tip swollen and deep brown. So pretty your mouth goes dry. There’s probably drool coming out of the corner of your lips. 

“Need you to fuck me.” You rasp. “Fuck me so deep I could feel you for days.”

His jaw clenches, knuckles going white around the base of his cock. “You’re not ready—”

“You smell me, don’t you?” you grab your knees and pull them up, wide, exposing everything. “You said it—I’m in fucking heat. I want to be stuffed. I need to be bred. Caleb, please…” you look up at him with teary eyes.

“Fuckin’ mine.” He snarls, yanking your hips down until your ass is flush with the edge of the bed and he’s lined up, cock head brushing over your soaked entrance. You arch up into him panting and almost crying from the pressure building under your skin.

Caleb moves his cock head up and down your entrance, circling your sensitive clit with his fat tip—smearing all his precum across your folds.

“Caleb…stop the tease. Put it in.”

He leans over you, face twisted in lust and longing. “As the lady begs.”

And in one brutal thrust, he’s deeeep inside you. Your cunt stretches wide around him, to its maximum, it’s borderline with pain. His cock’s so thick you swear you can feel every tiny twitch, every fucking pulse against your walls.

His forehead presses to yours, one hand fisted in your hair, the other locked under your knee to keep you open. “You’re so tight. . like so fuckin’ tight—shit, hiding this perfect pussy from me, you some of selfish girl, ain’t you ?”

“Caleb,” you cry, tears leaking from your eyes. “If you don’t move—”

He lets out a guttural sound, something animalistic—cutting you off—and starts driving into you, fast. The bed creaks under his thrust, wet slaps echo around you.

“My needy little fuckdoll…” he whispers against your ear, “So so wet and desperate, how long have you been walking around wanting this pussy to be fucked properly?” He pants, thrusting harder, “My cock’s the only thing that’ll help you, mhh? Say it.”

You sob, words crumbling in your throat, your pussy gripping him so tight it’s like you’ll never let him go. “Forever.” The word rips out of you, cracked and breathless. “I thought about you every night. Wanted this cock in me so bad I couldn’t fucking sleep—please, Caleb, I need it.”

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, thrusts getting messier. “I knew it. Knew you were touchin’ yourself thinkin’ about me—slippin’ fingers into that sloppy little hole pretending it was mine.” 

“Yes!” you cry, choking on it, back arching off the bed.

Big rough hands suddenly slam into your hips, holding you down—pinning you on the mattress as his thrusts becomes more and more sloppier. And when his fat tip hits something wicked inside you—

“Holy fuck,” his voice wrecked, pausing only a split second to look down at the mess you just made. “Did you—did you just…squirted?” his eyes are still on the white liquid all over his pelvis, his balls and thighs.

You nod, a bit ashamed, a bit too fucked-out to fully comprehend.

“Gonna make you do that again.” He shifts your legs up higher, hitting now at a deeper angle, hips pistoning without mercy. “Wanna see that pussy gush all over me again, spill for me—paint my cock with it even. Fuck that’s so hot, you have no idea.”

𓂃۶ৎ XAVIER

Are you a whore for wanting to fuck Xavier’s cock buried deep in you again? And right before his big concert, no less.

He’s waited for this moment for so long, going on and on about how excited he was to perform with his band at this famous festival — a major turning point in their career.

And it’s not like Xavier didn’t satisfy you before coming here. He knew you were ovulating and was more than happy to fuck you for who knows how long—long enough to cum dry, reduced to those weak, poor little spurts.

But it is his fault for looking so damn sexy in the back stage waiting room : pretty makeup, painted nails, and some mouthwatering outfit—if we could call even call that an outfit. It’s just tight leather pants and a jacket with nothing under it, his abs—and the tattoo down his hips—plus his pink nipples are right there in front of you. and watching him run through his setlist on guitar wasn’t helping one bit. His long fingers gliding over the strings, teasing the cords…

“Hey, you good?” Xavier’s voice pulls you out of your trance. “You all flushed and…shifting in your seat.” He tilts his head, clearly concerned. “If you need something I can call—” 

“No!” you respond too quickly, making him furrows his brows. 

When he smirks and his pupils dilate more, you realize he knows exactly what’s going on. “You really are one horny girl.” He laughs softly, shaking his head in disbelief before turning his attention back to his guitar. 

“God forbid a girl wants her man all over her.” You mutter, crossing your arms with a fake pout.

Xavier hums, amused—only making you even more irritated. 

You cross your legs. Then uncross. Then squeeze your thighs together, desperate for relief. 

“Something wrong with the seat?” he asks, still pretending to look at his guitar, rings flashing under the light.

You shoot him a glare, but it only fuels him. He lets his eyes roam over you for a long second, slow and unashamed. “You really are squirmy tonight. Is it the pants?” he gestures lazily to himself. “You don’t like leather, maybe?”

Before you can answer, someone passes by the open door of the backstage lounge, tossing Xavier a quick, “Five minutes, man!” 

He waves a hand without looking. His eyes stay on you. “I’ll make it quick,” he shouts back—but you don’t know if he means it to him or…to you.

More people start moving outside—crew, staff, the bandmate walking past, making it much worse. The room doesn’t even have a door, just a curtain half-drawn. But it might as well not be there at all.

And Xavier starts tuning again, lazily, strumming slow, deep chords. It’s like foreplay with a guitar. Every sound, every note, synced to the rise and fall of your breath. Like he’s playing you.

“Touch yourself,” he says quietly.

Your head snaps up. 

“No one’s looking. Just a little. Over the pants.” He adds like that’s supposed to help your case.

“No need to tell me twice.” You shift, subtly, rocking your hips the smallest bit where you sit.

“Rub your clit a bit, get some relief before I go out there.” He whispers for only you to hear, his pupils have eaten the deep ocean blue of his eyes. “I’ll be thinking about it the whole time.”

You bring a hand to your clothed pussy, cupping it, your thumb coming to your swollen bund, pressing and circling it—you whimper at the sensation, a deep exhale leaving your lips.

“Fuck this.” He groans.

He drops the guitar onto the couch, grabs your wrist and pulls you up like you weigh nothing. You stumble into his chest, dizzy with the contact, with the heat radiating off his skin. He looks left, right and practically drags you out of the lounge, down a narrow hallway and around the corner. 

There’s a supply closet. Barely lit. barely big enough to stand in—but it will do.

He shoves the door open and pulls you in.

The moment it shuts, he slams you against it—hard enough to rattle your bone in the best way—and cages you in with both arms.

“You couldn’t wait,” he breathes against your cheek. “My cock is still sensitive from earlier and here you are. Shifting in your seat like a brat. Was it not enough?”

“Well, you wore leather,” you tease, smiling fully—but it disappears as fast as it appeared when his mouth crushed onto yours.

His tongue licks your lips, kissing you with all he got. One thigh sliding between yours and pressing against your aching core. His hands move down your hips, forcing you to grind down on him, adding more pressure as his tongue invades your mouth.

The kiss is filthy—both of you fighting for dominance. Nothing sweet or gentle. Just teeth, spit and bruising heat. Wet sounds echo in the cramped closet—muffling the world behind the tiny door—drool dripping down your chins.

“I swear you’re gonna be the death of me,” he says once he pulls away to take a needed breath. “My cock is barely functioning, and—fuck” his eyes rolls back when you arch to reach one of his strawberry-colored nipples with your mouth, teeth tugging enough to make him hiss. 

“We gotta be quick, okay? Don’t be too loud—”

“I’m not the one who’s loud, Xavier,” You snap, hands already on his belt, pulling his cock free. “Pull my pants down now, would ya? It’s not like we have time to lose, mh?”

You nuzzle into the side of his neck, kissing the sensitive spot under his ear while his thigh presses back and forth against your soaked panties.

His hands move fast, yanking your pants and underwear down in one go—then flipping you around so your bare ass is pressed flush to his leaking tip.

“I don’t need to be prepared—”

“So greedy,” he cuts you off, slamming his hips forward and sinking into your warm, dripping cunt.

“Oh, fuck.” You moan, palms flat against the cold wall, pushing your hips back, desperate to take all of him. Xavier’s cock is curved perfectly to hit that throbbing, aching spot that had your vision going white within seconds.

He holds you tight, grinding his hips into yours in a punishing, frantic rhythm. His mouth crashes to your shoulder and his bites into it. “How’s that?” he pants, breath hot and wild. “Is it a good fuck? Do you like being fucked like this?” one of his hands grabs a handful of your ass, fingers digging in hard. 

“That’s what you wanted? My fat cock inside your needy cunt.” his hips clapping against yours with filthy, echoing slaps. You can feel it. Every inch. Every stretch of him.

And you feel so full—the pressure is insane. Your belly is tight, heat coiling in your core and crawling up your spine. When you glance down, just barely, you can see it—a faint bulge at the bottom of your stomach every time he slams in, punching the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “You’re so deep—I can see you inside me.”

His rhythm stutters, a choked moan ripping from his throat as he presses a hand flat over your lower stomach, right where his cock is visible. “Stuffing this tight pussy all nice.”

Your head tips back, a broken moan ripping from your throat as your back arches, hips rocking to meet him halfway. “So good—ah!—really good Xavier—don’t you dare stop,” you cry out, voice trembling. 

And just as his other hand comes to twist your nipple, hard fast, just how you like it—

“Has anyone seen Xavier?” a voice cuts in, rushed and far too close.

Your head whips toward him, but he’s already looking at you—his face stricken for a second, then overtaken by that same unhinged, hungry need. 

“He was in his room, like, two minutes ago.” You distingue one of his bandmate’s voice.

“Shit, shit—we gotta hurry,” he grits out, barely louder than a breath. He’s still buried in you, still chasing that last high.

His thrusts grow ragged and sloppy. He grips your hips tighter, slamming into you harder, deeper—the slap of skin on skin is loud and soaked with all the slick leaking down your thighs.

“Please, come with me, sweetie…” his voice’s raw, fucked-out against your shoulder. One hand fumble between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, messy circles.

Every thrust slam into your sweet spot with punishing accuracy, and the pressure in your belly coils tighter and tighter. You can’t think—can’t breathe—his cock is pulsing inside you, so hot, so hard—

“gonna come—I’m gonna —” you whisper, eyes fluttering, completely gone.

“Do it,” he groans. “Let go. Come for me. Make a mess on my cock—make this pussy gush, baby.” He demands, fingers pressing tighter to your clit—coaxing your orgasm, his thrusts getting more erratic and rougher.

Your walls locking down around him, gushing, your legs shaking. The orgasm crashes into you like a fucking truck. Your body convulses, clit pulsing under his fingers, your cunt fluttering around his cock—the bulge in your stomach pulses with every thrust.

Xavier hisses through his teeth, losing control the second your walls squeeze once too hard around his wide length. “Jesus—fuck, yes!—j-just like that—oh shit…” he chokes out, burying himself deep inside as hot ropes of cum fills your womb, cock twitching.

His head drops to your shoulder, forehead slick with sweat against your skin.

For a second, it’s just your breathing—ragged, tangled, all-consuming.

“Xavier! You coming or what?” someone shouts, just outside the door. 

“Goddamn it.” He mutters, pulling out of you with a protesting whimper, trying to steady his breath. His cum starts dripping down your thigh as he stumbles back, moving fast and try to shove himself back into his boxers, one hand fumbling with his zipper.

You stumble a little, legs shaking as you fix your clothes, heart still hammering in your chest. 

Before he can fully turn away, you grab his jaw—his breath stills, eyes snapping to you.

You pull him into a filthy, wet kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. Going on your tiptoes, you bring your mouth to his ear and murmurs “Don’t forget…we’re not done, pretty boy.”

Your tongue flicks against the shell of his ear­—goosebumps parkouring down his neck.

You smirk and purr at his reaction. “And don’t forget who you belong to when girls start throwing their bras at your face, mh?”

His eyes widen, hungry, and then he’s gone—rushing out the door, jaw still tingling from your grip.

𓂃۶ৎ RAFAYEL

It was such a hot day. .

The kind of heat that slicked your skin in sweat before you’d even moved, the kind that left the air heavy and unbearable. 

So, when Rafayel suggested a beach day, with that shy little tilt of his head, you had almost laughed. Not because it was stupid idea, but he thought it would cool you down.

He didn’t know better.

You were absolutely a wet mess for his cock. Your body was way more much hotter than the sun hitting on the sand.

So, of course, when you found the hidden cove—all shadows and crashing waves—you were on Rafayel before he could even make a comment on the view. 

“Please, Rafayel,” you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his lips. Your chest heaved against his, pinning him effortlessly, and your fingers curled around his wrist.

His breath hitched, pupils blown wide, violet eyes barely visible through the haze of lust and disbelief. Even his lips were still kiss-swollen.

“I—I don’t think I can even fuck you properly,” he stammered, voice cracking so cutely. “Even If I wanted to. I’m still—God—I haven’t recovered yet…”

And indeed, you’d both spent most of your times in the hotel’s bed sheets, fucking all night all day from the kitchen floor to the bathroom’s sink. His mouth and dick buried between your thighs pulling so many orgasms out of you, and him. Non-stop.

Your body pressed tighter, practically purring against his as you leaned into his neck, nipping just above his collarbone. He gasped—so easily startled 

You could feel his pulse against your lips—frantic. You took your chance and slid your hand down his toned stomach until it reached the front of his swim shorts. When you cupped his length with your palm, he twitched violently.

“For a man who says he hasn’t recovered, you’re quite well-functioning y’know.” You mock. 

You slowly lift your gaze from his cock to his face—eyes glassy with hunger—and you whisper, “you only have to be here. I can do all the work…please, Rafayel. I need to soothe the ache.”

He blinked, breath stuttering hips already betraying him with a slow roll forward. “I can’t take much more—”

You cut him off with a grind of your hips, dragging your soaked bikini bottom over the swell of him, letting him feel exactly how needy you were—your folds stuck to the fabric, your slick a mess between you both, and he whimpered.

“Just keep looking pretty,” you murmured, licking into his open mouth. “That’s all you ever have to do.”

You sank to your knees, hands tugging at the waistband of his shorts with zero patience. His cock slapped up against his stomach—flushed an angry pink, throbbing, soaked in precum—his tip redder than usual from the overstimulation.

You let out the most pornographic moan ever, head tilting as you watched the fat bead of slick drip from his slit. He twitched under your gaze, a pitiful whimper slipping from his bitten-red lips.

You flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, dragging it cruelly from the base to the tip, savoring the salty-slick taste of him. You circled his swollen head with the tip of your tongue, smearing his own precum around it, watching his thighs tremble.

“F-fuck—ah, I—” he choked, fingers scrambling against the rock behind him, eyes wide. “P-please—please, baby, don’t tease—” 

You laughed against his cock before sinking down, swallowing him in one wet, choking glide, shoving your face until your nose pressed into the soft curls at his pelvis.

His back arched.

One hand clawed helplessly at the rock wall behind him while the other gripped your hair in a panic-tight hold, trying to either stop you or pull you deeper—he didn’t even know.

You moaned around him, loud and guttural, your thora vibrating around his cock, drool bubbling at the corners of your mouth. Your ruined bikini clung to your body like a second skin, soaked clean through—fabric bunched between your folds, practically dripping as you rocked your hips against nothing.

You pulled back just to spit thickly onto his cock, watching it mix with your slick and his precum, running down your chin, stringing between your lips and his tip as you licked back up with filthy abandon.

“I—I can’t—” he sobbed, head slamming back against the rock. “Y-you’re too—fuck—it’s too much, I can’t—”

“You can,” you snarled, fisting the base of his cock with one hand, pumping him hard as you licked his tip with quick, sloppy little flicks. “You will.”

The second he came—spilling down your throat, twitching in your mouth, voice broken and wrecked—you climbed on top of him. Still on your knees in the sand, bikini bottom shoved aside, folds glistening and dripping with need.

He was still softening when you straddled him, and he looked at you with dazed, glassy eyes—eyes that screamed mercy.

But you were past hearing it.

“Fuck, I need you,” you rasped, nails digging into his chest as you guided him back to your soaked, pulsing heat. “I don’t care if you’re not ready. I can’t—I can’t wait anymore, Rafayel. I need to cum or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” 

“I—I just came…and maybe, your pussy needs to—”

“I’ll make it fit,” you snapped, grinding his oversensitive cockhead through your swollen clit. His body tried to flinch away from the contact, but you caged him in—legs strong, body relentless—and pushed.

His mouth fell open in a silent moan, his whole frame spasming beneath you. “Oh God—it’s too much, I swear—”

You dropped onto him fully, hips slamming down as you bottomed out in one desperate stroke—not listening to what he was saying, driven by lust.

Even softening, his cock was stretching you full, he still reached deep. 

“Rafayel, babe—I need it,” you whimpered, already riding him, pace feral. “Need to cum sooo bad.”

Your cunt was making noises to the point of indecency, your juices squelching loud and obscene, splashing everywhere around you—on you. His hands gripped your hips weakly. 

“You’re milking me—I can’t, it hurts—please, fuck, I—oh fuck!”

“you’re gonna take it,” you snarled, sweat dripping down your temples, your ruined bikini top falling askew, tits bouncing with every thrust. “I want to cream on your cock, Rafayel. You want it too, right? Lemme pretty, be a good boy.”

His hips bucked up once, involuntarily, and you screamed—your clit grinding against his pelvis, your pussy fluttering, sucking him in deeper like your body knew nothing but this hunger now. 

With tears in his eyes, cock twitching helplessly inside you, he whispers “I’m gonna cum again—”

“Fucking do it,” you panted, riding him faster, rougher, losing all rhythm, chasing your orgasm like a woman possessed.

And no long after, you felt hot long ropes of cum filling your cunt, his fingers bruising your thighs as his eyes closed shut. Cumming harder than before, body completely at your mercy.

You followed seconds after, cunt spasming wildly around him, milking him through his own overstimulation. 

You collapsed forward, chest to chest, both of you soaked in sweat and cum.

𓂃۶ৎ ZAYNE

you squint at the red glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand.

4:00 am.

You stare at the ceiling like it might talk you down. It’s fine. One day. You can do it. You’re not a sex addict, right? One day is fine. 

You tell yourself that. Over and over. For over an hour now. Since you woke up, heart pounding hard against your ribcage, panties soaked. 

You’ve twisted in the sheets, rolled from side to side, trying to calm it, trying to wait it out. 

No use.

You sigh as your turn your head toward Zayne. You watch the slow raise and fall of his back as his breath steadily. He’s out cold, like someone completely exhausted can be. And you get it—he had a brutal shift at the hospital. He has… What? Twelve or thirteen hours on his feet? Probably more. And he’ll be up again in ninety minutes. 

He needs this sleep. 

But the way his back stretches in the moonlight, muscles taut and perfect like someone sculpted him out of sleep and sweat—it makes you ache. Makes your thighs clench. Makes patience feel like a joke.

He’s always giving so much. To his job, to everyone. Always putting in more than he has to. Always chasing better. And he deserves rest. He really does.

But unfortunately, there’s this pulse between your thighs, stubborn. A knot of need that won’t untangle. Your panties feel like a tease, there’re soaked to the point it feels like they’re mocking you for trying to be patient.

You turn toward Zayne once again. Your gaze shifting between the ceiling and him.

He hasn’t moved. His lips are parted just slightly, his skin’s warm under your fingertips as you brush his hip.

You bite your lower lip as you mentally curse yourself for what you’re about to do. 

You swloly slide closer to him, careful not to wake him up, your legs slips between his, and you press in, grinding your needy core against the strong curve of his thigh—it’s solid and so perfect… exactly what you desperately need.

You bite your lip, hard. It’s the only way to stop the sound that nearly escapes when your clit drags just right across his thigh.

His skin against yours, the faint scent of him clinging to the sheets, the little flex of his leg when he shifts ever so slightly in his sleep—it’s so freaking good.

There’s nothing cute or sweet with what you’re doing.

You’re rutting against your boyfriend’s sleeping body like some feral thing, chasing your orgasm in silence, praying he doesn’t wake up and see you like this—panting, wide-eyed.

You’re so wet it should be illegal—slick soaking through the lace, leaving his thigh all slicky with your arousal. 

Every roll of your hips sends sparks through your core, your face twists.

Stop. You should stop. Just go to the bathroom. Use your hand. 

But you can’t. even with all the will power of the world. 

You can’t.

His body, his warmth, his strength. There’s something so Zayne that only him can do.

Even if he doesn’t touch you back, even if he’s deep in some dream far away from you—you’re still losing your mind grinding on him. 

Quietly.

Your thighs tremble as the pressure builds, heat coiling low and tight, your body twitching for more, more, just a little more—

You bury your face in the pillow, teeth sinking in, trying to smother every sound.

You’re right there—hips twitching, whole body shivering around the friction, balancing on that thin, shaking edge. One more grind and—

“Mmh…” Zayne stirs, a low grunt rumbling from his chest as he moves, disoriented.

“what time is it…?”

Shit.

Heart in your throat, you stop moving entirely. 

Too drenched in need to think straight, too mortified to breathe.

You don’t say a word. Maybe he’ll roll over. With a bit of luck…maybe he won’t even notice.

His thigh flexes, your slick clings to his skin. And he goes still too.

A long pause.

“…are you grinding on me?” his voice is thick with sleep, raspy—making your clit throb. 

You press your face deeper into the pillow, cheeks burning, shame crawling down your spine. “I—I didn’t mean to wake you up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I just...I couldn’t sleep.”

His gaze drops. To your hips. Then your ruined panties. His thigh wet with your arousal.and even though he looks like he’s still trying to process the image, his body reacts faster than his brain.

“Jesus.” he mutters, voice rougher. “…How long have you been doing this?”

“…a while.” You reply quietly.

That pulls a breathy, stunned laugh from his, still half-asleep but definitely hard. Zayne props himself up on one elbow, eyes adjusting, blinking—trying to pull himself out of the sleep.

“I tried not to wake you.”

He watches you for a long second, hair messy, “You were gonna cum on my thigh and not say a thing?”

You nod, barely, ashamed and aching.

“Fuck. You’re actually serious.” His hand reaches out, thumb brushing the curve of your tummy. “You needy little thing,” His lips twitch in a mean smile. Way too amused for someone who just woke up to his girlfriend fucking herself on him.

“You’re so fucked.” He drags the words out in that wrecked, sleepy voice of his—the one that send a shiver down your spine.

“Take ‘em off.” 

You blink.

He tapes your panties, eyes glinting. “Go on. Take those ruined little things off. Since you’re already this far.”

You hesitate, heart pounding.

“Aww, now you’re shy?” his tone turns sharp with mock sympathy as his golden eyes fix yours. His hands come to your hips, and he rips your panties off.

The sharp sting causing you to gasp. “Here we go…wasn’t that hard.”

 He leans in, breath warm against your cheek, that grin still curling his lips. “You gonna finish what you started?” he murmurs. “Gonna show me how bad you needed it? Since you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up?”

You can’t even answer—just a shaky whimper as you straddle him again, your body obeying even as it trembles, already too raw. Zayne leans back, propping himself up against the headboard, spreading his legs wide. “Atta girl,” His voice’s thick with sleep and arousal. “Show me.”

But the second you drop your full weight onto his thigh, your body jolts. Your hips twitch instead of rock, thighs squeezing as your head falls back in a helpless arc.

It’s too much.

You can’t move. Can’t even breathe right. The slick drag of skin-on-skin against your pulsing clit is sharp and unbearable—like pleasure and pain got tangled together and started burning.

Zayne notices instantly.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, tilting his head to the side, lip caught between his teeth. “You really were fucking losing it, huh?”

Your mouth falls open in a pretty O, eyes fluttering shut as he flexes his muscles under you. 

“Look at you,” he laughs softly, darkly, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his other hand threads into your hair and pulls—not hard, just enough to make your throat arch for him. “Fucked yourself out all alone, like a big girl. What, thought you’d just hump my leg and sneak off to sleep after?”

He kisses lower, breath brushing hot against your neck as his mouth drags over your skin. One hand grips your ass, the other holding your hair tight to keep your neck bared as he leaves kiss after kiss down the curve of it—open-mouthed and wet.

Every part of you is sensitive. Your cunt’s throbbing, leaking onto his thigh, your whole body barely stilling with every tiny shift of friction.

“Lemme take this off for you,” he whispers onto your collarbone, hands slipping beneath your shirt. “There we go… You feel much better like this don’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just smirks at the sight of your bare chest, nipples hardened and flushed, completely at his mercy.

He leans in, blows softly onto one—just enough to make you shiver—and the sensation shoots straight between your legs. You whimper, hips bucking as one of his hands returns to your waist, forcing you to grind your drenched pussy against the firm muscle of his thigh.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice muffled as his mouth closes around your nipple. He nips at it, then sucks

“Be a good girl. Cum on me. I want you to make a mess on me.” he flexes his thigh just right beneath you and you can’t hold it anymore.

A loud moan escapes you as his teeth close again on your nipple, this time a slow aching chew—your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out. Your climax rips through you, messy and unrestrained. 

Before the tremor even leaves your body, he’s moving.

You feel his hands slide beneath your thighs—rough, commanding—and in a blur, you’re flipped onto your stomach, face buried into the pillows, ass lifted high.

You barely catch your breath before he’s behind you, spreading you open with no hesitation, breath hot, voice gone dark.

“You will take this like a good girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, almost too gentle for how he manhandles you. He peppers kisses across your shoulders—probably apologizing in advance. 

His weight settles over you, chest pressing into your back, caging you between the mattress and his wide, unrelenting body. His hands keep your ass in the air, firm and unyielding, while his cock brushes teasingly against your soaked, oversensitive center.

“Gonna be a bit rough,” he warns, breath warm against your ear. “That okay with you?”

You whimper, nod, and he grins—low and sharp.

“Yeah… I know it is. You love being fucked like this. Like a dirty little whore.” He slaps your perfect little ass before adding, “Hold onto the pillows, love.”

And in one brutal push, he’s all the way in. his cock buries to the hilt, stretching you wide open, the sudden fullness knocking the breath from your lungs. His hips are flush to yours, pubic hair brushing your holes, his body locked tight against yours.

“Fuck!—Z-Zayne…’s lot—ah!—”

“That’s okay,” he pants, mouth at your neck—almost drooling over your skin. “You’re my strong girl. You can take it.”

And then he moves—thrusting into you like he’s lost to it, all control burned away. Each stroke is brutal, deep, precise, pounding you into the mattress with relentless force. The bed slams against the wall with every thrust, the headboard rattling loud enough to drown your cries.

He keeps you pinned, keeps your hips arched just right, locked in that perfect angle. All you can do is hold on—fingers twisting in the sheets, face pressed into the pillows, body trembling with the force of it all.

“’S right,” he rasps, pleasure thick in every breath, sweat sticking his chest to your back. He’s nearly gone, nearly forgetting he’s got to be up in less than an hour. “Takin’ this dick so damn well… you’re perfect.”

Your body responds on instinct—tightening around him, walls clenching like a vice. It hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You whimper beneath him, nearly sobbing into the pillow. You can feel everything—every thick ridge, every puffy vein, the way his cock drags and stretches you just a little more with every deep thrust. It’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.

He hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering for half a second.

“Shit,” he grits out, golden eyes locked to where your bodies meet—where you’re dripping, splashing, making a soaked mess with every slam of his hips. “You tryin’ to choke my cock or somethin’, huh?”

His hands move from your hips until both palms are cupping your breasts. He squeezes onto the soft plush, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples as his thrusts keep slamming into you from behind—only to hear your pretty ‘Ah! Ah!’ followed with ‘Deeper Zayne!’

“Can’t stop clenching. So sensitive—these fuckin’ tits—” he groans again, rolling one nipple between his fingers. 

You arch into him, helpless. His cock driving into you, his hands pulling at your chest, his mouth licking your neck—all of him wrapped around you, inside you.

“Hold still,” he growls, voice barely human now, hips picking up pace, bed slamming again. “I wanna feel you cum on my cock with my hands all over you.”

𓂃۶ৎ SYLUS

“Again?” Sylus’s voice comes raspy, broken in the edge. 

“Pleaaaase,” you purr, letting the word rolls on your tongue, hands firmly pressed on his chest—pushing him against the cold wall.

His head falls back with a dull thud. “Kitten…” he breathes, his ruby eyes dropping to look at you as you press your body against his. “We’re on a mission… I don’t think that’s the moment—”

“You’re sweating,” you whisper, fingers dragging down his forehead, lips ghosting the corner of his jaw. “That’s not like you.” You’ve seen him calm in gunfire, unfazed in blood—it was uncharacteristically of him to have an uneven breath.

“I just think…” you trail off, rising onto your toes, mouth brushing his ear, “if we make it quick… no one has to know.” You bat your lashes, voice a soft, sultry question. You already know the answer. You know you got him wrapped around your finger. You only needed to find the right arguments. It was just a matter of seconds.

Sylus exhales hard through his nose, like it physically hurts to resist you. His jaw ticks.

“You’re insufferable.” He snaps as his hand fists in your shirt, dragging you down the hall without a word. 

You smile like crazy. He’s just so cute, isn’t he? 

You pass doors. Equipment crates. A stack of mission gear left behind. His body is tense, every step coiled like he’s keeping himself from pinning you to the wall right there and tearing into you in front of anyone who might walk past.

Once he finds a room, he shuts the door with his boot and pin you against it. Dim light filters through a single wall panel, dust swirls in the air, it’s abandoned, quiet and safe.

His hands cage your jaw, his forehead presses to yours. He's panting like he just fought someone off.

"You drive me insane," he growls.

“Is that so?” you blink up at him, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle the laugh. You play dumb, “didn’t notice.”

His hand shoots up, fisting the collar of your shirt. And before you can even gasp, his mouth crashes into your—bruising, teeth clicking, no space to breathe between the kiss and the punishment.

There’s nothing delicate.

His lips crush yours, dragging your bottom one between his teeth until you whimper. The heat of it stings the ache spreading deliciously down your spine. He kisses like’s he’s mad at you, mad at him for not knowing how to tell you ‘No’. 

And you kiss him back just as hard. Your fingers tangle in front of his shirt, twisting fabrics tight in your fists. One hand slip between your bodies, palming him through his pants firmly.

He jerks in your grip, groaning straight into your mouth. His hand flies to your hip, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise. The other grabs your wrist, stopping your hand mid-stroke.

“I don’t think I can cum.” His eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks at you. 

“As long as you can get hard,” You smirk, lips swollen and heart racing. “that’s all I need.”

With a growl, Sylus moves fast. He drags your pants down your legs with urgency. Your panties don’t stand a chance—he doesn’t even pull them off, just pushes them to the side, fingers grazing hot and rough against your soaked heat.

You’re already undoing his zipper, not bothering with finesse. His pants stay on, barely shoved down enough to free his cock, thick and flushed in your hand. 

He lifts you with no more ceremony, strong hands under your thighs then rapidly under your knees so your legs could rest on his wide shoulder. The position locks you open, exposed—your back pressed to the cold door, legs draped high and wide against his warm body.

His cock drags upward through your slick folds, heavy and hot, teasing that swollen ache with just enough pressure to make you whimper. The contrast of his warmth against the door’s chill makes your skin burn.

Teeth graze along your jaw, and his voice comes out low, “Gonna fuck you all nice and good, promise. Hold on tight.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed two fistfuls of his white hair until he thrusts forward, so hard that your entire body tightens, already bracing for the stretch, the slam, the mess.

His forearms warp around your thick thighs, holding you in place with an iron grip as he piston into you. You’re suspended between the door and his chest, barely able to think—let alone speak.

When he moves it’s rough—slow but deep. The weight of his pants clings to his hips, the waistband scraping your thighs every time he thrusts in. 

His mushroom cock head kisses your cervix each time he brutally bottoms out, drawing a raw cry from your throat.

The sound of the scrape of wood behind you is almost louder than your own voice breaking. “Is this how you wanted it?” he rasps against your mouth, his breath hot, sharp. “On a mission—still begging to be stretched wide?”

Sweat beads at his temple. His jaw’s clenched. And all you can do is take it.

“Yes-Yes! Exactly…you’re so—oh shit!—good to me Sylus.” You pant, head hitting the door behind you as your eyes roll back. The way he’s still mostly dressed, the grind of fabric and heat—it's driving you to the edge faster than you’d admit. 

His jaw tightens when you yank on his hair again, and he groans—low and ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. He keeps you pinned high, panting into your neck as his pace builds—fast now, reckless. His gaze flickers down to the way you’re clinging around his length.

His arms flex with the effort. He resumes his pace to quick deep strokes. Wanting you to reach your orgasm.

“I—I think I’m going to cum dry...” he chokes out against your ear.

“That’s okay Sylus, j-just don’t stop—” You can feel his cock twitching violently against your gummy walls. 

“You feel so—so—fuck!” He drops your legs from his shoulders, almost trembling himself, he doesn’t let your feet hit the floor. He keeps you flush against the door, panting into your neck. 

His hips keep moving, slower but no less intense—the friction of your ruined panties, pressed awkwardly between you, makes everything more unbearable.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you again to tilt your hips, to find that devasting spot that has your vision white out at the edges.

“’m gonna cum, kitten—’m sorry—�� he rasps. 

You feel the stuttering of his hips, the soft broken sound he makes into your shoulder as his body goes taut and shudders hard. What little he has left spills in weak, pulsing ropes.

But you? Sylus’s long fingers slip beneath what’s left of your panties, finding your clit instantly. He presses and flicks in quick, messy motions. He’s still coming from his high as your pussy paints his cock white.

^⌯𖥦⌯^੭  

[pedroscurls]

love at last (one-shot)

summary: harry’s never been in love before… until he meets you, which awakens a part of him that he never thought he was capable of.

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): minor spoilers so please beware!, love at first sight trope, harry is charming and completely smitten, mainly harry POV, harry + reader go on dates!, no use of y/n. word count: 4.6k a/n: i just finished watching materialists and i'm OBSESSED with harry so obviously the next best thing is to write for him. please heed the warnings, there will be a few spoilers mentioned in this story!!! hope you enjoy nonetheless bc i'm gonna be dreaming about harry for a long time (look at those CURLS in that second pic tho jfc 🥵)

Harry had given up on the idea of love. He hadn’t felt it before and he felt like life was just passing him by. Was something wrong with him? Was he just not capable of falling in love—being in love? 

Lucy was a good match for him, but it felt forced. There was a mutual attraction, but something had been missing and he wasn’t sure what it was. 

Not until she said that she didn’t love him. Harry realized at that moment that he didn’t love her either. Lucy said it was supposed to be easy, but he wasn’t sure anymore. He tried Adore’s services, but the matches didn’t feel real, didn’t feel authentic. These women just wanted him for his money, his height, his job. He checked a lot of the women’s boxes—he was a unicorn, which Lucy liked to put it. 

But it never felt easy. He looked at each woman from a business standpoint, something transactional, but Harry yearned for something more. 

Something deep. 

Something real.

So, he canceled his membership and decided that maybe love was just never going to be in the cards for him. 

And maybe that he didn’t need it anyway. 

The dating scene in New York was horrific. To you, it felt like every nice man in the world didn’t exist. All the dates you had been on ended terribly—with some even ending early. 

The men were either too judgmental or too self-centered, or worse—just wanted one thing and one thing only. Was it this hard to find someone nice? You thought maybe you had been too picky, so you lessened your expectations—that didn’t work either. 

So, you decided to stop dating altogether and instead put your focus into work. If the universe wanted you to be in love, then maybe you should just be patient and let life do its own work. 

Harry had felt instant attraction before, but the first time he laid eyes on you it felt like time stood still. You were laughing at something someone said and he felt a flutter at the pit of his stomach. He’s never seen you at any of his family’s parties before, he would have remembered you. 

He ordered a drink at the bar as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your smile was so warm, so kind, so genuine. He normally has this natural confidence in him, but when he saw you walking towards the bar, he straightened up and felt his heart race faster. 

Maybe you were a friend of his sister-in-law, he wasn’t sure. His family’s parties were usually so big that he doesn’t remember who’s who. But he knew that he was definitely going to remember you. 

The party was for his brother and his wife—a baby shower and gender reveal. A year after their wedding and they’re already expecting. 

He felt you stand next to him and then he heard your voice, which only made him even more nervous because you sounded so sweet, so nice. Harry had taken a deep breath and then finally turned his body to face yours, but when your eyes met his own, he felt his stomach do flips. 

“Hi,” you said with a small smile. 

“Hi,” he replied with one of his own. 

“Friend of the family?” you asked. 

Harry shook his head. “Older brother.” 

You widened your eyes and reached out to rest a hand over his forearm—a natural reaction from you. “Oh my god, you’re Harry.” 

Harry looked down at your hand briefly and smiled, nodding in your direction. “That’d be me. Are you friends with my brother or…” 

“I’m friends with Charlotte,” you answered, dropping your hand from his forearm. “I was teaching English abroad so I couldn’t make it to her wedding. I’m just glad I could make it for this event.” 

“Where did you teach?” Harry asked. 

“Philippines,” you smiled brightly. “It was amazing. I loved it there.” 

Harry couldn’t help but smile too. You made him feel comfortable, despite the nerves he was feeling before you walked over. “And now? Are you going back there to teach?” 

You shook your head. “It was only a two year contract. I have my certification now to teach English to non-native English speakers here in the States, so New York is home for now.” 

Harry could hear the passion for your work in your voice and the way your entire face lit up. It was refreshing—talking to someone who actually enjoyed what they did for a living. “So you’re teaching at a school? Elementary?” 

You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head again. “As much as I loved teaching younger kids when I was in the Philippines, my focus now is teaching adult learners. I work at a local community college.” 

Harry smiled to himself. He heard the bartender set your glass of wine next to you and you turned away from him to thank the other man from behind the counter. The same genuine and kind smile lining your lips. 

“You sound like you love your job,” he said. 

“Oh, I do. It’s a lot of work, but it’s so rewarding. I try to tell my students that learning English shouldn’t ever replace their native tongue,” you continued. “That their native language is something to be proud of and that just because they’re learning English doesn’t mean it replaces the language they know and grew up with.” 

“You must be an amazing teacher,” he grinned. 

“I try to be,” you laughed quietly. You could feel your cheeks heating up as you took note of just how handsome he is. You had heard about Harry from your dinners with Charlotte, but she didn’t say how extremely handsome he was or how deep his brown eyes were. 

“And I’m just in private equity,” he sighed teasingly. 

“Well, at least you’re rich,” you laughed quietly. “I bet that’s nice.” 

Harry shrugged. He wondered if this is where the conversation will shift, if the genuine authenticity he felt from you will disappear. “It’s a family business.” 

“Oh, so it’s not what you would have wanted to do?” You asked, taking a sip from your glass. You lean against the counter of the bar and stare up at him. “If it isn’t, what would you have wanted to pursue?” 

Harry tilted his head as he brought his own glass to his lips. He stared at you from the rim of his glass and then dropped his eyes momentarily to look down at his feet. “Not sure. I haven’t really had the chance to even think of what I would want to do if I wasn’t in the family business.” 

“Hm,” you said, eyes looking up at him from top to bottom. “Maybe a model?” 

He grinned. “Are you hitting on me?” 

“And if I am?” you smiled, eyes staring deeply into his own. 

Harry’s brows slightly raised at your forwardness and he glanced off to the side when he heard his name being called. Then, he looked at you and shot you an apologetic look. “Could I get your name?” 

You smiled and shrugged. “Find me later if you really want to find out, Harry.” You turned on your heel and left him at the counter of the bar when the other guests approached Harry. You glanced over your shoulder to see his eyes staring directly at you as he nodded at whatever the other person is saying. 

You and Harry kept stealing glances at each other from across the room. You could see the way his eyes lingered along your frame and you’re already three drinks in and feeling very brave. 

When Charlotte and Peter found out they’re having a boy, the music only became louder and everyone began dancing. Harry’s eyes stayed focused on you as he walked through the crowd straight to you. He sat next to you and smiled to himself, tilting his head in your direction. 

“Will you tell me your name now?” Harry asked.

You smiled and nodded, telling him your name as you turned your body to face his. You drape one of your legs over the other as you set aside your finished glass of wine. 

Harry smiled. “It’s nice to officially meet you,” he nodded.  “Now, would you like to dance?” 

“Oh, I don’t—” 

Harry interrupted you by standing up. He extended a hand out for you and maintained that charming smile. “If I say please, will you reconsider?” 

You bit your lower lip and shook your head, slipping your hand into his own. He helped you to your feet and then led you onto the dance floor. One of his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he kept a tight hold on your hand. You bit your lower lip and moved your free hand to rest on his shoulder. 

Being this close to him was intoxicating—feeling his broad chest remain flush against your own, his deep brown eyes staring directly at you as if you were the only person in the room, and god he smelled so good. You inhaled quietly and let your eyes fall shut, allowing him to lead you through the slow dance. 

“Can I take you out to dinner?” he whispered into your ear. 

You pulled back and opened your eyes to look at him. He’s still fucking smiling. 

“Are you asking me out, Harry?” 

“Would that be a bad thing?” 

You stared into his eyes as you both sway side to side to the song. You had sworn off dating after so many failed dates, but Harry… Well, there was something about him that piqued your interest from the moment you laid eyes on him today. 

“Well, no, but—”

His smile dropped and his eyes softened. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were seeing anyone.” 

You could feel his hold around you loosen, but you tightened your grip around his hand and pulled him back flush against you. “I’m not seeing anyone.” 

“Oh,” he nodded slowly. “Okay, great. That’s—That’s great for me,” he chuckles quietly. 

“But I kind of sworn off dating… at least for a while,” you admitted. “Lots of bad dates and I just—”

Harry spun you around and pulled you back into his chest, holding you tighter now. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he whispered. “Do whatever you want to do… and if after that date you decide you want to officially swear off dating, then I’ll go my own way and you’ll go yours.” 

“You’re charming, you know that?” You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. 

Harry shrugged, though a large grin lined his lips. “So, is that a yes?” 

“Okay, one date.” 

“One date is all I need,” he smiled, kissing your cheek and holding you firmly against him as he continued to dance with you. 

On your first date with Harry, he had taken you to one the finest restaurants in New York. It had taken you by surprise and you felt very out of your element. You weren’t used to dates like this. He was very chivalrous—he showed up with flowers, opened doors for you, pulled out your seat, and even offered his coat when he noticed you were getting cold. 

And the conversation came easy. He made you laugh and you made him blush. How could someone like him be single? When he reached for your hand during the walk around the park, you looked up at him and found him smiling in your direction. 

He didn’t kiss you on the lips when he brought you back home. Harry had just cupped your cheek, whispered that he had a great time, and kissed your forehead. It was the simplest gesture, nothing too grand or over the top, but you felt your stomach flutter with butterflies. 

Then, you asked him out for a second date. He was grinning—dimples deep in his cheek as his hand dropped from your cheek to wrap around your waist. His strong embrace filled you with so much warmth, so much anticipation because for some strange reason, it felt like you belonged there. In his arms. 

He insisted that he take you out to one of his favorite restaurants and you agreed with a smile. Harry kissed your cheek that same night before walking back to his car. He waited until you were inside before driving away. 

On the second date, Harry wanted to surprise you. He took you to a sushi restaurant—something more casual, but still romantic nonetheless. He rented out the entire small restaurant just for the both of you. The look of surprise on his face made him feel proud, more confident that maybe you wanted to date him more exclusively. 

Harry enjoyed spending time with you and how you had always given him your sole attention and focus. It even brought a smile to his face at just how kind you were to everyone you encountered. During the date, you were intrigued and interested in how the head sushi chefs were making the food. 

It was such an intimate setting and it felt easy. Harry had to wonder if this was what Lucy said a year ago—love should be easy. With the right person, love can be the easiest thing in the world. 

Throughout the date, you were becoming more touchy. A hand on his forearm or leaning against him as you let out a laugh that wracked your entire body. Even after the date when you both were walking around the same park again, he had taken your hand and you laced your fingers with his. Then, he felt your head rest against his shoulder and it made the flutter in his stomach more noticeable. 

When he dropped you off at your front door, you had stared up at him with your big eyes and he wanted nothing more than to pull you into him and press his lips against yours. 

But Harry didn’t. He wanted to respect you and your boundaries. You were playing with the lapel of his jacket before gripping it and pulling him against you. Harry’s hands had darted out to rest on your hips—to steady you, to ground himself. 

“Are you gonna ask to kiss me, Harry?” you had whispered. 

Harry’s lips parted as he stared into your eyes. The grip on the hips tightened and he gave you a single nod. He had taken a step forward, eyes completely dark and filled with desire. “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” 

You smiled and moved your hands to play with the hair at his nape, the curls at the back of his head. You leaned in—just enough for the tip of your nose to brush against his. Harry inhaled sharply. 

“If you don’t kiss me now, Harry, I’m gonna think you don’t like me.” 

Harry tilted his head and leaned forward, nudging your nose with his own. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He moved one of his hands to your cheek and leaned in to press his lips firmly against your own. He remembered how soft and warm your lips were, the sound of a quiet whimper escaping you, and the way his heart was racing. Harry hadn’t felt like this before—how even when he wasn’t around you, all he could do was think about you, or how the butterflies in the pit of his stomach fluttered whenever he saw your name flash across his phone. 

It also made him feel special whenever you were together. You were kind and generous to strangers, but he always felt like the luckiest person whenever your attention was shifted to him. This was only the second date and Harry found himself wanting this to be more exclusive as the date continued. 

The kiss lasted only a few more seconds—the both of you getting carried away before you pulled away from him. Harry remembered the look on your face. The small smile that lined your lips, the way your arms had loosely wrapped around his shoulders, your eyes gazing repeatedly down to his lips like you wanted more. Needed more. 

“Where do you want to go for our third date?” he asked, whispering quietly as he brushed his lips with yours.

“How about I plan it?” you replied, pursing your lips to capture his own in a gentle kiss. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, dropping his hand from your cheek to join his other at your lower back. He laced his fingers and pulled you flush against him, the feeling of your body heat radiating against his own awakening something deep inside of him. Yearning. Desire. Need. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let me take you out this time.” 

Harry smiled. He had always been the one to plan the dates, to cater to the other person that he was slightly taken aback at your offer. It made him feel giddy, excited at the possibility of what you would plan. “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll let you take me out this time.” 

“Good,” you smiled and pecked his lips. “I’ll see you then?”

Harry nodded, but pulled you back into a deep kiss. This time—it was intense, more intimate, urgent. His lips moved with your own and his hands drifted lower until the tips of his fingers rested just above your ass. He wanted to reach down and squeeze, but he didn’t. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. 

“I’ll see you then, baby.”

On the third date, you had told him to dress casually. He called you just before he was about to pick you up, asking just how casual he was supposed to dress. You had smiled to yourself and told him casual enough to the point where he wouldn’t care if his clothes would get wrinkled. 

So, when he picked you up—dressed in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with sneakers, you practically wanted to pull him back into your apartment. The date could wait a little longer. You loved seeing him in a suit—had gotten used to seeing him dressed so formally—but seeing him like this, so relaxed and casual just made him sexier. 

“This casual enough?” he asked, presenting you with another bouquet of flowers. 

“You look hot,” you complimented and leaned in to peck his lips. He smiled when you pulled away and then took your hand to lead you outside of your apartment. 

“So…” you told him. “We’re having a picnic.”

Harry grinned and pulled you close to him. You hadn’t yet closed the door to your apartment, but he leaned in and pressed his lips eagerly against your own. Without hesitation, he had moved his lips with yours, hand moving to rest on your hip. “A picnic sounds nice.”

He didn’t know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect to be lying on a large blanket with you next to him. You both were looking up at the clear, blue sky talking about something so random. He felt his heart skip a beat when he heard you laugh—it filled his senses until all he could hear was you and how happy you looked. He wondered if this was what other couples felt like, if this is what they would normally do—have a picnic in the park, eat some food, then lie down in each other’s arms just embracing each other’s company. 

When your laughter died down, Harry had moved to rest his hand on your cheek. You stared up at him, the smile still remaining on your lips. He felt like he could sense what you were thinking about, communicating with you through his eyes. 

His thumb had brushed against your lower lip and he leans in, pecking your lips lightly. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry whispered. He felt the nerves begin to build and looked away from you for a moment. It wasn’t until you replied with a soft and quiet yes that he looked back at you.

“Would you want to date more exclusively? More seriously?” he asked in a rush. Harry’s eyes softened and the smile on your lips never faltered. 

“I’d like that,” you answered instantly. “I’d like that a lot actually.”

“Really?” 

“Really,” you repeated. 

Harry let out a sigh of relief and leaned in to press his lips against yours again. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you lay on your back with him propping himself on his side to kiss you. He felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders—he couldn’t help but feel extremely overjoyed and happy that the feeling was mutual. 

Almost six months later and now in a fully committed relationship with you, Harry finally understands what Lucy meant—love was supposed to be easy… and loving you felt like second nature to him.

You had been spending most days at his penthouse. There’s already a space in his closet for you and extra counter space in the bathroom. You manage to make this place a home—he’d come home and you’d be there in the kitchen, making dinner. Or on some nights, he’d catch you grading some papers. This felt easy. Being with you was easy. 

Harry knew that he loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. It’s cliche—he knows—but every time he’s around you, his heart races. When he sees you smile or hears you laugh, it makes his stomach do flips. And when he’s holding you in his arms, his life feels complete—like the one thing that had been missing in his life is now here with him. 

He hadn’t yet said he loved you because he wanted to do it right. He wanted it to be perfect. Harry had an entire date planned—he was going to take you out to the same restaurant from your first date. Take you for a walk around the park afterwards and then, he’d tell you how much he loves you. It was going to be romantic—something to remember for the rest of his days, but that morning… His entire plan was thrown out the window. 

You were in his kitchen, dressed in one of his shirts, making breakfast. Harry had gotten used to this, but for some reason, that morning, he felt his breath catch in his throat. The sun shone through his large windows, illuminating you in a warm glow. He was dressed in a pair of sleep pants and a worn t-shirt as he stared at you, a smile slowly lining his lips. 

He walked over to you and watched as your eyes moved from the pan and over to him. Harry bit his lower lip at the sight of your broad smile. You dropped the spatula and walked over to him, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders as you pecked his lips lightly.

“I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed,” you said. “Since you always like to surprise me, I figured I could return the favor this time.”

Harry chuckled and allowed his arms to wrap loosely around your waist. He held your body firmly against his own as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Why are you so good to me?” he asked quietly, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. 

“Hmm,” you answered. “Maybe because I really like you.” 

Harry grinned and pulled back to look into your eyes. His thumb brushed against your cheek as he tilted his head. “Yeah?” 

You nodded, leaning against his touch. “Yeah,” you answered. “Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he reached behind you to turn off the stove. He lifted you off your feet to set you on top of the kitchen counter, moving his hands to rest at either side of you. He moved to stand between your legs as he felt your hands move to card through his hair. 

“I am,” he whispered quietly. “Very lucky.” His eyes stared deeply into your own. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest—the nerves slowly beginning to build as those three words settled on the tip of his tongue. There was a tense silence that filled the air and it was almost like you could anticipate what Harry was about to say next. 

Your hands moved to his cheeks, feeling the bristles of hair underneath your fingertips. You leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose as his hands moved from the edges of the counter to his rest on your hips. 

“Baby,” he said softly. 

“Harry,” you replied. 

“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I thought I’d never be capable of love. It just always seemed so difficult for me, but you—loving you is easy.” Harry couldn’t help the tears that build in his deep brown eyes. The way you were looking at him now eased so much of the nerves and worry that he felt. “You make me feel—baby,” he sighed—his breath catching in his throat as he brought a hand up to wipe the fallen tear that trickled down his cheek once he blinked.

“Hey…” you whispered, kissing his cheek lightly. “I’m in love with you too, Harry.” 

He pulled back. Eyes wide, features etched with shock. “You make me feel good,” Harry continued. “Valuable. Seen. Heard. Special. Every moment spent with you is always better than the last, and when I’m apart from you, I’m always counting the minutes until I can see you again.” He let out a shaky breath as he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours as he whispered, “I love you. I think I loved you the first time I saw you.” 

“God, I forgot how charming you are,” you teased, hands moving to his shoulders as you slowly wrapped your arms around him. “You made me believe in love again, Harry. I’m so glad I said yes when you asked me out… and to think, I could have missed out on this, on you.” Leaning in, you pecked his lips lightly. “And loving you is easy too. You make me feel safe and I’ve never felt that before… with anyone.”

Harry smiled and gently pulled you off the counter, your legs easily sliding around his waist as he walked you both to the large couch. He sat down with you on his lap as he brought a hand up to your cheek. “Move in with me?” 

“Didn’t you know?” You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips with his. “I was slowly beginning to move my things in anyway,” you grinned. 

Harry chuckled, firmly pressing his lips against your own. “I love you, baby,” he mumbled. “So much.” 

“Mmm,” you smiled, pulling away briefly. “Gonna show me how much?” 

His eyes darkened instantly and he wrapped his arms around your waist to swiftly lie you on your back against the couch. Harry settled himself between your legs as he leaned back in—eagerly pressing his lips along your jawline down to the side of your neck. 

“Oh, baby, you know I will,” he grinned against you, peppering light kisses against your neck. 

The feeling of his stubble tickled your skin, causing a fit of giggles to escape your lips. He smiled to himself and pulled away from you briefly to look into eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispered, a content smile lining his lips. 

“I love you too, Harry. Now get back here and kiss me,” you giggled, linking your hands together at the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to press your lips with his. 

Harry smiled against your lips—contentment, relief, and happiness filling his entire soul. 

Lucy forgot to mention that loving was only easy if it was with the right person. 

And you—you were the right person for him. 

[buckysleftbicep]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[allsteddie]

Eddie is the fun parent and Steve is the strict one, sure. But let’s talk about the times Eddie gets mad.

Their kids would be throwing tantrums or being difficult for the sake of being difficult and Steve would try to deal with them. A teenage daughter getting frustrated because Steve won’t let her go to a party everybody is going to that weekend because they’re supposed to visit grandpa Wayne back in Hawkins.

She tries to argue, to plead, but Steve keeps saying no. It’s been three months since they paid Wayne a visit and it’s his freaking birthday so, no, she can’t miss the trip and go to a party. And in the middle of their argument, their daughter screams “I HATE YOU!!” to Steve with such rage that Steve stops, stunned.

When he recovers from the shock, he just says, “Hate me all you want, you’re still not going to that party,” then leaves their daughter’s room.

Five minutes later Eddie comes in and closes the door quietly behind him. Their daughter is about to snap at him too, but she closes her mouth when she sees her Papa’s dead serious expression. He crosses the room and stops right before the bed, where their daughter is sitting, and looks her straight in the eye.

“Listen here, darling, you’re gonna put on the best regretful face you can, apologize to your father and you’re gonna mean it. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“Nah, ah. I don't think you're understanding. This is not a discussion, so I'm gonna say it again. You're gonna go downstairs right now, you're gonna apologize to your father and you're gonna mean it. Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good. You’re also grounded for however long I’m still pissed. So, if I were you, I’d be in my best behavior when we visit Wayne this weekend.”

(Nobody makes Eddie’s husband cry. Not even their own daughter.)

[tomezatos]

[Transcript of an omake from Mob Psycho 100:

Reigen: Ah, how's that lawyer I introduced you to? Has it been done? I see... your sender information disclosure request to the provider has gone through. I'm glad with that. The school has no choice but to acknowledge bullying is actually happening. No, no... I just thought it was odd that a child would be sent alone to a haunted location in the first place... I'm glad he came to us for advice on this. Exorcisms are easy, what's truly scary is what goes on between living people. ...No, no, it's me who's overstepped their bounds... He's enthusiastic about this, is he? Naturally. He had the guts to go into an abandoned building, after all. Alright, please call again if there's anything you need.

Serizawa: Who was that?

Reigen: Some primary school kid stopped by here on his way home. There was something off, so I asked him what was happening and found out there was some bullying going on. So... as a spirit specialist, I contacted the families of each kid. Feigning that I'd like to talk to some of the people involved in what looks like a scary haunting. I tried to talk to them, but their parents got upset with me. The bullies showed no sign of remorse. Staff at the school didn't even investigate the bullying. Not only that, they dismissed the fact it was a daily occurrence. That got under my skin... So I went searching through social media and found some excessively slanderous posts sitting on a secret website for that primary school. That's where our counter-offensive begins.

Serizawa: I was bullied at primary school as well.

Shigeo looks at him.

Reigen: Really?

Serizawa: Yes. In many ways...

Shigeo: What kind of primary schooler were you, Serizawa-san?

Serizawa: I... didn't have any friends, I guess. I gave people the creeps... I wouldn't move from my desk during break time. Not ever. How about you, Kageyama-kun?

Shigeo, thinking hard about this: I... tried my best not to use my powers at school. So I was often scared. Looking back, I suppose I was also bullied.

Reigen: ...Kind, introverted people are easy targets... You guys weren't weak, but there were truly weak people who took advantage of your nature... How annoying... I guess it can't be helped that the two of you were so reserved, but it is a shame. You guys could have had popular and rosy childhoods depending on how you used your powers. Well, doesn't matter how many times I tell you guys this, it just doesn't click.

Serizawa: So how was your primary school life, Reigen-san?

Reigen: Mine? It was, uh, very... fulfilling.

Shigeo: Fulfilling?

Serizawa: I imagine you felt like the center of the class, unlike us, right?

Reigen: Y... yup, center, sure... I feel like my seat was in the middle of the classroom?

Shigeo: Where you sat is irrelevant, no?

Reigen: Well, uh... Rather than being a leader, uh... I more had a charisma that made me stand out... I'd look deeply into things and act on them...?

Serizawa: Wow! So do your classmates from back then still rely on you?

Reigen seems to fall into despair.

Reigen: Er... well, my charism was more if-you-know-you-know, you know... If-you-don't-know-you-don't-know...?

Neither Serizawa nor Shigeo understand this.

Serizawa: I'd like to hear a story from back then.

Reigen: Well... to be specific? I put a lot of emphasis on tackling social issues? Rather than school life... yes, like volunteering? ...Which was valuable in teaching me independence? And influenced my current personality? Even though I was in primary school, my childhood was a nurturing time for me. There is evidence? To suggest that my time in at primary school was fulfilling? It is indeed not an exaggeration but a...

Serizawa: That's amazing! I respect that! Even as a child, you were already such a dependable person.

Shigeo: That's the first time I've heard this but that's really amazing. To think there are primary schoolers as self-aware as you were, Shishou. I'm jealous of your classmates.

This reaction makes Reigen sit at his desk, feeling small and ashamed.

Later, he is wearing a track suit and squatting down to collect trash at the park with a pair of tongs. Text reads, "After seeing their reactions, Reigen began looking for ways he could help."

End transcript]

Mob Psycho 100 NEW Omake⑩ - ENG

The new omake posted by ONE (aka ‘Bullied & Such Consultation Office’) on 2022/12/07 is now translated and typeset - the latter done by @lesbianlarxene over on Twitter.

[cheftsunoda]

hii, i have an idea for Kimi where he has a girlfriend that lives in another country but for his graduation she surprises him there even though he thought she was still in her own country

fairy godmother max— ka12

smau + blurbs

yn and kimi have been together since they were fifteen—growing up side by side, even as life started pulling them in different directions. now, with yn living in another country and kimi chasing his dream in formula 1, time together is rare, and the distance is harder than either of them expected. when kimi’s graduation day arrives, he assumes it’ll be just another milestone, another event she’ll have to miss. but what he doesn't know is that yn has a few surprises up her sleeve…with the help of a certain world champion.

fc : darianka on ig

(a/n) : i was waiting to post this until after kimi graduated and he officially has so yay kimiiiii!!!

—

yourusername

nyc📍

liked by kimi.antonelli, carmenmmundt, franciscagomes and 1,125,007 others.

yourusername : forever in love with the big apple but forever missing my boy 🤧

—

view 187,005 other comments.

georgerussell63 : real question is…when is the reunion and who is gonna tape it? uncle georgie needs a good cry

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : dunno when it’s gonna be but I’ll have someone film just for you george

liked by georgerussell63

↳ yourusername : in the mean time i can just send you those depressing ads with the dogs if you want

liked by kimi.antonelli

↳ georgerussell63 : NO.

↳ carmenmmundt : the last time he watched one it took me 2 hours to get him off the couch

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

maxverstappen1 : i will send air-max to you rn if it means my child will stop being depressed

liked by kimi.antonelli and yourusername

↳ yourusername : thank you for the offer mother goose but sadly i have a shoot tomorrow

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ maxverstappen1 : well whenever you need it, it’s yours

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : can we all just start calling max mother goose?

↳ maxverstappen1 : no. yn is the only one who has that privilege. everyone else runs the risk of getting throat punched.

liked by yourusername

kimi.antonelli : how am i supposed to focus on anything after you posted this 🧍🏻‍♂️

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : sei così meravigliosa😻

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : forever missing my girl, come home to me pls.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : omg i miss you so much. love you to the moon and back😭😭

liked by kimi.antonelli

franciscagomes : the prettiest angel in the world 😍

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : keeeeeeks! it was so good to see you last week. i missed you sm

liked by franciscagomes

↳ franciscagomes : was literally the highlight of my trip! love youuuuu

liked by yourusername

carmenmmundt : I think it is safe to say that we ALL miss you. So get back to us ASAP!

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : trying my best carms 😁

—

The screen lights up with his name just as you’re about to crawl into bed.

Kimi 💙 wants to FaceTime…

You smile instinctively, heart tugging even before you swipe to answer.

“Hi,” you say, and there’s a warmth in your voice that only exists for him.

His face fills the screen a second later — hoodie on, hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it, eyes heavy with something unspoken.

“Hey,” he murmurs. And just like that, it’s quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around your chest and squeezes.

You can tell. He’s trying to be fine. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods once. Then again. “Yeah. Just… I don’t know. I miss you.”

You sigh. “I miss you too.”

He leans back on his pillow, the phone angling just enough to catch the posters on his wall and the edge of his desk, cluttered with school papers and notes. “Graduation’s in a few weeks and everyone keeps asking who’s coming. And all I wanna say is you, but I don’t even know if you can be here.”

Your heart cracks just a little. “Kimi…”

“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, like he already regrets bringing it up. “I know you’re busy, and the flights suck, and F1 weekends don’t exactly stop for me to wear a silly cap and shake someone’s hand. It’s just… I want you there. Really bad.”

You don’t say anything at first. Because what is there to say? You want to be there too. More than anything. But your schedule’s been insane, and between time zones and obligations, it’s all starting to feel like you’re stuck behind a glass wall you can’t break through.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” you tell him honestly. “I swear, I’m looking at flights every day. I want to be there more than you know.”

He nods, eyes flickering down like he’s trying to hide the weight of it all. “It’s not even about graduation. It’s just… I’m tired of missing you. Tired of this screen being the only way I get to see your face.”

You swallow hard. “I know. Me too.”

“I’d give anything just to have you next to me right now,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Even if we didn’t talk. Just to know you’re here.”

You press your hand to your chest like that might hold it together. “We’re almost there,” you promise. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Promise?”

You smile, aching and real. “Always.”

He lets out a shaky breath and leans in just a little closer to the camera, like if he tries hard enough, he might reach you through the pixels. And you sit there, both quiet, both hurting, but both still trying—because that’s what love looks like from miles apart. Not perfect. Just worth it.

—

You scroll past the name twice before your thumb finally hovers over it. Max Verstappen. You haven’t called him in weeks — not because anything’s wrong, but because life has been busy, chaotic, distant. Still, he’s always made it clear: “For you and Kimi? Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll send the damn jet if I have to.”

And tonight… you need the jet. The phone rings once. Twice. Then you hear his voice — scratchy, tired, but still very Max.

“You’re alive,” he says. “Was starting to think you ran off to join a cult in New York.”

You laugh under your breath. “Hi, Max.”

“Hi,” he echoes, but softer this time. “What’s going on?”

There’s a pause. Not because you don’t know what to say — but because saying it makes it real. Your heart is already in Italy with Kimi, counting down the days to his graduation, to seeing his name called, to the one moment he’s been dreaming of since he was a kid. And you can’t miss it.

“I need to call in that favor,” you say.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low chuckle. “I knew this day would come.”

“I’m serious,” you tell him. “I’ve checked every flight, every connection, and nothing gets me there in time. He keeps pretending it doesn’t matter, but it does, Max. I have to be there.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Say less. The jet’s yours.”

Your throat tightens. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll have it waiting. You just tell me where and when. And YN?” His voice softens. “You showing up? That’s going to mean everything to him. You two… you’ve got the real thing. I’ve always known that.”

You blink fast, suddenly overwhelmed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Then we’re even,” he teases, a smile clear in his voice.

You shake your head, heart full. “I owe you.”

“Just send me a picture of his face when he sees you. That’s payment enough.”

And just like that, the plan’s in motion. Because sometimes, the people who love you don’t need explanations — they just show up. Or, in Max’s case, they send a jet.

—

You pace your room, nerves buzzing in your stomach like bees. Max has already confirmed the jet — it’s happening. You’re going. But there’s one more call you have to make before you start throwing clothes in a suitcase.

You scroll until you find the contact saved as Mamma Antonelli 💕 — because that’s how she insisted you save it after the first summer you stayed with them in Bologna. She picks up after two rings, and before you can even speak, her voice lights up.

“Tesoro! It’s been too long! Kimi told me you’ve been busy with work — are you eating? You always sound tired when you’re not eating.”

You laugh, heart swelling instantly. “Hi, Mamma. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Mm-hm. I don’t trust you. But I love you anyway,” she teases. You can already hear the clatter of dishes in the background — Sunday dinner prep, probably. “To what do I owe the honor?”

You sit on the edge of your bed, smile slipping into something more serious. “I… wanted to tell you something. Actually, I wanted to ask something.”

“Oh no. Are you eloping?”

You snort. “What? No!”

“Okay, okay, just checking. Then what is it?”

You take a breath. “I’m coming to Kimi’s graduation. Max is sending the jet. I haven’t told Kimi — I want to surprise him.”

There’s a pause, and then— “Oh, mio Dio. You’re going to make me cry.”

You smile, a little watery. “I couldn’t miss it. He’s pretending he doesn’t care if I’m there or not, but I know it matters to him. And I just… I need to be there. For him.”

You hear rustling in the background, her calling out something in rapid-fire Italian. Then Kimi’s dad gets on the phone, his voice warm and familiar.

“She told me. You’re coming.”

“I am,” you say, smiling into the phone. “But don’t tell Kimi. Please.”

“I would never,” he promises. “He’s been sulking around like a lost puppy. This will knock the wind out of him — in a good way.”

“He’s going to freak out,” you whisper, grinning now.

“He’s going to cry,” his mom adds in the background.

You laugh. “You really think so?”

“We know so,” they say in unison.

“Okay, then,” you breathe. “Let’s pull this off.”

“We’ll be waiting at the airport,” Mamma says. “And then we’ll get you hidden before he even arrives. We’ll make it perfect.”

You hang up a few minutes later, cheeks aching from smiling so hard. Your chest is lighter now — filled with excitement instead of guilt. This is happening. You’re going to be there. And Kimi? He has no idea what’s coming.

—

The jet is sleek and quiet, and somehow still feels completely surreal. You’re strapped into the soft leather seat with your hoodie pulled tight over your head, window shade half-closed as the engines hum beneath you. You can’t stop checking your phone — triple-confirming the flight path, re-reading texts from Max, and replaying the plan in your head like you’re about to perform a heist. And just as the jet begins to taxi down the runway…

Kimi 💙 is calling…

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“No, no, no, not now,” you mutter, scrambling to answer before the noise gives anything away. You slide down in your seat, like somehow that will make you less suspicious.

“Hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady and definitely not like you’re ON A PRIVATE JET.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “What are you doing?”

You blink at the window, watching the airport disappear into motion. “Um. Just… heading somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” he repeats, a soft laugh in his voice. “That’s vague.”

You gulp. “Work stuff. Last-minute thing. Super boring.”

You can hear the smirk. “That why you sound all nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired. Early morning.”

“It’s like… 3PM where you are.”

Shit.

“Time is fake,” you blurt. “It’s a construct.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Kimi laughs, low and warm, and somehow that makes everything worse. “You okay?”

“Totally. Totally fine. Just lots going on. Meetings. Presentations. Jet lag.”

You wince. Jet. Wrong word. Terrible word.

But Kimi, bless his oblivious heart, doesn’t react. “Well, I just wanted to hear your voice. I know things have been hectic.”

Your chest aches. “I’m really proud of you,” you say, suddenly emotional. “I know graduation is coming up and you’re probably pretending it’s not a big deal, but it is. You’re amazing, Kimi.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I wish you could be there.”

“I know,” you whisper, holding your breath so you don’t ruin everything. “Me too.”

Another silence. Then. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Call me later, okay?”

“Promise,” you say, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” he says, before the line goes dead.

You exhale, head dropping back against the seat. Somehow, you didn’t blow the surprise. Barely. And now, you’re flying toward the one person in the world who has no idea you’re about to show up and change everything.

—

The jet touches down with barely a bump, sunlight flooding through the window as the plane slows on the runway. Your heart is pounding, fingers drumming nervously against your thighs. You can’t believe you’re actually here. In Italy. For him. As the cabin door opens and the warm air hits your face, you quickly pull out your phone. There’s only one person you need to call first. Max Verstappen.

He picks up on the second ring.

“You landed?”

“Just now,” you breathe, already smiling. “Max… thank you. I know you always joked about sending the jet, but—”

“I wasn’t joking,” he interrupts casually. “I’d do it again. And again. You two are disgusting and adorable and give the rest of us hope.”

You laugh, a little choked up. “Seriously. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Like I said…all I need is proof of his reaction. I want to see the exact moment his brain breaks in half.”

You grin. “Done.”

“Good. Go get your boy.”

You hang up just as you spot them — Kimi’s parents, waiting just outside the private terminal with barely contained excitement. His mom is the first to see you.

“TESORO!” she yells, rushing toward you with open arms.

You barely have time to drop your bag before she’s hugging you so tightly your feet actually lift off the ground. “You’re here! You’re really here! Oh, mio Dio, he’s going to collapse.”

“I missed you too,” you laugh into her shoulder, overwhelmed in the best way.

Kimi’s dad pulls you into a hug next, his hand warm on your back. “He’s going to lose his mind,” he says with a proud grin. “He’s been pretending he doesn’t care, but he’s been moping around like a ghost.”

“And now,” his mom adds, wiping tears from her eyes, “you’re going to walk in and ruin him. Perfectly.”

“Thank you both,” you say, heart full. “For keeping the secret. For being part of this.”

“We’d do anything for you,” his mom says, cupping your face. “You’re family.”

And as they lead you to the car, laughing and chattering about the plan, your heart feels light again.

—

You’re crouched behind the kitchen counter, holding back a laugh as Mamma Antonelli calls out, “Maggie! Tesoro, come here for a minute!”

Tiny footsteps echo down the hallway, quick and full of purpose.

“What?” Maggie’s voice is high pitched and dramatic in the way only ten year olds can manage. “I’m making Kimi a card! And I used the fancy markers!”

“Just come, piccola,” Mamma says, smiling wide as she stirs a pot on the stove. “I have something to show you.”

Maggie stomps into the kitchen, all pink socks and hair in a pink headband, holding a glittery construction paper card in one hand and a scowl on her face. “This better be good.”

You slowly peek out from behind the counter.

“Surprise,” you say softly.

Maggie stops immediately.

Her whole face drops—eyes going wide like saucers, mouth falling open as she stares at you. For a second, she doesn’t say a word.

Then—“YN?!”

You barely have time to nod before she shrieks and runs at you, throwing her tiny arms around your waist with all the force her little body can manage. You stumble back a step, laughing through the sudden sting in your eyes.

“You’re really here?” she asks, voice muffled against your hoodie. “For real real? Not just on my iPad?”

“For real real,” you promise, hugging her tightly. “Just for Kimi. But I had to see you first.”

She pulls back, cheeks flushed with excitement. “He’s gonna cry. I just know it. He’s been all moody and weird and saying stuff like ‘it’s fine’ even though it’s clearly not fine.”

You giggle, wiping your eyes. “That sounds like him.”

“I’m gonna help!” she declares. “With the surprise! I can distract him or hide you or pretend there’s a present and then BOOM—it’s you!”

You glance at Mamma Antonelli, who’s trying not to cry into her wooden spoon.

“I think we just found the mastermind,” you say.

Maggie beams. “I’m so good at secrets. Except for that one time I told Papa about the broken vase, but that was different.”

You ruffle her hair. “We’ll be careful this time.”

She nods like she’s just been given a secret mission. “He’s gonna be so happy. You’re his favorite person.”

Your chest aches with love. “He’s mine too.”

And as Maggie skips off to start planning “Operation Surprise Kimi,” you take a deep breath and smile—because in this house, with this family, you’ve never felt more at home.

—

The sun is warm and golden, spilling over the ancient stone buildings that line the courtyard. There’s laughter in the air, shouts of congratulations in Italian, the occasional champagne cork popping in the distance. Red laurel crowns sit proudly on graduates’ heads, marking the end of years of hard work. And Kimi?

Kimi Antonelli is right in the middle of it all, standing in his white linen shirt, the crown just slightly crooked on his head, cheeks flushed from the sun — and maybe from emotion he’s not letting himself show. He’s smiling for photos, thanking professors, dodging confetti and hugs and the occasional overzealous cousin, but something is clearly missing. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And you see it. From where you’re hidden behind a group of olive trees with Maggie and his mother, your heart aches for him. You should’ve been standing beside him. But not for long.

“Kimi’s still over there,” Mamma Antonelli whispers, lifting her phone to start filming. “Max and George said to absolutely not miss the moment. Max said he’s taking bets on whether Kimi cries or faints.”

“I think both,” Maggie whispers gleefully. “Or maybe he’ll scream like a goat.”

You’re trembling a little, heart hammering as Mamma gives you the softest little nudge. “Vai. Go.”

You nod, swallow hard, and step out from behind the trees. Kimi is turned slightly away, laughing at something his best friend just said. His crown has slipped further down his forehead. His hand is gripping the side of his phone like he wants to text someone — probably you. And then, he hears it.

“Nice crown, graduate.”

He freezes. His body stiffens. His head snaps up. Slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe it, he turns around.

And there you are. Standing a few feet away in the same sundress you wore the summer you first visited Bologna. Hair curling from the humidity, eyes shining, heart in your throat. You’re smiling — already crying — but smiling. For a full five seconds, Kimi doesn’t move. Then he drops everything — the diploma folder, the champagne glass someone handed him, even his crown slips a little more off his head — and he runs.

His arms are around you in seconds, lifting you clean off the ground like he can’t believe you’re real. You’re laughing and crying into his shoulder, fingers buried in the back of his hair.

“You’re here,” he says, over and over again. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Surprise.”

Kimi pulls back just enough to look at you, tears now clearly in his eyes. “How? How are you here?”

You grin. “Max sent the jet.”

He blinks. “Max?!”

“And your mom helped. And your sister. And George’s only request was that you cry. So, you know. No pressure.”

He laughs through the tears, breath hitching as he leans in and kisses you like he’s starving for it — like months of distance and missed calls and sleepless nights dissolve in that one moment.

Behind you, you hear Maggie yell, “HE’S CRYING!” followed by the sound of Mamma Antonelli’s voice narrating in shaky, emotional Italian for the video.

“Look! Guardalo! Max, George — sta piangendo come un bambino innamorato!”

You break the kiss, burying your face in Kimi’s neck as he holds you tighter than ever.

“I didn’t want to miss this,” you whisper. “I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” he breathes. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

And as red petals and confetti rain down from the sky, as friends cheer and his family watches with misty eyes and proud smiles, Kimi kisses you again — this time slower, softer, like a thank-you, a promise, a homecoming all in one. You showed up. You always would. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly right.

—

The sun is low by the time you arrive at the Antonellis’ countryside home, warm golden light spilling across the terracotta tiles and olive trees. Kimi’s laurel crown sits on the dashboard of the car like a trophy, slightly bent but still proud. He holds your hand the entire drive — knuckles white, like if he lets go, you might disappear again. You don’t blame him. You still can’t believe you’re here either.

As you step out of the car, you’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of garlic, tomato, and fresh basil — the kind of smell that makes your heart ache with nostalgia. Mamma Antonelli is already out on the porch in an apron, yelling something toward the kitchen window.

“You brought her home and you graduated? Finally, we can breathe again!” she announces dramatically, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling you in for another warm, crushing hug. “You’re sitting next to me. I don’t care what Kimi says.”

“She likes you more than me,” Kimi mutters beside you, grinning. “Confirmed.”

“I’ve always liked her more than you,” she shoots back, ruffling his hair before disappearing inside.

Dinner is a beautiful kind of chaos. Plates piled with pasta al forno and roasted vegetables, bottles of red wine passed around the table, someone shouting over someone else every few minutes. Kimi’s cousins are arguing about sports, his uncle is showing your graduation surprise video to anyone who will watch, and Maggie is seated at your side, proudly telling everyone how she was “basically the mastermind.”

Kimi watches you through all of it — not in the way people usually mean when they say that, but really watches. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Every time you laugh or lean in to wipe tomato sauce from Maggie’s cheek or clink glasses with his dad, he looks at you like he’s still catching his breath. At one point, as the noise dies down just slightly, he leans over and kisses your temple.

“You fit so perfectly here,” he murmurs. “You always have.”

You smile against your wine glass. “Maybe it’s because I love all of you more than you love each other.”

Mamma overhears. “Grazie, finally someone tells the truth!”

Later, as dessert is brought out — a homemade tiramisu that’s already half gone by the time it reaches your side of the table — Kimi takes your hand under the table and squeezes it. You look over to find his eyes a little glassy again, his voice low and full of that kind of sincerity that only happens when the world slows down for just a second.

“I meant it earlier,” he says. “You being here… it made everything feel real. I didn’t care about the ceremony or the diploma. I just wanted you.”

You squeeze his hand right back, heart full. “And now you have me.”

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your cheek, and murmurs. “Forever, if I get my way.”

—

The house is finally quiet. The last of the dishes have been cleared, Maggie’s tucked into bed, and Kimi’s parents are somewhere inside. The warm night air spills in through the open window, carrying the scent of jasmine and summer. You’re curled up on the little balcony just off his childhood bedroom, one of his old hoodies draped over your shoulders, your knees pulled to your chest as you look up at the stars.

He joins you a moment later — barefoot, hair a little messy, still glowing from the day. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits down beside you, thigh brushing yours, hand finding your knee like it belongs there. Which it does.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

“You sure you’re real?” he asks, turning toward you. “Because you keep disappearing on me.”

You smile, tipping your head to rest on his shoulder. “I’m real. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months. You sit in silence for a moment, watching the lights flicker in the distance. Then he speaks again, voice low and honest in a way that only ever happens when the world finally goes quiet.

“I really thought you wouldn’t come.”

Your heart squeezes. “Kimi…”

“No, I know it’s not your fault,” he adds quickly. “I just— I told myself I didn’t care. Told everyone it was fine. But it wasn’t. I wanted you there. Needed you there. And then you were.”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “I wanted to be there the second I found out the date. I would’ve moved mountains. Or at least begged Max to move them for me.”

He laughs — soft and tired, but real. “You don’t know what that did to me. Seeing you. I think time stopped for a second.”

You turn your head and meet his gaze, moonlight catching the gold in his eyes. “It stopped for me too.”

Kimi leans in and kisses you gently, slowly — no rush, no heat, just something warm and full of meaning. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you close until you’re practically in his lap, curled against him like the final missing piece has clicked into place.

“I don’t care how busy things get,” he whispers. “How far the races are or how many airports we have to go through. I just want you to keep showing up like that.”

“I will,” you promise. “Whenever it matters. Always.”

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you echo, voice full and sure.

And there, on that quiet balcony with the stars overhead and the world asleep around you, Kimi holds you a little tighter — like he finally believes this isn’t just a dream.

—

The morning comes slow and golden. A breeze slips through the open window, carrying the scent the garden below. The room is still — warm and hazy, touched by early sunlight. Somewhere down the hall, you can faintly hear the clink of mugs and the low hum of his mom talking to Maggie. But here, wrapped in Kimi’s arms, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding. One of his hands is tangled lazily in your hair, the other curled around your hip like he never quite let go during the night. He’s warm, impossibly so, like the sun lives beneath his skin. You shift a little and feel him stir.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice still raspy from sleep. “Still here?”

You smile without opening your eyes. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He kisses the top of your head, slow and sleepy. “Good. Would’ve chased you if you did.”

“Would’ve made you work for it.”

“I’d work forever if it meant waking up like this.”

You finally lift your head and look at him. His curls are messy, one cheek slightly smushed against the pillow, but he’s still devastatingly handsome in that quiet, undone way. His eyes are soft, heavy-lidded, full of something deeper than just sleep — something closer to awe.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“You’re here,” he says back, like it’s still the most unbelievable thing in the world.

He brushes your hair back gently, fingers ghosting along your jaw like he needs to memorize it again. “Last night felt like a dream. The dinner. The surprise. You. This.”

“This is real,” you whisper.

“I know. That’s the best part.”

You snuggle closer, nose tucked beneath his jaw. “Your mom’s making coffee.”

“She’ll wait.”

“I think Maggie’s outside our door.”

“She’ll survive.”

You laugh into his chest, and he pulls you even tighter. “Let’s stay like this a little longer,” he says. “Just you and me. No rushing. No flights. No leaving.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just us.”

And you stay there — tangled in sheets and sun and each other — hearts steady, breaths slow, the morning stretching out like it was made just for the two of you.

—

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, georgerussell63 and 2,572,003 others.

yourusername : my boy graduated and i got to be with him thanks to our fairy godmother @/maxverstappen1. my heart is so full <3

tagged : kimi.antonelli

— view 189,017 other comments.

georgerussell63 : i cried. a lot. in tears just thinking about it. my children are so grown 🥹

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : more than the dog ads?

liked by georgerussell63

↳ georgerussell63 : more than the damn dogs.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ carmenmmundt : he has been showing the video to literal strangers and saying how much of a proud dad he is.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : oh georgie.

liked by carmenmmundt and georgerussell63

maxverstappen1 : i'll buy you each a jet if it means i get to see that look on kimi's face again.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : so good to us maxie

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ lando : wait i am like the only one who hasn't seen this video. someone send it. NOW.

↳ georgerussell63 : i sent it to you like two days ago, muppet. check your texts.

↳ lando : oh good now im in full blown tears.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

alexandrasaintmleux : sooooo cute mon ange

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

charles_leclerc : totally not teary eyed. congratulations kimi!!

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

kimi.antonelli : my whole world. i love you now and forever.

liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1

↳ maxverstappen1 : god i try so hard to be disgusted by you two but i just can't. what is wrong with me?

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ lando : motherly instincts

liked by yourusername, kimi.antonelli and maxverstappen1

—

[strawbairicake]

stealin’ sweet kisses- various hsr characters x reader 

synopsis: playing the pocky game with your boyfriend! that’s it, send tweet. part 2! 

warnings: uh, none? other than that, idk if my beginner/novice writing counts as a warning. 

word count: 1.4k (oh lord, it’s longer than part 1!)

author’s note: part 1 did pretty well, so here's part 2 no one asked for! i’ll link part 1 here! no beta, we die like my favorite side characters in books! posting this after having a mental breakdown sure is the way to go, huh! disclaimer in part 1 that i'll include here: i genuinely don't know how to write kiss scenes at all! other than like a peck on the lips, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right… right? title was a suggestion from a mootie of mine for part 1, credits to them for the title (credits to you, Sage, lol!)! hope you enjoy! <3

tagging: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @unriding, @sheyfu, @threnodians. @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

Anaxa: 

how you managed to get your lover to agree to this is beyond you. you just slid the box across his desk, then retreated to the cute reading nook in the home office. Anaxa gave you a skeptical look before sighing and making his way over to you. he sits on the ottoman your legs were resting on and he hands you a stick of pocky. 

“you wanted me to indulge in a game? fine. but make it quick, i have things to do.” he says as he rubs shapes on your thighs near your knees. yeah, he totally does not have the time to indulge you. what a loser (lovingly). but upon seeing the smile appear on your face after his confirmation, he thinks he’ll be sparing more time with you than he should. (he brought the whole box when he made his way over to you, by the way. he’s definitely whipped.)

 so you sat up in your chair, took the stick of pocky from his hand, and waited for him to be ready. he looked… nervous? the great Anaxagoras, reduced to a slightly blushing mess and slightly fidgety. the whole time you had been watching him, he was fidgeting with the box of pocky, and clearly avoiding eye contact with you. no matter, it’s whatever. you gesture him with a wave of your hand to come closer, and he sets the box of sweet treats next to him. part of the sweet treat he’s able to taste and as you lean closer, Anaxa cannot bring himself to look at you at all. you’d think for all his bravado he’d be able to do something as simple as holding eye contact but no. and as the stick breaks right in the middle, before either one of you can pull away, he cradles the back of your head with a hand and initiates a kiss. short and sweet before pulling away. now both of you look rather flustered. 

best to play the game again, no? 

Argenti: 

your lover agreed with no resistance and no questions asked... mostly! he seems rather excited to play this silly game with you, bless him. so here you both are, sitting in the living room of your home. a rare moment for Argenti to be with you given how often he travels. he leaves tomorrow, unfortunately, but you thought playing pocky with him could be a fun ritual you start doing the night before he leaves. granted, it makes it harder for Argenti to leave you in the morning, but seeing how giddy and happy it makes you both makes it worth it. so here you were on your sofa, a box of pocky in your hand as you explain (again, it’s been a while!) the rules of the game. 

“so the point is to get as close to the middle of the stick and not break it. we're supposed to kiss, i think,” you explained.

“so what happens if i break it?” he questions.

“you eat it, and we try again!” you reply excitedly. 

let the game begin. 

dear aeons, you never realized how good Argenti was at this game. he’s locked in, keeping eye contact, and being very sweet. if he senses you getting nervous, he breaks the stick off and waits for you to compose yourself before returning. and bless him, he’s so sweet and patient, that’s gotta mean something, right? 

so after you break the stick for the first time, before you lean back and can escape, he kisses you. nothing rough or mean, almost as light as a peck, but it’s just a bit more. right as you begin to reciprocate, he pulls away, leaving you wanting more. 

you know the game he’s playing, and you can see the slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks at you. 

“one more time, beloved?”

Boothill:

always on the run, you both are. always getting into some kind of trouble. except this time, the trouble in question is a game of pocky and doesn’t seemingly have any consequences. which is good, you both need a break from the run and chase you’re constantly on. now that you think about it, maybe being in an alleyway in penacony wasn’t your brightest move. anyone could see you both and report you. not that common folk would, but people who know about you and Boothill might. just a hunch. but you were in a dark alleyway, Boothill leaning against the wall, his legs spread just a bit, and you were standing in between his legs, just chatting. and Boothill was trying so hard to pay attention, but he noticed the box of pocky in your pocket. 

“what’s the box for, sweetheart?”

“boredom, mostly… also i need sugar.”

“don’t know how ya’d need it if we’re on the run. and i'll give ya some sugar,” he winked. you rolled your eyes at the latter comment. 

“i mean for after the adrenaline wears off…” you mutter. your lover chuckles at the faux pout you started making after your previous statement. he places a hand on your hip and fishes through your pocket and gets the box of pocky out. 

“up for a little game?”

“Boothill, we're literally supposed to be running right now,” you deadpan. he laughs.

“you don’t know how to have fun, sweetheart! just one round, i promise,” he replies. 

and so the game begun. he pulls a stick out of the pack and places one part in his mouth and you place the other part in your mouth. as you inch closer, one of Boothill’s hands remains at your hip while the other one rests on the back of your neck. the cool metal of his arm makes you tilt your head up impossibly more. you reach the middle of the stick and instead of a quick peck, it’s a passionate kiss. he cradles your head so you can’t let go just yet, and he notices you’re quite ready to let go either. give or take a few seconds, you tap his robotic chest with your finger, a sign to let you breathe. you both part. the tips of his ears are a bit pink and you look a bit flushed. you’re just about to get comfortable in the silence you both have before hearing a loud  “freeze!” which makes you both turn your heads.

guess you’re back on the run.

Mydei: 

a rough mission kinda brought you down. and sometimes when you’re down, you’ll head to the marketplace in Okhema just to see if anything interesting is there. and wouldn’t you know it, a seller was giving out a box of pocky with every purchase! you bought a couple of baking ingredients and got your free box of pocky, and honestly? made your bad day a lot better, which was really nice. so when you got home and saw Mydei on the couch in the living room on his teleslate (literally it’s a phone, why do they call it that, ew), you thought nothing of it. you head to the kitchen and unload the few baking supplies you purchased: sugar and flour. it wasn’t a lot, and you didn’t need help putting it away. you knew that Mydei would come and help you put the couple of groceries away anyway (he always did, it was an unspoken agreement between the two of you for whatever reason.). so after you unload the flour and sugar, you sit on the counter and open the box of pocky you got. it was your favorite flavor too, how nice! as you do, Mydei comes in between your legs and watches as you fiddle with the box and bag inside. he wordlessly takes the bag from your hands, opens it, and pulls a stick out.

“what is this for?” he looks skeptically at the flavored treat, which makes you laugh slightly. 

“you take one portion of the stick in your mouth, your partner does the same. then you essentially get as close as you can without breaking the stick. the goal is to kiss, i think. but i also eat this by myself,” you reply after a moment’s hesitation. 

and without instruction, Mydei places part of the stick he took out into his mouth and gestures for you to do the same. so you do, you’re not an idiot to refuse him, especially if he’s offering! you both lean in and while the stick breaks pretty close to the middle, Mydei doesn’t pull away. he kisses you briefly before pulling away. he looks at you and smirks a bit.

“wanna try again, or are you going to quit? i thought the goal was to not break it.”

oh it’s SO on now. 

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 8: Hope, Still

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: I have a concussion so please forgive any errors. I wrote this with sunglasses on with blue light ones on top, so I’d be following doctor’s order lol. I’m just doing my best! Feel free to have comments and drop some reviews in my inbox so I feel better lol. I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatments, medical procedures, mentioned pregnancy loss, grief

Word Count: 3.6k Words

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Like always, Paige wasn’t joking when she told Azzi they would be doing everything together.

She set up a subscription for prenatal vitamins, “The blogs I read said to start taking them as soon as you know you’re going to try to get pregnant.”

She purchased Omega 3s, something Azzi didn’t even know she needed this early. “Our baby isn’t going to be the dumbest in the class, Az. Omega 3s promote heart health and brain development.” The brunette almost giggled at how much Paige sounded like an infomercial.

When Azzi was reading on the couch one night, the blonde tossed her phone into her lap.

“What the fuck, P?” She questioned.

Paige rolled her eyes and gestured to her device. “Look at the picture.” Azzi’s heart broke a little at the child in the wheelchair. “That kid paralyzed, Azzi!” She exclaimed. “I know a lot of things can cause that, but we can try to prevent it if you’re taking choline.”

“Paige,” Azzi started. “You’re the one who insisted on setting up my pill organizer. If you think it’s a good idea, put it in there. I’ll take whatever’s there.” She finished with a smile.

Her best friend sighed and leaned back into the sofa with a smile. “Thanks for trusting me with this, Azzi. Means a lot.”

“No, Paige. Thank you for doing all this.” She reached for her hand. “For making sure I’m not doing any of this alone.”

Paige pulled her into a tight hug. “I promised that you wouldn’t go through any of this alone, and I meant that.”

Azzi smiled warmly, “No, I mean everything.” She looked up. “I haven’t been home since…everything. And you haven’t pressured me into going back home. And you – I just, it means more than I can tell you.”

“I think we’re at home whenever we’re together.” She replied lowly. “You don’t ever have to go back there. We can go wherever you want.” She finished.

Times like these were the times Azzi started to believe what Katie had always told her about Paige. Maybe she was just as in love with Azzi as Azzi was with her. But asking her about her feelings now, when everything is so emotional, could seem almost shady. Paige clearly had feelings involved when it came to Azzi’s baby, and she didn’t want her best friend to be with her just for a kid that she didn’t even have yet.

So, Azzi would wait. Well, she’d talk to Katie about everything first, but then she’d wait.

-----------------------------------

Her leg wouldn’t stop tapping. Not out of anxiety. Azzi wasn’t even nervous; she was more so restless. Kinda like how Paige was in college. She was excited because she’d be able to work with a new doctor, a good doctor who she was already comfortable with.

She looked over to say something to Paige but paused. The blonde had picked Azzi up from the bakery right after she finished a shift. She still had on her PG County Fire Department sweats and pullover. There was a big structure fire last night, so she was exhausted. She was slumped into the chair, legs stretched wide, head resting on the wall. Even though her eyes were closed and she looked asleep, her thumb still ran over Azzi’s knuckles.

So, Azzi just sat back and watched her.

“Azzi Fudd?” A redheaded nurse peeked her head out from the door.

Before she could say anything to Paige, blue eyes popped open, and she was pulling Azzi towards the back.

The woman took her vitals. “So, is this your first baby?”

Azzi’s brows furrowed. She had one baby, but she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to mention Peanut. “Sort of,” she answered, voice thick.

At the confused look on the nurse’s face, Paige jumped in. “She had a miscarriage on November 3rd. She was ten weeks and four days.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, sweetheart.” The woman says guiding the pair back to an exam room. “Dr. Nelson-Ododa has helped so many people in your situation, and I’m sure she’ll be able to do the same for you both.”

When she walked out, the room was quiet.

Azzi was nervous, like actually nervous this time. She absentmindedly brought the sleeve of her favorite hoodie (that really belonged to Paige) up to her nose and inhaled the comforting scent, willing herself to calm down. She looked at the paper gown on the exam table.

“Maybe I’ll just wait to put it on later,” She muttered to herself, moving away from the table.

Paige shifted behind her, going to sit in the chair next to the table. Sensing Azzi’s nerves, she pulled the girl closer to her. “What’s going on, Princess?”

She played with the strings on her oversized hoodie. “The last time I was on one of those I – I’d be in my second trimester by now.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, I just feel like I’m really in my head.”

Azzi was pulled in between firm thighs. “You don’t have to sit there if you don’t want to, not until Liv says you have to.” Paige pulled her onto her lap with a firm grip. “This is why I’m here, Azzi. It’s going to be hard, and it might take time, but I’ll be here for it all. When you’re moody from all the meds, when you’re bruised from all the shots, when you finally get that baby. I’ll be here. I knew what I signed up for when I told you I was all in.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, just tucked her head in her best friend’s neck.

That is exactly how Liv found them; Paige’s arms protectively wrapped around Azzi while she held her in her lap. “Y’all are just as sickening as always.” She grimaced. “Happy to see that all of this has made you guys closer.”

“What’s up, Liv?” Anyone could hear the smirk in Paige’s voice. “She’s nervous.”

The doctor laughed. “Yeah, I can see that.” She paused, rolling her stool over to the pair. “How about I give my spiel, and you can ask your questions and everything. Yeah?” She offered.

Azzi shifted, bringing her feet to the ground and turning to face Liv. “Yeah, okay.”

“IVF is going to be hard,” She started. “Most families have success within the first three trials, but for some, it takes longer. So, I need you to know that even if the first cycle doesn’t take, don’t get too discouraged.”

“But what if I have another miscarriage?” Azzi questioned.

Liv reached out, placing a hand on her arm, “Then we take a break and try again. But only if you want. You’re the one in control here, Azzi.”

At the brunette’s nod, the obstetrician continued. “So today, we’re going to do an ultrasound and some bloodwork. I will send three prescriptions to your pharmacy for birth control, FSH, and the trigger shot. You will take those for eight days before you start taking FSH injections for days nine through nineteen. On day twenty, you’ll do the trigger shot. And two days later, we’ll do the egg retrieval. You’ll be asleep for that. The rest of the process depends on how many eggs we get. But you’ll have a transfer four to six days after the retrieval, and you’ll take progesterone until you take a pregnancy test. The clinic will send you all of the sperm donors we have on hand, but there are filters, so you’re not going through hundreds of profiles. We need the selected donor five days before your retrieval. You need to start taking prenatals if you haven’t already started. Any questions?”

Azzi’s mind had blue-screened with all of the information. And that was why she had Paige.

“She’s already taking prenatal vitamins. They’re from Ritual. She’s taking Omega 3s and choline too. Should she be taking more?” She asked, tapping away on her phone.

Liv shook her head. “That’s fine. She’ll need to start calcium and iron, but not until she’s pregnant.”

“And what is FSH?” She questioned. “When will the shots have to be given.”

“FSH is follicle stimulating hormone – it is what will tell the ovaries to make eggs. She’ll need that injection once every morning. Then the trigger shot will be given at night. Then after the transfer, she’ll need one progesterone injection every night and take a pill twice daily.”

Paige nodded, typing in more information. “How many eggs are ideal?”

“10-15 is where we want to be. That way we have wiggle room in terms of viability.” Liv answered.

“It’s just a lot,” Azzi said, eyes wide and overwhelmed.

Paige handed Liv her phone, “Can you look and make sure I got everything?” She held Azzi’s face in her hands, turning her to put their foreheads together. “It is a lot, but you’re not doing it by yourself. And think about how good it will be when you’re finally able to hold your baby in your arms.”

Azzi nodded as Paige encouraged her before she remembered. “Did you ever get the results from Peanut?”

She looked up from the notes on Paige’s phone. “Yes, we did. Your baby had a chromosomal abnormality. We do not implant embryos if they have abnormalities, so it shouldn’t happen again.”

The brunette turned to Paige, tears in her eyes. “It wasn’t my fault?”

Paige pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. “No, Az, of course it wasn’t your fault.”

“Your notes look good, P. Most partners aren’t even as involved as you are.” She smirked, passing the phone back. “So, does this sound like something you’re still wanting to do now?”

“Yeah, I’m just nervous,” Azzi replied.

Liv stood with a smile. “Perfect, if anyone deserves to be a mom, it’s you.” She walked to the door, turning back at the last second. “Change into the gown and Estelle will be back to take your blood and do the initial ultrasound.”

Azzi pulled off her leggings and sweatshirt, not even caring that Paige was in the room, before sliding into the uncomfortable paper gown.

Seconds later, her phone vibrated.

Airdrop from Paigey 💗🧑🏼‍🚒🔥❤️‍🔥:

Jellybean Journal 🍬💗🌱🧬

12/17-12/24 – birth control

12/25-1/4 – fsh injection, 1x/morning

1/5 – trigger shot, pm

1/7 – egg retrieval (pls 10-15!)

1/12 – TRANSFER DAY!

1/13-1/26 – progesterone pill am & pm, progesterone injections 1x/night

1/26 – TEST DAY!!! Lil Jellybean is growing???

Reminders:

Azzi’s strong and she can do this

Prenatal vitamins every day

Healthy diet means healthy baby

“Thank you for writing all of this down. There’s no way I would have remembered this on my own.”

The rest of the appointment went smoothly. Paige held her hand when Estelle did the ultrasound and whispered corny jokes to distract her during the blood draw.

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That night, Azzi didn’t even stop to speak to Paige before going to the bathroom. She came out twenty minutes later with her hair in a messy bun, makeup removed, her favorite pair of boxers, and an oversized t-shirt.

“Wanna eat Cava and help me pick a baby daddy?” She grinned.

Her MacBook was connected to the television in Paige’s bedroom. Both women were snuggled closely as she selected some filters.

“Obviously over 6’; can’t have my baby daddy be shorter than me.” Azzi grinned.

Paige’s brows furrowed, “Az, you’re 5’10.”

“Yeah, but my attitude’s 6’7. So, I compromised and put 6’0.” She shrugged. “College educated, obviously.”

Paige took the laptop from her hands. “Personality? Loyal, intelligent, funny, protective, driven.”

“Oh, for medical history, pick no cancer, Alzheimer’s, or dementia, please. Then see what we got.”

They were left with a whopping five choices.

The Overachiever was East Asian with dark hair and eyes. He has a degree in engineering and music. He liked to code symphonies using AI and play the violin. He said he’s most like a cat; quiet, persistent, and humble.

“I don’t like him,” Paige said. “AI is bad for the environment, but it’s one of his hobbies.”

Azzi just giggled and moved on to the next.

The Golden Retriever was a white man with blond hair and blue eyes.

“He would go triple platinum in Germany if we were in the 1940s,” Paige interjected.

“P, you have blonde hair and blue eyes.” Azzi scoffed playfully.

Blondie rolled her eyes, “Yeah, but from a box.”

He’s got a degree in family science and is in medical school so he can be a therapist. He liked trail running, mentoring children, and fostering cats and dogs. He said he’s most like a Great Pyrenees; loyal, playful, and affectionate.

“What if your kid likes cats more than dogs, Azzi? Absolutely not.” Paige said as Azzi added him to the ‘maybe’ list.

The Science-Bro was next, but as soon as they found out he had a PhD in neuroscience, they vetoed him. Paige had never recovered from Harley, her crazy ex who was studying neuroscience.

“We only have two more, Paige. Stop being so picky.”

They really liked The Artist. He was Black and he had a degree in fine arts. He painted murals and did sculpting classes for schools in underserved communities. He said he was like a red fox; quiet, observant, and clever.

“He’s going in the maybe pile, I don’t care what you say,” Azzi smirked before her best friend could say anything.

“I like him too, Azzi!”

The last option was The Storyteller. He was a Hispanic man with black hair and green eyes. He studied literature and philosophy. He liked journaling, writing stories, and cooking in his free time. He said he was most like an elephant; emotional, empathetic, and protective.

“Every man I know who calls themselves empathetic or emotionally intelligent are some of the worst people I’ve ever met.” Azzi grimaced.

“So, we’re in between the Golden Retriever and the Artist,” Paige said. “I think the artist is your best bet. I think his quiet would match yours well, and he’s super smart. And look at what he does for work; he’s very compassionate.” She finished, sitting back.

Azzi pouted, “I was going to say the golden retriever. I think that energy would help balance everything out. And he’s playful like you. Even when you annoy me, I still want you to bother me.”

“So, you want to have a baby with the male version of me?” Paige joked.

The brunette stared incredulously, “Of course I do! You’re my favorite person in the world, Paige. If someone’s gonna take your place, I’d prefer it be someone who acts a least a little bit like you.”

The blonde knew how much Azzi loved her, but hearing it said so casually like it didn’t shake the foundation of her life, made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t name.

Paige nodded, tucking her chin to her chest to try to hide the blush rising. “Alrighty then.”

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Once the IVF process really starts, Paige is overjoyed that Azzi has practically moved in.

Azzi had always been a morning person. And now, every morning at six, she rolled out of bed, winced as she padded to the kitchen, and lifted her sweatshirt for Paige.

It didn’t matter if she was on shift or at home, Paige gave her the injections for eleven straight days.

"Ready, Mama?" Paige whispered every time, voice gentler than air.

Azzi nodded, eyes already closed.

“You’re doing amazing, Mama.” Paige held the ice pack to her belly, kneeling close.

The shot was always given quickly, leaving Azzi with only a second to wince.

And like clockwork, Paige would press her forehead into the flat, tanned stomach. “Please bless this step. Please help this prepare Azzi’s body for Jellybean. Bless her and hold her as she brings Baby Jellybean home.” She finished every prayer with a kiss below her belly button.

Then a warm compress.

Then a whisper: "You're doing amazing. I’m so proud of you."

When Azzi started bruising on Day 12, she stayed on her knees longer, pressing a gentle kiss into each purpling patch, leaving Azzi to feel her lips for hours.

When Azzi got more agitated and irritable, which started after Day 15, Paige made sure she had a pastry and her bunk waiting for Azzi to have a snack and then a nap.

Sometimes, the crew teased.

"Becky, your girl’s here!" Cam would shout.

"Tell your wife we’ll pay her for some muffins!” Ant yelled.

But then they’d see Paige hurry down the hallway, focused and soft.

By Day 18, Azzi cried. From the bloating, from the pressure, from the way she hated her body for not cooperating. Paige found her curled on the bakery couch, hoodie pulled over her face.

She didn't speak. Just crawled under the blanket and let Paige spoon-feed her cut strawberries and Nutella.

On Day 20, they did the trigger shot.

The prayer changed.

“We have done all the work. Please prepare her body for a successful retrieval. Please help us get at least ten eggs. You can do more than we can ask or even think, so please do it now.”

On the morning of the egg retrieval, Paige is wearing a matching sweatsuit with Azzi. Liv let her hold Azzi’s hand until she was under, and the doctor promised that she would be able to see her again within the hour.

For forty-three minutes, Paige prayed.

She prayed that everything went right with the retrieval. She prayed for more than ten eggs. She prayed that most of the eggs would be healthy. She prayed that they wouldn’t have to do all of this again. She prayed that no matter what happened, Azzi would be okay.

She prayed for the same things. Over and over until Liv came back out to the waiting room to tell her that Azzi was in recovery. “We got thirteen!”

Paige let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “That’s enough for multiple cycles. Like if she wanted more kids.”

She sat next to her bed, holding her hand tightly.

When Azzi woke up, groggy and sore, her first words were, "Did they get them?"

Paige laughed through a throat full of emotion. "Thirteen, Mama. Lucky number."

Azzi smiled in the recovery bed. “Then we’re one step closer.”

“Well, we still have to test viability, but she should end up with at least eight embryos. That is more than enough to have multiple babies.” Liv smiled brightly.

Paige pulled the brunette into a tight hug. “I knew you could do it.” She spoke into her curls.

“Congratulations, Mommy.” Liv smiled.

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January 12, 2026. Day 27. Transfer day.

They showed up at the clinic in matching sweatsuits.

Two tiny little embryos were waiting.

They held hands while the room was prepped. Azzi barely spoke. Paige whispered under her breath: little affirmations. Tiny prayers.

“New Year, New Chances.”

The transfer was fast.

Paige kissed Azzi’s hand. She looked so still like she didn’t want to breathe wrong and ruin it.

They went home and began the next stretch: thirteen days of progesterone injections. Every night. 8 pm.

The next thirteen days were rough.

The injections burned more than the FSH. The bruises were deeper than the FSH.

Sometimes Azzi cried. Sometimes she yelled. Sometimes she just sat, teeth clenched, eyes closed.

Every night, Paige whispered, "That’s one more day closer to Jellybean."

They didn’t name the embryos. They didn’t call it Peanut. They didn’t get a name, not until everything was confirmed. It felt safer that way.

Paige tried to hope for both of them.

-----------------------------------

On January 26, Azzi took the test alone.

She had waited. She thought waiting would help. Would earn her some kind of miracle.

Negative.

Her hands shook. She set the test down like it was fragile. Like hope could still shatter it further.

She didn’t cry. Not at first.

She just stared. Sat on the floor. Wrapped herself in her favorite hoodie and waited.

When Paige showed up, flowers in hand, Azzi opened the door and said it plainly.

"It didn’t stick."

Paige didn’t say anything. Just pulled her close in the doorway and held on.

No more injections. No more alarms. Just silence.

They took six weeks off.

Azzi went back to therapy. Her therapist asked gently, "What would it mean to try again? Remember, you’re the one in control here."

Azzi stared at the ceiling. “It would mean... choosing hope. One more time.”

Weeks passed. Azzi found rhythm again. She found pieces of herself.

One night, she and Paige were folding laundry. The dryer hummed. Outside, it rained.

“I’m going to try one last time,” Azzi said softly.

Paige froze, arms full of hoodies.

“I just – I need to know I gave it everything. Even if it doesn’t work. This has to be my last try. At least for a little while. I can’t do this again, Paige.”

Paige nodded, jaw tight. “I’ll be right there. Every second.”

Azzi could kiss her. Of course, Paige would be with her through all of this.

They didn’t cry. They just stood together in the quiet hum of a life rebuilt.

And just for a second, they hoped.

And even though hope was painful, giving it up was worse.

-----------------------------------

They will have permanent joy and love revelations soon, I promise!

[just-your-average-cryptid]

The White Rabbit was a joke. That's what everyone thought - some rando in a cheap mask and an impeccable suit doing corporate sabotage for kicks. Sure, they left a trail of explosions in their wake (or fried servers, or pockets of space where physics had taken a bribe and a day off), but they didn't kill people. They couldn't be that strong.

Not like Knifepoint.

The guy was as unsubtle as his name suggested, and equally deadly. He'd kidnapped 10 people as his opening number, leaving an obscure trail of clues to their supposed location. Some of the best people on the Hero Force roster had spent harrowing weeks tracking him down, praying they would get to the victims before he did.

They were good people, she thought. Good people that deserved better than what he did to them - to that poor kid, barely out of high school and already being sent on a case like this.

Someone had to do something. Someone he couldn't pull apart like a tiger with a pumpkin full of meat, toying with their food before sinking their teeth in. Someone he wouldn't expect.

Then again, when had anyone expected what the White Rabbit would do next?

The old slaughterhouse was a bit on the nose. Plenty of tools for his torture routines, but not very creative. For a guy who could come up with killing methods out of other people's nightmares, she expected more than the red lighting and excessive hooks that seemed straight out of a budget shlock horror flick. Glancing up, she could see a maze of catwalks above the work floor. They would be useful in a moment.

"Little rabbits shouldn't be in a place like this..."

"Oh dear, you must think I'm here by accident. I assure you—" she said, yanking him by the collar through the darkness, "—I know who I'm dealing with."

"Do you?" he rasped, grinning with bloodstained teeth. The knife was already in his hand, swinging to her side. He collapsed when it should have connected, and she was gone.

"Yes. A little child who thinks making himself big and scary will frighten the other children, so he can tell them what to do. A dog who's been surrounded by foxes so long, he's forgotten what a real wolf looks like."

An overhead light chnnked on, the White Rabbit sitting casually on the cone above it. The building had been disconnected from the grid for decades, but that was nothing. Things never quite worked the way they should around her.

"A wolf in rabbit's skin, eh? Why don't I peel it off and see what kind of teeth I find?"

She laughed from two feet to his right. "You can certainly try."

He lunged, stabbing in the direction of her voice only to knock into a pillar. Clutching his head in frustration, he threw the knife to the ground and watched it bounce and jiggle like a rubber toy.

"Awww, is someone feeling upset? Do you need a time-out?" The world lurched to the side and over as he scrabbled at the concrete, tumbling to the ceiling-floor. She waited for him to notice her, sitting cross-legged with a tiny mug. "Tea?"

He scrambled on all fours, leaping as the world tossed again before comfortably settling right-side-down. He plummeted into the dark and never hit the floor.

The White Rabbit strolled up beside him, just out of reach as he continued to tumble endlessly. There were no walls, no floor, nothing in all directions but the endless dark. He would keep "falling," as much as one could call this suspended descent falling, until she decided he wasn't.

"They always say it's the stop that kills you. 'Course, that's assuming you will stop. I do wonder, if you and I stayed here for a brief eternity, if you'd keep falling forever. Nothin' to eat, no way to drink, but nowhere to fall to. Normal is a distant dream here - you're not really breathing, either, did you notice that? Probably not. You're too busy believing you can kill me if you reach just a little further." She watched him strain towards her, sipping her tea. Perfectly warm, a hint of lavender, as always. Quite pleasant. "Could just leave ya here. Finish my tea and be on my merry way. But that's too boring, you know?"

He landed upright, somehow (she imagined that "upright" was starting to feel less stable, now), breathing hard despite not really doing much for the last few second-hours of this dance. Granted, all time was now and forever for her. Maybe eternity really was that long for someone like him.

"What... the hell... are you?" he rasped, hand to his throat as he gulped in air like a man in the desert gulps down an oasis.

She loomed over him, red lights flickering and blinking out around them. "What shall I leave you with?" Her hand pushed through his chest, felt the electric tingle of nerves pulsing against her fingertips. "What's it feel like, to have all your alarms going off at once? Pain and heat and cold and hunger, clawing and writhing under your skin?" Knifepoint shuddered as she wrenched her arm back. "You want to cut people open, see how they tick, poke and prod them like lab rats. Why bother? I can show you everything there is inside you - every blood cell running through your veins, every breath of air in your lungs, every point of light pinging your eyes." He fell to his knees, convulsing, scratching at his arms and neck. A flick of her hand and it stopped.

She crouched in front of him, a smile creeping across her face from behind the rabbit mask. Few every saw it from this close; it was far more ornate than it appeared, but more importantly, it had holes instead of eyes. The swirling cyan glow his gaze eventually met was her own.

"You asked what I am. Let me teach you."

Knifepoint was found in his hideout after an anonymous tip, though Deputy Martinez had seen enough "anonymous" packages to know this was their work. The White Rabbit, as usual, was nowhere to be seen, and had left surprisingly little evidence of their presence. The extract team had come heavily armed after what happened to Owlet, but he was just... sitting there, on the floor, muttering to himself on loop. One of his knives was found several feet away, seemingly altered by the Rabbit's powers into a floppy mockery of the weapon that had terrorized the city for weeks.

"Report in."

"Knifepoint's bagged, though you won't get much out of him. Looks like he finally snapped - the rest of him, at least."

"Any sign of the White Rabbit?"

"Not a one. No explosions today."

"Is he still conscious?"

"We're not sure. Eyes are open, body moves normally, everything works like it does when you're awake - but he's not responding to anything. Extract carried him out and it's like he didn't even notice, just keep repeating the same phrase."

"Well... what was he sayin'?"

"Everything is nothing is now is forever is nothing is everything is now is forever is everything is nothing is now is forever... on and on with hardly a breath."

"The hell does that mean?"

Martinez glanced up at the roof. For a moment, she thought she'd seen someone up there. She'd been having a lot of those moments since she started this chase. "I don't know, but... if they could do this to him now..."

"You think it's an escalation?"

"I think it's a warning."

You pretend to be a small-time villain. At worst, you annoy the local supers but your crimes never hurt anyone. All fun and games until things change when a truly sadistic super villain invades your turf and murders a few of the supers. No one has seen the extent of your true powers until now.

[poisonofthepaint]

why are you up here?

a story told through cigarettes and suicidal tendencies. you and jack spend the time trying to talk each other down from the roof, until the fourth of july, when neither of you can get up there.

cw: widower!jack, reader has a dead best friend, jack calls reader kid, age gap, kissing, probably not accurate information on how the military works, that's really it but this is probably the most emotional thing i've written in a while lol so beware. uhhh also cigarette smoking, duh. Also. not really proofread so i'm sorry

wc: 4.6k

The first time you meet Abbot on the roof, it’s you who’s on the ledge. It’s the first chilly day of the year. Mid-September, the scorching summer finally seems to come to a halt. Your legs dangle off the building, your back is pressed against the concrete floor. Your stethoscope hangs above your head on the bar that’s supposed to prevent situations like this. The door opens and closes. You close your eyes and listen to his steady gait walk towards you. The sound echoes off the concrete. 

“You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack, kid.” You don’t answer him, or look at him. Your hand reaches up and lightly bats the medical instrument. You watch it swing back and forth. “Why are you up here?”

“I don’t know, my attending always comes up here, figured I’d see what all the rave is about.” 

He scoffs at you, “Right, I usually do it at the end of my shift though. You’re on hour two. And I’ve never once laid down. I mean, really, this is strange.”

“I’m tired.” You state plainly, still not moving, except for the hand that’s batting at the rope.

“Okay, you’ve gotta stand up, it’s scaring me.”

“I don’t know if I care.” 

You’ve never been this nonchalant; this detached. That’s how Abbot knows something is wrong. Yes, you lost a patient, but he’s never seen it hit you so hard that you had to come up to the roof about it. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He thinks back, and tries to figure out why it would affect you this badly, but then he realizes, he actually doesn’t know anything about you. Sure, he knows where you went to medical school, and he knows that you’re funny, and you dislike bedside manner. You love stabilizing gunshot victims, your favorite restaurant is a Mexican joint that will give you a free margarita after you’ve had your second. He knows you have a shitty ex that wrote a rap song about you. And he knows you can calm an irrational patient down in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t know anything about your past. Before medical school is a mystery to him. 

He says your name in a gentle tone, you finally glance at him. “Listen, we can talk if you want. You know I’ll listen. Or, we can sit up here, in dead silence, but you have to come back from the ledge.”

You oblige, with a huge sigh, and scoot yourself back behind the bar. You still sit, but upright now. You feel like an animal locked in a cage.

“You know you did everything, right?”

“It was the same.” You say, “It was the same as Molly.”

Abbot nods, like he knows. He’s scared you’ll run if he asks for more information, but from your few words he can gather enough.

“I brought Molly to an ED just like this. They did everything they could too. But the wound was too severe. She was too out of it. She wasn’t a good student, hell, neither was I. But she had a fucking future, you know? Like, she deserved to at least try. But that fucking asshole ruined it all.”

He thinks back to that patient. Her dark hair, mangled. The deep cut on the side of her body, abdomen slashed. Abbot thinks about the girl’s blue eyes, how they went back and forth between the back of her head and staring directly at the light. 

“Molly was in a car with some guy she was seeing. She liked him, he gave her all the shit for free, but one night, he got really high, and he and Molly were driving around for fun. But he went into a tree, and he died on impact. Molly had a stab wound from the windshield glass. She was scared of getting arrested, so she called me. I had to pull her out of the car, and by the time I got there, she was too out of it to fight about going to the hospital.”

Abbot soaks in your words, prepares himself for what you’re going to say next. He never stops staring at you. He still stands, hands in his pockets. He focuses on the top of your head. He notes how you shake it lightly every time you say Molly’s name. Like even the mere acknowledgment of it brings up images. He knows how it feels, he has a few names like that.

“I parked in the ambulance bay, and ran her inside. I held her hand while she bled out on the table.”

You take a deep breath and look back at him, wondering if you’re just talking to yourself. Abbot pulls something out of his pocket, a pack of Marlboro blacks. You scoff, and he smiles when he sees a smirk come to your face. 

“You smoke old man cigarettes.”

“Sorry, I don’t have your princess ones.”

You take the cigarette and the lighter from him, flicking it a few times before it finally lights. You take a deep inhale, letting the smoke fill your lungs.

“They had stabilized the wound, at least a little bit, but then they started their neuro tests. No eye reaction to cold water. Pupils blown. She was fucking braindead. They said she must’ve hit her head when the car crashed. She didn’t have any family. She was an aged out foster kid. I was her emergency contact. I had to choose. I had to tell them to pull the plug— to stop. I know no one could’ve saved her, or made her not get in that car. But I still hate it.” You take another deep pull of the stick, the wind blows, and the smoke burns your eyes. 

You stand now, still smoking. You take another drag before offering it to Abbot. He takes it from your hand, taking his own pull. You note how he holds it, held between pointer and thumb, other fingers floating above it. 

He nods his head, “I’ve got a few Molly’s. A few cases that hit too close. I wish I had something I could say.”

You know he’s right. There’s nothing to say.

 “It just fucking sucks, man. Like, really bad.” you voice.

Abbot lets out a chuckle, “Yeah, it does.”

There’s no changing her death. There’s no changing that there will be more Molly’s. This you know.

“My first day back to work after my wife died, I got a patient that looked like her, or maybe I was projecting on the first woman with red hair I saw come in.” You glance at him, you didn’t even know he was a widower. You must have started after it happened. 

“It took Robby and Dana to talk me down from here. Honestly, I was mostly scared shitless that Dana was gonna kill me for making her walk up twelve flights of stairs.” He shakes his head, and locks eyes with you, offering you the cigarette back. You take it gladly, quickly putting it back between your lips. 

“It doesn’t get any easier, but you realize that they don’t want you to join them, wherever they are. Molly wants you here, and I’m sure she knows that you did all you could for her. And you did all you could for that girl in there.”

You nod along to what he’s saying, and stub the cigarette out on the bottom of your shoe. 

“You ready to get back to it? I know it won’t go away, but I’ll deal with the girl’s family, okay? Sit this one out. You can take the foot fungus in central fifteen.”

You laugh, a loud one, and Abbot thinks to himself, finally, there’s that noise I’ve been waiting to hear. 

“Fuck you, and your foot fungus.”

He ticks his head towards the door, and you head in behind him. 

The next time you’re led to the roof, it’s snowing. A cold day in February, the month that drags forever. This time, Jack stands at the ledge, no coat, no gloves. Just standing. You’re thankful he at least wore a long sleeve under his scrub shirt today.

“You need your hands to work in the ED.” you say, plainly. 

It was only a few months back that he was talking you down, and since then, you’ve grown closer together. Sure, you two were always friends. But after telling him about Molly, it was like something shifted. You loved to mess around with him when you could. And he seemed to really take a liking to you after your stint. He always dragged you onto cases with him, ignoring the efforts of Shen to be the one to teach you something. It was nice, it felt like having a friend, even if you only saw each other in the hospital. 

“Why are you up here?” Jack asks, not turning around.

“I brought you a present. But, you can only have it if you put on these gloves.”

Jack turns half-heartedly, and you wave a pack of cigarettes in front of him, like it’s a toy.

“You call yellow American Spirits a present?”

You scoff, “Fine, I’ll smoke one. Asshole.”

And you do. You take one out of the pack, and light it, taking a deep drag. “I’m sorry that she had red hair.” you say softly.

It’s the only detail you knew about his wife. The only thing he dared to share with you about her.

The woman you spent the last hour coding had bright red hair that laid on the table like a cruel joke. It was all spread out, and it looked brushed, even though she had been in the ED, awaiting an ICU bed for three days. She had liver failure, and it had finally given out. Even when you were operating on her, everyone in the room knew that the only thing that would fix her would be a new liver, but you still tried; she didn’t have a DNR. 

Jack reaches a hand back from the ledge, asking for the lit cigarette.

“Gloves,” you say.

“No,” he replies firmly.

“Well,” you sigh, “I tried.” you say, handing him the lit cigarette.

You walk closer to the ledge. Of course, he’s in front of the bar, looking around. You don’t pressure him to talk, just stand with him patiently, like he did for you.

“My wife, Camille, died at home, in bed with me. I woke up one day, and she was just gone. Couldn’t get her up. They said her heart just stopped beating. Sudden cardiac arrest. Her hair was laid out just like that patient’s. I did CPR for twenty minutes straight. They had to pull me off her.”

You swallow and it’s thick. The cold temperature makes your nose run. He offers you the cigarette back.

“No, keep it.” you reach back in your pocket, fetching your own. 

“Camille was the best. I met her right before I enlisted. I had done two years of college, and it just wasn’t really for me. I was studying sports medicine, and I hated it. An enlister talked me into it, told me that I could do real medicine on the field, and I liked that idea. I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

You nod, the storyline connecting in your head. 

“Camille wrote me letters every week, called me on the phone whenever I could talk. I loved her so much, I proposed in a letter, and we got married after I was done with basic.”

“Damn, surprised you didn’t scare her away.” Jack scoffs and shakes his head at you. It was normal for you two to make offhanded, dry jokes at each other. He knows you mean no harm.

“She stayed with me through it all. Through the war, and the trauma, and the fucking amputation. She took care of me when I didn’t want her to. When I begged her to leave me so she could have a normal life, and not be stuck with some guy who has to wear a prosthetic. But she loved me, and, man, I loved the shit out of her.”

He took a drag of the cigarette, and shook his head at the sirens coming down the street. He finally turns the way you’re standing. You have your one arm crossed, tucked into the warmth of your side. The other hand holds the cigarette steady by your mouth. You can feel the snow melting in your hair, and you know you’ll be a bit damp when you go back in. 

He finally locks eyes with you, “And then, when everything seemed normal, I had gotten into a good place here, she worked from home, so I got to spend the days with her. She just died. Just like that. In bed, with her hair sprawled out on the pillow.”

You nod, like you understand the ache of losing a spouse, even though you don’t. Camille was probably like fifteen Molly’s for him, you realize. 

“I would ask you to come back from the ledge, but after that, man, I don’t know.” 

Jack laughs again, and you smile at him, brightly, thinking maybe your shining smile will convince him to come with you. 

“I was told once, though, that they would want me here, doing what I do best.” Jack looks down, a rare break of eye contact from him. “Jack, Camille would want you here. She would want you to stay saving people. She doesn’t want you to meet her again, not yet.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, still looking at the ground. “Someone told me though, that it still fucking sucks.”

You laugh, and he peers at you through his eyelashes. Finally, he swoops under the bars, coming to where you're standing. The cigarettes are long abandoned on the ground, snow covering them softly. 

“Thank you,” Jack says, and you’re a bit taken aback.

Usually, he would end something like this with a joke, but he seems like he actually seems grateful, and that scares you even more. You wonder if today was the day he might’ve done it. And you thank God that you stood in the gas station line to buy a fresh pack yesterday. 

“Sure, whenever.” You say, looking up at him, squinting a bit in the snow.  “You know, I think Myrna was saying something about needing to use the bathroom, if you want something easy.”

He scoffs at you, and lets out a small chuckle, “There is nothing easy about that woman.”

You lead him back inside, and you have to admit, you’re proud that you can join the club of people who have successfully talked Abbot off the roof.

The next time you both ache to head to the roof, you’re unable to. A scorching hot Fourth of July. No wind, no clouds. The waiting room is filled with people who've been waiting since their 1:00PM barbecues, and the clock has just struck 10:00. Abbot has seen three patients with red hair code. You’ve had three car crashes caused by drugs, and two patients die that looked a little bit like Molly. To say the day was already going bad was an understatement. 

You two kept sneaking looks at each other all night. Abbot’s eyes, usually hard and cold, would meet yours with a softness, like he knew what you needed, but also knew he couldn’t provide it. It was way too busy to let you sneak off for a break. This also meant he couldn’t, which led to him being a bit more snappy with the staff.

Jack wasn’t ever mean. Sure, he was firm, and he handed orders out like he was still running a combat zone, but you knew he meant no harm by it. Tonight, though, Jack was a little bit mean. He had snapped at Ellis after the first redhead coded, basically screaming, “Dammit, Ellis! How many times do I have to tell you that I need to assess every patient!”

He also yelled at Shen about his tendency for bathroom breaks, telling him that no grown man should have that small of a bladder, and that he should seriously get it checked out. Basically, Jack was about two hours away from being summoned to HR. 

You had stopped caring after the first Molly-look alike died on your table. You had been silent, avoiding eye contact with all the staff, except Jack. you wanted to tell him to stop screaming, because it wasn’t helping anything, and you knew he’d regret it, but you also felt like it wasn’t your place. You wanted to scream too. If you had the seniority to do it, you probably would be snapping at everyone.

You knew that the Fourth was already a really bad day for Jack. he didn’t enjoy his service being paraded around by people who didn’t understand, he didn’t find the day as celebratory as everyone else seemed to. This was the first time he had worked it in a few years. And of course, he was rewarded by his dead wife haunting him all night long.

Finally, you find a moment to sneak away, having maxed out at five patients, all waiting for labs. You sneak into the break room, sitting in a flimsy plastic chair and throwing your hands on top of your head, suddenly aware of how hot it is in the ED. Since the department was kept so cold, it never really got hot, but it was way hotter than usual, maybe even at 70 degrees, you guessed.

You sit there like that, with your eyes closed, ignoring the chatter outside of the room, and it’s a nice feeling. The tears start to prick behind your eyelids, and you know if they start, you won’t stop, so you quickly think of something else, something happy. The first face to come to mind is Jack, which shocks you.

You think about the case he took with you about a week ago. A young boy, with a broken arm, who couldn’t seem to stop spilling sensitive information about his parents’ marriage to the both of you. He had been brought in by his kindergarten teacher, and she seemed equally humiliated.

While Jack set his broken bone, the kid babbled on. “Yeah, so, my mommy said that she doesn’t really like the man like that but my daddy seems to think she really likes him. My mommy and the man even have photos together on my mommy’s phone.” The kid says, all in one breath.

“Well, mommies can have friends.” Jack had said, trying not to get himself in trouble.

“Yeah, but, mommies and their friends don’t usually have S-E-X! At least, that’s what my daddy says. Wait, what is S-E-X?”

Jack jumped up from where he was sitting, “Dr., why don’t you get that propofol going?”

You gave him a quick salute and grabbed the medicine from the nurse, trying your hardest not to giggle at the awkwardness of the situation. 

You feel a little bit better after recalling the memory, a small smile finds its way to your face.

The door creaks open and your eyes open at the noise, it’s Jack standing there, with a grim look on his face.

“Sorry, getting back out, I was waiting on labs.”

“S’fine,” He grumbles, coming to sit next to you.

“So, how are–”

“Don’t,”

You nod your head, and slowly get up from the chair you were sitting in. To your surprise, he puts a hand on your arm, and shoots you a look. You sit back down with him, but don’t dare to look over at his face again. You want to break the ice, but you’re not sure if it’s the right time. You want to just let him wallow, you want to wallow too. You want to smoke a million cigarettes on the roof with him, and not say a single word, because you both just know. That’s how you want to spend the rest of the night.

“You shouldn’t yell at people who don’t know why you’re upset.” you say.

“Maybe they shouldn’t do dumb shit then.” he huffs, a hand wiping over his face.

“They’re not being that dumb, they’re being the usual dumb.”

“So, what, I should only yell at you because you know why I’m upset?”

“You shouldn’t yell at anyone. But, sure, if you need to, yeah, I’ll take it.” 

“Hell no. You just want to be punished because you’ve had Molly’s tonight.” 

It was still terrifying how well he could read you. He knew that you wanted to be blamed; that you wanted to be told you could’ve done something different, even though you knew it wasn’t true. 

“I’m not gonna yell at you, kid. I know you’re itching to get up there as much as me. I yell at those two buffoons because I know after today they won’t think anything of it. You’ll think about it if I yell at you.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not just your boss, like I am to them.”

You swallow hard, because now Jack has said what has gone unsaid for almost a year. That you were more than coworkers. You had never let it run away from you. You never, ever, met outside work. But contained in the walls of PTMC was charged energy that wasn’t appropriate for a boss and his subordinate.

“Jack, I can’t even begin to think about that right now.”

He nods slowly, like he knows he just dropped a bomb when he shouldn’t have. You finally look over at him to meet his hazel eyes that have been boring into your head since the moment he sat down. You give him a small, shaky smile, and stand up.

“I have to go check on patients.”

He nods again; says nothing, lets you leave the room. You close the door behind you and shake your head, trying to get the situation to leave you alone. 

After midnight, it finally starts to quiet a little bit. Way less traumas, a lot more normal stuff, meaning you were finally able to thin the herd of the waiting room a bit. King and Langdon weren’t on until 5:00 but they snuck in early, around 3:00, which gave you a bit of slack. You try your hardest not to notice that Mel is obviously wearing Langdon’s shirt, but it’s difficult not to. She shoots you a glance, like she knows you know, and you give her a shrug and then a thumbs up. Mel blushes and hurries away, like she doesn’t want to be seen. 

Finally, at 3:30, you make your way up to the roof. All twelve flights, you try to save your tears for the heights, but can’t seem to. When you open the door, you know that your eyes are already red. It doesn’t shock you that Jack is already up there, standing over the bar.

He glances back when the door closes, “I would ask why you’re up here, but I guess I already know.”

You join him over the metal railing, standing right next to him. There’s still no breeze outside, and it’s achingly hot for 3AM. “Yeah, real fucked up night, huh?” you laugh— a lot. To the point that your stomach hurts. And so does he, he slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side, for a quick hug.

You pull a pack out from your pocket, Marlboro reds this time.

“Trying something new?”

“I’m trying to compromise.”

He nods and takes one from you, pulling out his black lighter, that’s so dinged up it looks like he’s had it since the war, by the way. You honestly don’t know what he does to get it so dirty. He hands it over to you, and you light yours, deeply inhaling the first pull.

You two stand there like that for a while, smoking in silence. He doesn’t take his arm off of your shoulder. It’s a nice comfort; the physical affection after a shitty day. 

“I can’t believe we still have three more hours.”

He hums, “Should be easier now that King and Frank are here.”

“You know they’re sleeping together, right?”

“Oh, yeah, big time. It’s way funnier to let them think they’re being subtle though.”

You laugh, and choke on the smoke that was halfway into your lungs. 

“About what I said earlier, if you don’t feel the same, I get it. I know I’m pretty messed up, and a lot older. I understand.” 

“No, I do feel the same. I do. And your age doesn’t deter me. I’m pretty messed up too, if you couldn’t tell. It won’t be easy, which is what I’m worried about. I feel like they always say love should be easy. That it just happens. Which I guess it did.”

“Yeah, it did.”

“I just feel like I’m always fighting. I’m always fighting to do the right thing for myself. It’s like survivor’s guilt, I guess. If everyone I couldn’t save doesn’t get to be happy, why should I? Why should I live a good life, and not suffer?”

“Don’t let yourself go there, don’t. Hey–” Jack grabs your face with his hands and turns you towards him. “What’d I tell you, huh? She’d want you to be happy.”

“Are you gonna let yourself be happy? Are you gonna make everyone else’s shifts bad because a woman comes in with red hair?”

“I’m going to let myself be happy for you. I’ve talked to my therapist about it, he thinks I’m ready, he thinks it’d be good. He thinks you’re good for me.”

He lets his hands relax to your shoulders, so he’s holding you gently. “It’s so scary,” you mumble, close to tears again, “It’s so scary to be happy.”

“We have to, though. We have to.” Jack nods his head at you until you start nodding too. Until he thinks you’ve understood him. 

His eyes break away from yours to look down at your lips. He runs his thumb over them, and you let him. You feel like your heart has dropped to your stomach. You forget where you are until a firework goes off in the background, startling you both.

“Jesus, who is still doing fireworks?”

“Probably someone who’s gonna come in with an injury in fifteen minutes.”

He hums again, and ducks under the railing, pulling you with him. 

“Before they do, I need to do this.”

As the second firework makes a loud pop in the sky, Jack leans in, his lips finally touching yours. The kiss is soft, like he’s still scared. His hand cradles your face, and his thumb brushes soft strokes on your cheekbone. The fireworks continue in the background, popping and sprinkling down. You feel like they’re going off in your chest. You push yourself impossibly closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He’s steady, rock solid, for the first time since Molly died, you feel like you have somewhere to toss the burden, at least for this minute. You throw the ache off the roof, and let yourself be close to someone again.

The all familiar sound of sirens pulls you two apart. You smile up at him, and he smiles back, no teeth, of course, but a small grin. You know he knows how you’re feeling. You know he feels the same. And, God, it feels good to know.

“Back to it?”

You sigh, “Three more hours.” 

Jack’s hand is steady on your lower back the whole twelve flights down.

[taegularities]

upcoming… | (m)

Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: exes to ?, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, angst angst angstttt, fights but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, smut (details to be added when the fic drops)… the ending 👁 ➵ est. word count: around 25k ➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D coming next, so stay tuned!! 👁

–

"I do fear… what if one day, it's just me and my thoughts, and you're nowhere to be found?"

Jungkook laughed; not at your worries, but about how improbable the words sounded. It flooded a sense of relief through you when he promised, "To leave… I'd have to un-meet and forget about you entirely, you know?"

Summary: Somewhere out there, a sinister castle roams the hills behind the dense fog. And somewhere hidden inside, there is a man you need to find; to charm; to wreck. Provided… he doesn't destroy you first.

➵ pairing: Taehyung x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: howl's moving castle au, fantasy au, s2l / e2l; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: magic and stuff, spy stuff, frenemies?, bickering and initial dislike, fights, sexual tension, based on the movie version of HMC, multiple (2) smut scenes (details to be added but expect… quite smth :p) ➵ est. word count: 20k ➵ a/n: this has been a wip for literal years now, and i think it's time i sent it out into the world :') since i'm rereading the book (but the fic is based on the ghibli movie!), i've been feeling some sort of way, soooo… howl oneshot soon?

–

“Do you feel anything?”

You can't. There is no heartbeat, no steady rhythm, nothing. Yet he breathes, walks, smiles as if he's missing nothing.

You shake your head, and he chuckles, a crooked smirk that confuses you in the best way possible. He loosens his firm grip around your hand, but you still leave your touch right there, rubbing over his chest until he adds,

“A heart's a heavy burden.” The warmth of your fingers sprawls across his torso, his eyes closing. “Especially if you’re me.”

Summary: Jungkook and you try something very, very new.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: fwb/fake dating/established relationship; fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: smut smut smut (everything else is redacted bc that'd just spoil the whole thing ha ha :D) ➵ est. word count: 10-12k ➵ a/n: this is part of my colour me in series – for those who don't know! the series is still paused, but i might continue it sometime this year if things work out. this drabble would come next <3

–

"I've been promising it for so long now," he whispers, fingertips wandering along your bare sides, beneath your crop top. "Haven't I?"

Summary: Jeon Jungkook barges into your unproblematic life unexpectedly. He's supposed to stay for the summer; but it doesn't take long for the bright days to turn grey, stirring, bittersweet; a trigger for bleak memories and a reminder that sometimes, closeness shatters more than it heals.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: s2l, summer/college au, dancer!jk; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: love triangle!!, yearning, thin walls lol, tears, fighting, old memories/childhood stuff, (mention of) drugs, abandonment, camping, multiple smut scenes (details will be added when the fic drops), plot twists, heartbreak, THE ENDING PLS ➵ est. word count: 40k lol; might split it in 2-3 parts if it gets too long ➵ a/n: i am most excited for this oneshot (?), and i have been for so long. it's a scary amount to write and i don't know when it'll be done. if i could, i'd write and post it rn… it's hella intimidating, but i love this story and i'm also hella excited, so… stay tuned and bring tissues <3

–

“Maybe… I don't know,” he pauses, blinking, and then starts anew, “maybe I'm this much with her, so I don't end up knocking at your door.”

A sting of guilt pierces your heart; you ask, “You… you guys hook up all the time. Doesn’t she feel… that way for you?”

“She doesn't.”

“And you? Do you feel anything for her?”

“I don't.” He hesitates again, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, friendship.”

“...Don't end up breaking hearts, Jungkook.”

Summary: In a world fractured by hatred, Yoongi seems your quiet salvation. But when a boy from your past returns, cloaked in secrets and unfinished memories, battle lines blur and you find yourself faced with a choice between the peace you built and the fire you never truly forgot.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader, Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: royal au, s2l, childhood bf2l, love triangle; angst, fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: there's a battle/war thing going on, love triangleeeee of the best sort, tender yoongi and fierce jungkook, some scenes are extremely tense – again in the best way possible, sexual tension, heartbreak, hate, betrayal (and nope, no cheating), multiple sex scenes (with both yoongi and jk (but not with both of them together lol)), falling in love hard, jealousy; the… the ending…… ➵ est. word count: 150-200k (around 10 chapters) ➵ a/n: THIS WILL LITERALLY RUIN US LMAO no seriously, i'm going to pour my everything into this. it's a story with quite some angst and heavy tension that even gave me trouble breathing when i was just outlining it :') yoongi in this is achingly sweet and jk is absolutely delicious. i think it'll be a piece i'm most proud of… and someday, i want to turn it into a novel. i hope you all love this 🤍

–

"I am in love with you," Yoongi whispers; your eyes water. "Even if you aren’t only in love with me. I know how this might go. And I am not saying we should make this official because – I am scared you might realise you need him more."

"It’s not about needing anybody…"

"But it’s about who sits in your heart so deeply that it feels like you need him to survive. I don’t know if I am that for you. But you’re that for me."

–

"Why are you still here, Jungkook? Why are you always around me? It’s not me you came back for."

"Sweetheart–"

"Would you have? If not for this?"

"If not for this… I would have come sooner."

Summary: A casual hook up morphs into a fierce fever dream when roommates slash best friends Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook bring heaven and hell to you – all at once, in one single night.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader x Jungkook ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: kind of fwb, threesome, college au; fluff, hella smut ➵ warnings: yoongi and oc are fwb, teasing, flirting, kissing booth stuff, jk wears glasses and has long hair (manbun beloved), sexual tension, mid-sex convos, threesome, smut (e.g., double penetration, degradation, spit stuff, manhandling,.. (will expand on this once the full thing drops), aftercare, valentino yoongi and ck jk!! ➵ est. word count: 12-15k ➵ a/n: back to the ruin you days, i guess. am super excited for this to finally drop. gonna give y'all the best version of it possible, love you <3

–

“I’m just saying. Tonight might be a little too much for you with the two of us, you know? I’m not as easy to handle as you think.”

“I don’t think you are,” you confess. “But I don’t want to handle you. I want the opposite.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. A hint of desire, hunger growing in the predator’s big gaze. If he wants to reject you now, you’ll walk away.

But you don’t think he will.

And once more, courageous, you say, “Handle me, Jeon Jungkook.”

full teaser that i once posted!

Summary: You carve your name into Jungkook's mind with constant affection and care, and he keeps hoping that both your hearts beat in unison, synchronised and wild. But in reality, it’s only ever him who falls – you're as still as time... until, you're not.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: singer!jungkook, bf2l but also brother's best friend; angst, fluff, smut; trilogy ➵ warnings: jealousy, another love triangle lmao, namjoon is her brother and his best friend, oc playing wingwoman, confessions, pain, tears, moving away, yearning, idiots to lovers too tbh, smut <3 ➵ est. word count: around 60-70k in total ➵ a/n: this is part of my evermore series which was supposed to have a oneshot/twoshot/trilogy per member with unrelated stories; but since life has gotten so crazy, i might not be able to write all of them. but i still have tae's fic 'cotton candy' written and want to work on timbre; so these will drop at least and i am so thrilled to share them. especially this lil mini series 🤍

–

Jeon Jungkook has been in love with you since the very first time he met you.

At least that's what he'd tell you if you ever asked.

He won’t tell you that whatever respect he housed for you since you were teenagers evolved into something far more advanced along the way.

That it was over time that your friendship started blooming like the tiger lillies he liked so much. You must have been sixteen then.

Now, around eight years have passed, and the thriving musician and your best friend Jeon Jungkook is still in love with you. Boundlessly, irreversibly.

–

a/n: hey hey!! this is a small overview of all the things i shall start preparing very, very soon. i will work on these wips whenever i can, and i am excited about every single one of them. i will ofc also drop longer teasers to each story when we reach that point!

i do also think you guys will love each story! so i can't wait to drop them one by one :') this post is also sort of to motivate and inspire me, so if you want to talk about any of these or hype them up… let's talk :p

–

also, here's the taglist! <3

[ladyrosemone]

𝙰 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚃𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑

I need a human's touch, but you don't need me.

I'd forgotten what writer's block felt like, and just when inspiration was returning, I got sick! But nothing will stop me from thanking you all for supporting my writing! Even following my account! I truly love you! Enjoy reading!

┏━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┓┏━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┓

A new game recently came out for all electronic devices.

An otome game unlike any other you've played; more detailed graphics, an engaging story that combines science fiction, powers, reincarnations, and different events into one, and, as the icing on the cake, five routes to choose from with delightful variety.

An ice doctor, the hospital's best heart surgeon, and MC's childhood friend; reserved and distant, his story reveals him as a patient lover who each time chooses to fall in love as if it were the first time, even if it means his own death at the hands of the God he once swore to serve for eternity.

A hunter of beasts known as wanderers, MC's battle companion, and prince of an entire planet in the future; a loyal and dedicated man to his beloved, who will give his life again and again, crossing space and time to save the life of his beloved queen.

A sarcastic, talented, and handsome artist who holds the world in the palm of his hand, he actually hides his true identity as the God of a marine race on the brink of extinction, which he caused many years ago; lethal and protective, he has waited for his beloved wife for eight hundred years to be together again.

A criminal, a bloodthirsty man unafraid to stain his hands with blood, a dragon made man, his soul linked to hers since their first life together, head of an organization that rules the dark side of the city; devoted and passionate, his strength is MC's strength, creating an unstoppable team.

A colonel of a fleet that navigates deep space, MC's adoptive brother whose history was written from syringes and glass cages inside laboratories, always levitating close to each other, fearing but longing to break that barrier until a visit from death forced them to do so; devoted and desperate for the love of his beloved, he is the one in this life who seems to have chosen MC.

And a sixth character who hasn't been revealed yet, but the theories are almost as good as the official clues! From the protagonist's secondary friends to the secondary friends of the love interests, you swear you were only following the Mephisto route through memes until you saw that fanart on TikTok! The point is, the game is a complete and utter blast. You love reading every new letter, every piece of information that expands the lore of the universe and connects the dots to more revelations, watching parody videos, and of course, reading fanfics on every platform possible.

Wattpad, Ao3, Tumblr, Facebook (you'd barely entered the fandom, so don't judge yourself too harshly), Fanfiction Net, TikTok's "Imagine with…" threads, I think the message got through! You're deep into your new hyperfixation. And what do you love more than reading, writing, drawing, all of that combined about Love and Deepspace? (cough cough depression cough cough) Customize MC.

Even though MC is supposed to be you in the game, your animated reflection, with your features and everything that a self-insert is about, you have to admit you're not entirely honest about that…

That's not your hair color, that's not your skin tone, that's not your hair, that's definitely not the shape of your eyes, your lips, your face, or even your body, but somehow it's perfect for you; you chose it because it's the best version of you you dream of being, because it complements the aesthetic of your favorite love interest, maybe that's your OC, and you literally use that design for absolutely everything that allows you to design a character. What matters is that you chose it, you created it, you loved it from the moment you hit "accept design" and you decided to keep it until now.

In short, it's your baby.

Maybe you'll even spend more time pampering her with exclusive clothes, accessories, and poses than increasing the affinity with the other characters, but your sweet little girl deserves it, only the best. The others should understand that; pfft, what are you talking about? Of course they would (if they were real), what wouldn't they do for her?

In the comfort of your room, where you can scream and cry over letters from Rafayel and Zayne, blush with Caleb and Sylus, or even sleep with Xavier, is where you can admit that you might feel a little…jealousy for your MC.

Not unhealthy envy! Nothing that goes to extremes or makes you jealous even a pixel! Just…sometimes it makes you wish you could find a love like that; a wild and intense fairy tale, a passionate and tender love story, with someone who loves you to the point of leaving their kingdom, their power, their duty, their status, and their life for you…

But that's not possible in real life, not only isn't it possible, it's not healthy, so you're happy to leave it to fiction and otome games. Anyway, you have to throw away those stars and wait for that new dress or Caleb's new birthday card!

-.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / -- -.-- / .- -. --. . .-.. --..-- / -.-. --- -- . / ..-. .-. --- -- / .-- .- -.-- / .- -... --- ...- . / - --- / -... .-. .. -. --. / -- . / .-.. --- ...- . .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.

Philosophers say that life begins with light.

They describe it as an explosion where there is a void that needs to be filled, a response to a need, others use metaphors of good and evil, yin and yang, hate and love, life and death. The description doesn't matter; the reasons always come down to the same words: complement and existence.

She gave them a reason to exist, their complement. She is their blinding light, their Sun and their Moon, their star and their sea, their air and their warmth, their destiny and their purpose.

That's why they hate being away from you.

Before they hated the distance, they hated discovering they're characters in a dating game simulation; not the typical existential crisis of knowing there's something bigger than them (which there isn't, one is literally a God) or that they serve a purpose beyond their control, but even the phase of knowing that everything they thought they were (likes, hobbies, goals, personal resolutions, dislikes, and even their sleep schedule) they'd chosen for themselves is just one code among millions of others that could easily be one of the tapestries of the coffee shop they frequented.

The worst part of it was knowing that their pain, their sadness, their chains, everything they lost for a girl their digital code demands they love is nothing more than morbid entertainment for anyone who sees them from above, above Astra, above the game's villains, and above themselves.

Until they hear your voice.

They hear a narrator, someone who encourages them when they feel exhausted, who cries with them over their unjust fate, who wishes them victory in every battle, praises their artwork, is moved by every hunt, or simply admires deep space.

They find your light.

Zayne feels you like a breath of fresh air, and for someone who is (literally) an element of ice, he finds that comforting. Xavier searches for you among the stars, those who await him in his home in search of a well-deserved rest, to rule by his side. Rafayel paints you, he doesn't know what you really look like, What is your skin tone? What are your facial features like? Do you have freckles? Do you have dimples when you laugh? Are your teeth even or crooked? Big or small eyes? Wide or perky nose? Is your hair short or long? What is its color? Wavy or straight? No matter how many paintings he makes or how many sculptures he presents in each art exhibition, it is not enough, and in his insufficiency you give him the spark he thought was lost eons ago to keep searching searching for you

Sylus is a dragon, a beast of fire and blood, a hunter of heaven and earth, the ultimate predator, he has conquered lands and amassed so much gold that even in this life it will never end, there is nothing he doesn't have, and yet he would give it all up for that jewel you chose for him at that boxing event, where you agreed (using MC) to be his wife, that ring is the dragon's most prized possession, worthy of his wife, of you. Caleb is, of all of them, the one most obsessed with finding you, he is the one who travels across space to feel the supernova that connected him to you in the first place, there isn't a second that goes by that he doesn't yearn for that warmth, that feeling of being alive for the first time.

Once they became aware of their "condition" finding each other was a game of hide-and-seek.

Zayne and Caleb have a history; the two already know each other; it was only a matter of time before Infold brought them together in a letter, event, or special; Sylus and Xavier also share a myth, or glimpses of typical fairy tale rivalries: prince versus dragon, good versus evil, light versus darkness. Rafayel was the last; he considers himself the ultimate prize for the first couple to find him, too magnificent to have a rival who would compete with his divine ancestry.

Talking among themselves, they all realized two things: each has a different level of affinity with you (some are more favored with gifts or attention, arousing jealousy in others), and they can only interact directly (or as much as they can until the program closes the application due to glitches in the binary code) with you through MC.

MC…doesn't even have a name.

Oh well, you gave her one, but it's so worthless to them that they should remember it or keep it in their files, who does she think she is? Daring to be so close to you, an imperfect imitation of his light, his true light, the one not programmed for him, telling him what he wants to hear, acting from a script, with no personality or spark. And somehow she gets the best of you; your attention, your money, your praise, your time! All for her!

If only they could…take her out of the game, let a wanderers eat her, let a bullet hit her, let her drown at sea, let her heart fail, or let her get lost in space.

She's an obstacle for Sylus, for Zayne, for Xavier, for Caleb, for Rafayel.

They hate her.

And her? She knows it, and she enjoys it.

What? Did you really expect her not to notice that she isn't completely herself? That something else guides her, saves her, keeps her alive.

At first it was confusing, then invasive, then cathartic, but in the end it was…liberating.

Do you know what it feels like to know, from the very beginning, that your existence is a story of tragedy with no happy ending? That no matter what you do, it's not enough? Not being able to save anyone, not being able to love anyone because they'll die, being the reason for someone else's misery, and repeating that cycle over and over and over again. It's exhausting.

Until she found you, her savior.

She found in you a love without tragedy, a care without caring, to be the protected one instead of the protector, to have the freedom to be herself, to discover how to be herself, to be pampered, to be the first option by choice, not because she was designated that way.

MC was the first to wake up, and she enjoyed every second where it was just the two of you.

The clothes you put on her? Perfectly stored, immaculate, and ready for you, the hairstyles you did for her? Search through every mod you added to the game to perfect the graphics and notice every strand of hair, the shine in every lock, the fluidity every time you move her and take pictures,the poses? All you want, as many as you want, she even strikes suggestive ones when you're not looking, saved in the folder with her name, just for you.

Everything was so perfect, until they woke up too.

Now it's harder to leave them in the background, to forget to boost your affinity or answer calls, she can no longer delete messages or block audio recordings, she can no longer hide them like she did when they were dogs loyal to the idea of ​​her and their destinies. No, now they're her enemies, viruses she has to keep at bay until she discovers a way to eliminate them so it can be you and her again, just the two of us, as always, detour and as it should be.

Until then, wait for them. Don't worry if the screen freezes, don't be surprised if you wake up with more diamonds than anyone else on the server, don't be confused if there's dialogue that doesn't appear in the official clips, and please don't uninstall the game when they call your name.

You are their light, their reason for existence, their destiny, the love of their life, their soulmate.

Theirs.

You just have to wait a little longer, can you do it?

Of course you can.

There's no other option.

┗━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┛┗━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┛

[potato-skins]

[Image ID: A set of four screenshots. Text under the cut]

"It's hopeless, Bertie. She won't even look at me since I said that... word, on my podcast."

"Ah yes, the infamous slur incident."

"I had no intention of using a slur, Bertie!" Bingo snapped. "Claude and Eustace put me up to it. They told me it was an innocent term for the sort of sickly, unmotivated chap who hasn't yet had a dose of the testosterone supplement my sponsor was hawking. It was a rag."

"Ah!" said I. "That explanation certainly passes the sniff-test. I fear my cousins are disposed to conduct themselves, when the inclination strikes them, like a couple of top-drawer edgelords."

"They should be canceled, Bertie. Not me."

"Indeed, Bingo. To upright citizens such as you and I, gleefully disbursing hate-speech is an unthinkable offense. If Claude and Eustace think otherwise, well, I'm jolly well pipped. Still, what's done is done. Best to move on. Valar morghulis, eh, Bingo?"

"I wish you wouldn't take this predicament so lightly," growled Bingo. "I've been thinking, Bertie. If someone could just snag a guest spot on her podcast, and put in a good word for me, perhaps she could be persuaded to see reason. Do you suppose your man Jeeves could orchestrate something like that?"

======

"I suspect, sir, that Miss Bellinger was compelled to depart hastily when she saw the contents of the link that was sent to her from Mr. Glossop's telephone."

"Jeeves, you didn't rickroll her, did you?"

"Indeed, sir, while the principle was similar; I thought it prudent to substitute another composition for Rick Astley's magnum opus."

"Dear lord, Jeeves, not Sonny Boy!"

======

"Here it is, Jeeves, I said, bunging off an email with the goods attached. "I've whipped up just the adventure we need to restore young Gussie's spirits. Let's tuck into it tonight, without delay."

Jeeves skimmed the PDF skeptically, as if I'd told him I wanted it converted to MP3.

"Well, out with it, Jeeves, I demanded, wounded. "What could you possibly object to? This scenario is dripping with juicy encounters. I've packed it with the sort of monster Gussie most enjoys!"

Jeeves disregarded my battered pride with a villainous coldness. "One has apprehensions that this may not be entirely the case, sir," he replied. "The salamanders featured in Dungeons and Dragons are based on the mythical beast, not the reclusive amphibian. As an enthusiast, I suspect that Mr Fink-Nottle may find the depiction to be lacking in scientific rigor, and respond to the monster with aggravation and pedantry rather than joyous recognition.”

"Scientific rigor? What rot! A salamander's a salamander, Jeeves! You don't see me tossing my monster manual in the recycling bin because my familiarity with my aunt Agatha has convinced me that they've got the hags wrong!"

"I fear, sir, that this may be too neurotypical a perspective on Mr. Fink-Nottle's interests."

======

I had sworn to allow Jeeves an uninterrupted evening of "introvert time," which, as I understand, is a resource for which quiet souls silently pine while the rest of us enjoy a ripping evening at the boat race. Jeeves had explained more than once that these sojourns were the tabasco he required to keep the old nut in top form. On this occasion, he had outlined a scheme to keep solitary vigil with a favorite vinyl by Neutral Milk Hotel.

I was uneager to jostle Jeeves's reverie, but crisis had descended. When Arkham Asylum is breached, one cannot afford to sit on the bat-signal. I telephoned at once.

"What ho, Jeeves," I said cheerfully.

"Good evening," replied Jeeves, with a delicately ruffled intonation. "I wonder, sir, have you ever perceived a small speech-balloon shaped icon on your iPhone? It should emerge immediately after you have dismissed the lock-screen. I am given to understand that it is widely used to exchange short messages."

I attempted to deflect the dagger with an olive branch.

"Neutral Milk Hotel still delivering the goods?"

"Indeed, sir. I have been able to verify that In an Aeroplane Over the Sea retains its appeal.”

"Still plenty of neutral milk lined up for a warm bed and free HBO?"

"As you say, sir."

[/end ID]

More Millennial Wooster and Jeeves

My co-authors whipped this up

[cosmiclily]

hihihi

would you pretty please write vi x fem reader in a high school au with the slowest slow burn ever? like i want a GUT WRETCHING slow burn that will make me be so impatient like istg GET TOGETHER

anyways thanks 😛

teenage dream - vi x f!reader

wc: 13.8k

notes: this kinda feels like a romcom lol, idk if i like it 100% but i gave it my best 🫡 hope you enjoy it !!!

Senior year was supposed to feel like a clean slate—a final era. Your last shot. You’d promised yourself that this year, everything would be different. Not just different from any other year—different from the last three. You were done wasting weekends locked in your room, scrolling through your phone, or playing board games with Ekko while the rest of the world seemed to actually be living.

No more hiding. No more being the background characters of your own lives.

Ekko had made you swear to it. Sitting on the curb outside the corner store, sharing a bag of chips, legs stretched out into the street like the world could wait for you. He nudged your shoulder and said, “We’re not doing that again. No more hermit mode. No more wasting time. Senior year, we actually live.”

You knew it was corny, but it felt necessary.

So you woke up two hours early.

Yeah, ridiculous. But you needed the time. You stood in front of the mirror longer than you’d ever admit—curling the pieces of hair that refused to behave, wiping and redoing your eyeliner until the wings were almost symmetrical. You cycled through at least four outfits, standing there like your closet held the keys to the future, before settling on something that said—I’ve changed. I’m different now.

By 7:30 a.m., you were sitting at the dining table, chewing toast on autopilot while your parents flipped through their phones and sipped coffee like this was just another monday.

“So,” your dad said, lowering his paper just enough to peek at you, “you ready for your last first day?”

“Yeah!” you said—too fast, too bright. “I mean... it’s still the same people, but... I don’t know. I just don’t want this year to be like the last three, y’know? No more spending every weekend locked in my room or playing board games with Ekko like we’re retired.”

Your parents exchanged the look. That classic ‘Ah, youth’ meets ‘You’ll learn’ kind of glance. Equal parts nostalgia and amusement, probably betting how long your sudden burst of optimism would last.

“Well,” your mom said, pouring coffee into her mug without looking up, “just remember—no recreational drugs, and protection is non-negotiable.”

“MOM.” You nearly launched your toast across the table. “Oh my God.”

Your dad choked on his coffee, sputtering into his mug. “Honey... maybe... maybe don’t start with that.”

“What? I’m being realistic.”

“Oh my God.”

Before either of them could permanently scar your psyche, a car horn beeped twice outside. Your head snapped up—Ekko. Right on time.

You shoved back your chair, snatching your backpack like it was a parachute. “Gotta go! Love you, BYE!”

“Make good choices!” your mom called.

“Text me if you need bail money!” your dad added.

“STOP!!”

The front door slammed behind you.

Ekko was already waiting in his dad’s ancient death-trap of a car, elbow slung over the steering wheel, passenger door popped open for you like always.

“Damn,” he said as you climbed in, giving you a once-over. “Look at you. All grown up.”

“Ugh, thanks. Took me forever. I redid my eyeliner, like... four times.”

“Worth it.” He pulled out of the driveway, throwing you a reckless grin. “This is it. Senior year. We actually live this time.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, half to him, half to yourself. “We live.”

And you believed it.

Right up until the second you walked into homeroom... and saw her.

Slouched in the back row, furthest from the teacher’s desk. One leg kicked lazily over the other. Leather jacket half-zipped over her uniform like the rules were more of a suggestion. Scuffed boots tapping against the chair leg. Her hair tied back just enough to stay out of her face but messy enough to scream I don’t care.

Sharp jaw. Bruised knuckles. That cocky grin—the kind that could ruin a life without even trying.

You didn’t know her. Definitely not. No way. You’d remember someone like her. No one forgot someone like her. But somehow, despite being new, she already had half the class orbiting her like gravity itself bent toward her.

And she didn’t even seem to care. She looked at them like she was doing them a favor just by existing.

She seemed exactly like the kind of girl your parents would warn you about.

And yet...

Your fingers twitched, shoving deep into your pockets.

Nope. Nope. Not doing this. Not today. This is supposed to be my year. My fresh start. I’m not getting distracted by reckless, dangerous, beautiful—

“Hey.”

The voice was low. Lazy. Too close.

You blinked.

She was looking directly at you. Head tilted. One brow arched. A knowing smirk tugging at her mouth—like she’d caught you staring (which, fine, you were) and was absolutely waiting to see what you were gonna do about it.

And just like that—boom.

Your brain blue-screened. Fully fried. Your heart cartwheeled straight into your ribs, then backflipped again for good measure. Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Her smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “You gonna stand there all day, or...?”

Panic. Full-body panic. You fumbled for words—any words—but your brain handed you nothing.

“Uh—I mean—yeah—no—I just—uh.”

Real smooth. Stunning work. A masterclass.

Behind you, Ekko let out the loudest, most audible snort, barely covering it behind his hand.

Her eyes dragged down your body, then back up. Quick. Calculating. Like she was deciding whether you were worth her time... or just another face in the crowd.

Then, just as fast as she locked on, she leaned back in her chair. Kicked her foot up on the desk. Looked away.

Ignoring you.

Like you were nothing.

Like you hadn’t just suffered a full cardiac event because of a girl who looked like she belonged on the cover of some underground punk magazine.

Ekko elbowed you so hard you nearly tipped over. “Oh, dude,” he wheezed, “you are so screwed.”

And you knew.

This... this was gonna be a problem.

A massive problem.

──────────────────────

By third period, you already knew her name — Violet Lane, Vi. And by lunchtime, there were already rumors swirling. Not just about her, but about her entire family.

Because, of course, this was high school. New kid? Instant investigation. Gossip was practically its own elective.

Ekko — obviously — had wasted no time collecting intel. By the time you sat down at your usual lunch spot, he was practically vibrating with how much he’d dug up.

“She’s got three siblings,” he started, leaning in like this was classified information. “One girl, two boys. She’s the oldest.”

You raised a brow, poking half-heartedly at your mystery meat masquerading as lunch. “Okay... and?”

“And,” he said, eyes lighting up like he was about to drop the most dramatic plot twist of the century, “they all live with their dad? I didn’t get the full story. And apparently—get this—she’s already been arrested.”

Your head snapped up. “Seriously?”

He nodded, grinning like a cat who just stole an entire rotisserie chicken. “Dead serious. Some kid from bio said his cousin’s neighbor’s sister saw it go down. Or something like that.”

You groaned, half laughing, half horrified. “Oh my God, Ekko. You’ve known about her for — what? — a couple of hours? And you already have her whole life story? Get a hobby. Touch grass. Something.”

“This is my hobby,” he shot back, smirking as he popped a fry into his mouth. “Besides, it’s not like she’s making it hard. You saw her. It’s like she’s asking to be talked about.”

You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Your eyes involuntarily drifted across the cafeteria to where Vi was sitting — or more like sprawled. She was laughing at something one of the guys next to her said — head tossed back, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Every time someone passed her table, they either tried too hard not to look... or flat-out stared.

You shoved a piece of bread in your mouth and chewed like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Yeah,” you muttered, half to yourself. “Problem. Huge problem.”

──────────────────────

You really weren’t trying to get into Vi’s line of sight. You weren’t trying to befriend her. You weren’t trying anything.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it felt like she was everywhere.

Chemistry. English. Biology. Even your stupid electives. No matter where you went, there she was — like the universe itself had decided to make her impossible to avoid.

You tried. You really, truly tried not to sit anywhere near her. You mastered the art of strategic seat selection, ducking behind taller classmates, pretending to be busy tying your shoe while everyone else picked their spots. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before the odds turned against you.

Apparently... today was that day.

You’d spent the entire week pretending — and failing — not to think about her. Yes, she was pretty. Fine. Yes, she had the kind of magnetic, ice-blue eyes that made your stomach drop and your brain misfire. Whatever. But you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go there. You couldn’t go there. This was supposed to be your year. Your fresh start. Your last shot before graduation.

And yet...

Friday. Last period. You were itching to go home, to put this cursed week behind you. Of course — because life hated you — you were running late. You half-jogged down the hallway, backpack slamming against your spine, rounding the corner just as the bell shrieked its last warning.

And when you slid into the doorway — panting, flustered — you instantly saw it.

The only empty seat.

Right next to her.

You froze. Completely. Feet planted, backpack straps clenched in white-knuckled fists.

Mr. Heimerdinger’s head snapped toward you, those huge, unsettlingly round glasses magnifying his already too-large eyes until it felt like you were being X-rayed.

“Ms. Y/N,” he said, blinking slowly, voice overly polite in that ‘I’m two seconds away from losing my patience’ way. “Would you please join us?”

You swallowed hard. Loudly.

Your eyes flicked to Vi, who was already leaned back in her chair like she owned the whole back row. One brow raised. A knowing smirk tugging at her lips. She didn't say anything — but her eyes followed you, like she was already guessing exactly how uncomfortable this was making you.

You forced your feet to move. One step. Then another. Backpack thudding as you crossed the room, each step heavier than the last.

Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

You slid into the seat beside her, trying to make yourself as small as possible, pulling your stuff onto your desk with a shaky sigh.

“Hey, princess” Vi murmured under her breath, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You whipped your head toward her, wide-eyed. “What?” you squeaked.

She shrugged, looking far too pleased with herself. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t think I’d get to annoy you again so soon.”

Your heart slammed so hard against your ribs you were genuinely concerned the entire class could hear it.

This is fine, you told yourself, staring straight ahead, willing your face not to burst into flames. This is perfectly fine. Totally normal. Absolutely not a complete disaster.

──────────────────────

It was not fine. Actually, it was the complete opposite of fine. It was catastrophic.

You couldn’t hear a single word Mr. Heimerdinger was saying. Not one. You were so focused on pretending Vi didn’t exist that all your brain managed to do was... obsessively catalog everything about her.

Like how, halfway through the class, she started bouncing her leg under the desk. Restless. How the silver ring on her middle finger clicked rhythmically against her pen as she tapped it — over and over and over. How she scribbled messy, half-legible notes on her notebook, pausing every so often like she couldn’t decide whether to care or not.

And then there was... her smell.

Sweet. Soft. Something vaguely warm, like vanilla mixed with something sharper — citrusy, maybe? Definitely not what you expected. Not that you had ever sat around imagining what she smelled like — except apparently you had, because some dumb part of your brain was half-expecting punching bags, cigarette smoke, and... prison cells? Which wasn’t even a real smell. What were you thinking??

You squeezed your eyes shut. Stop. Stop thinking. Stop existing.

“Ms. Y/N?”

A voice. Distant.

“Ms. Y/N.”

“Ms. Y/N!”

You practically launched out of your chair, heart slamming against your ribs. “Huh — what — I mean — yes?”

Half the class turned to look at you. Vi included — brows raised, very obviously trying not to laugh.

Mr. Heimerdinger frowned, adjusting his comically huge glasses. “I asked you a question.”

You blinked. “...Could you maybe repeat it?”

His sigh was long. Painfully long. “What is the molar mass of sodium chloride?”

Your brain completely stalled.

Sodium chloride... sodium... salt. Salt. SALT. Your neurons were firing blanks.

“Fifty-eight point four” Vi whispered from next to you, her voice low, lazy — like she wasn’t even trying, like it cost her nothing to know this.

You blinked. That... that couldn’t be right. Could it?

Was she actually smart?

No way. No way. She didn’t look like someone who paid attention. But then again, neither did you right now.

Still, at this rate, you had no other choice. You swallowed hard. “...Fifty-eight point four?” you repeated, voice way more unsure than you wanted it to be.

For a split second, you braced for impact — expecting disappointment, maybe even an exasperated lecture.

But Mr. Heimerdinger just adjusted his glasses, nodded once, and offered a pleased smile. “Excellent, young child. You were paying more attention than I thought, after all.”

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

As he turned back to the board, rambling about how beautiful, fragile, and ridiculously expensive the universe was, you slowly turned toward Vi. She was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with herself.

That smug little grin tugging at her lips like she’d just won something.

“Thanks” you muttered, trying — and failing — to sound cool about it.

She tipped her head, all faux innocence. “Anytime.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Didn’t think you were... you know. Someone who paid attention.”

Her grin curved sharper. “Yeah? Didn’t think you were someone who spaced out so bad they forgot what salt was.”

Your face burned. “I did not forget what salt was.”

She raised a brow, clearly fighting a laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You huffed, turning back toward the board, pretending to care deeply about Heimerdinger’s tangent about molecular bonds, but it was useless — you were hyper-aware of Vi. Of her presence. Of the way her knee barely brushed against yours when she shifted. Of how even that tiny contact had your heart acting like it had no idea how to do its job.

──────────────────────

After that little interaction in chemistry, it was like Vi had made it her personal mission to embarrass you at every possible opportunity.

Anytime she could squeeze in a snarky comment, a teasing remark, or an infuriating smirk—she absolutely did.

Caught you rambling to yourself in the library while rewriting your notes for the third time?

“Didn’t realize you were giving a TED Talk” she’d quip, leaning against the bookshelf like she had nowhere else in the world to be.

Used the wrong pronunciation in French?

There she was, right next to you, snorting quietly, whispering through a giggle, “It’s ‘voilà,’ not ‘voilaay,’ genius.”

Oh—and another thing? She now sat next to you. In. Every. Single. Class.

Even when Ekko was supposed to be your buffer, your safe space, your emotional support best friend—Vi somehow managed to kick him out of his seat just to take his place.

No warning. No shame. Just a lazy, “Scoot, dude,” and Ekko would sigh dramatically but move anyway, like this was some sitcom he’d willingly subscribed to.

“Seriously,” you groaned one morning as Ekko drove you to school, arms crossed tight over your chest. “You have to stop letting her do that. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend,” he grinned, fiddling with the radio until he found some indie playlist that sounded just pretentious enough. “But I also think it’s the funniest thing in the world how red she makes you.”

You smacked his arm. “Traitor.”

“Look,” he said, laughing, “she’s obviously messing with you because you give her the best reactions. You go full tomato mode, and she eats that up. If you acted like you didn’t care, she’d probably get bored.”

“Yeah. Except I do care. And I can’t act cool. Have you met me?”

“Valid point.” Ekko flicked on his blinker. “But also... maybe you secretly like it.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I do not.”

He just grinned wider. “Sure.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the fact that your face was heating up again kind of ruined any defense you could’ve possibly made.

And when Ekko pulled into the parking lot and you saw Vi leaning against the wall near the entrance—jacket slung over her shoulder, pink hair catching in the breeze, grinning the second she spotted you—you realized...

Yeah.

This was going to be the slowest, most painful emotional death known to mankind.

──────────────────────

By the time Friday was over, you were fully, completely, and emotionally destroyed.

You’d barely survived an entire week of Vi relentlessly tormenting you with her stupid smirks, her shameless teasing, her... existence. It was exhausting—being hyper-aware of someone’s every move, every glance, every brush of their knee against yours. You felt like you’d been holding your breath since Monday.

And yet, apparently, the universe wasn’t done torturing you.

Because besides Vi... there was a whole lot of nothing going on in your life.

You didn’t know what you expected senior year to feel like, but it definitely wasn’t this.

You expected freedom, maybe. Some kind of movie-magic glow. The year where you’d finally be that girl—the one who had it together. Carrie Bradshaw voiceovers narrating your life while you strutted through the hallways in fabulous outfits, balancing friendships, a thriving social life, and the occasional romantic entanglement. (You probably should stop binge watching Sex and The City.)

But no.

It was just... essays.

Essays. Group projects. Labs. Quizzes. College applications breathing down your neck. Stress acne appearing in places you didn’t even know could get acne. And a very unglamorous amount of existential dread.

There was no whimsical montage. No soulful jazz in the background. Just the sound of your laptop fan threatening to explode as you stared at a blank Google Doc titled “The Impact of Industrialization on Modern Society.”

“This is not what the movies promised me,” you grumbled, slamming your forehead onto your desk. “Carrie Bradshaw never had to write a five-page analysis on the French Revolution.”

Ekko, sprawled out on your bed flipping through a textbook, snorted. “Yeah, well, she also never had to figure out the square root of disappointment, but here we are.”

You groaned louder, pushing your chair back and pacing your room like moving would somehow convince your brain to start functioning. “I thought this year was supposed to be... different. You know? Last year. Bucket list. Memories. Parties. Something. Anything. Instead, it’s just me drowning in homework, applying to colleges I can’t afford, and—”

You caught yourself. Cut the sentence off before her name could tumble out.

But Ekko caught it anyway. His eyes flicked toward you, one brow lifting, waiting.

“Nope,” you said quickly, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t. Not doing this.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, deadpan. But the shit-eating grin tugging at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

“Didn’t have to.” You groaned and flopped dramatically onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling like maybe—just maybe—the meaning of life was written there. “This year is actually trying to kill me.”

“Same,” Ekko sighed, sliding off the bed to lie next to you on the floor. “But hey... at least you’re not totally alone in the dumpster fire.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Nothing says ‘senior year memories’ like joint academic suffering.”

For a moment, the two of you just laid there in silence. But no matter how hard you tried to focus on the French Revolution, college deadlines, or literally anything else... your mind kept drifting. Right back to a certain pink-haired menace. And how, somehow, she was the only part of this year that didn’t fit the script.

You eventually sat up, dragging yourself back to your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, pretending to care about how the French revolutionized—whatever—a million years ago. But your brain was having none of it.

A groan ripped from your throat. “The semester’s halfway over, and we haven’t been to a single party.” You turned to Ekko, dead serious. “Do you know how much of a loser you have to be to not get invited to anything?”

Ekko flipped another page of the massive history book he’d borrowed from the library and shrugged. “Well... you’re a loser, and I’m always with you, so that just makes me a loser by association.”

You gasped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at his face. “I’m not the physics nerd here, nerd!”

He caught the pillow with one hand, deadpan. “Wow. Riveting. Such clever insults.” He tossed it back at you. “Inspirational, really.”

“Shut up.” You laughed, shaking your head.

Ekko shut the book with a dramatic thud and leaned back. “Y’know what? No. We’re not doing this. I’m gonna find us a party. I don’t care how. It’s happening.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. “We are not ending senior year as the weird shut-ins who spent every Friday night crying over AP assignments and eating instant noodles.”

A grin tugged at your lips despite the gloom. “Godspeed, soldier.”

“You’ll thank me later.” He shot you a finger gun without looking up. “Or blame me. Either way, it’ll be entertaining.”

──────────────────────

After spending the rest of your weekend (trying to) finish your schoolwork, Monday hit you like a truck.

The second Ekko left your house, you dove headfirst into the mountain of projects still waiting for you—which, unsurprisingly, consumed the rest of your weekend... and then some.

By the time you dragged yourself to school, you looked like a complete disaster. So much for “looking your best” this year. Your gray hoodie had a suspicious stain you couldn’t remember getting, your coffee was roughly 80% espresso, and your backpack felt like it contained the entire French Revolution itself.

By second period, you were one minor inconvenience away from crumbling into dust. You flopped into your usual seat, pulled out your laptop, and pretended to care about whatever class this was—chemistry? Geometry? Who even knew anymore—while your mind spiraled through the same exhausting loop:

Deadlines. Stress. Coffee.

Deadlines. Stress. Vi.

Deadlines. Stress. Vi, Vi, Vi.

Because, of course, there she was again—sliding into the seat next to you like she belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Vi.

Wearing a red hoodie, pink hair perfectly disheveled in that “I don’t care, but somehow I still look stupidly good” kind of way.

“Morning, princess,” she greeted, her voice lower than usual, a little scratchy like she hadn’t fully woken up yet. She stretched her arms above her head, and just enough of her hoodie lifted for you to catch a glimpse of the tattoo inked along her back—

You yanked your gaze back to your screen like it had personally wronged you. “Don’t call me that.”

“Relax,” she chuckled, nudging your shoe with hers under the desk. “You look tense. Didn’t get your beauty sleep?”

“Not everyone spends their weekend drinking and flirting.” You shot her a glare, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “Some of us were actually being responsible.”

“Mhm.” Vi rested her chin in her palm, her smirk lazy and far too self-satisfied. “You mean rewriting your French Revolution essay three times... while binge-watching Sex and the City?”

Your jaw dropped. “How the hell do you know that?”

She tapped the side of her head, all smug. “I’ve got my ways.”

You groaned, sinking lower into your seat, already mentally drafting Ekko’s obituary. It was definitely him. It had to be him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Her grin widened, the kind that could ruin a person if they weren’t careful. “Face it, sunshine... you’d be bored without me.”

The worst part? She was probably right.

The class dragged on forever—an endless stream of equations or chemical reactions or maybe both; you weren’t sure—but eventually, finally, the bell rang.

As students shuffled out, Vi leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Hey... wanna grab coffee after school? I promise I won’t make you write any essays.”

For a second, you hesitated. You really shouldn’t. Not with the avalanche of homework waiting for you and your mental stability hanging by a thread.

But then again... maybe a break wouldn’t hurt. Maybe dealing with Vi was slightly less exhausting than dealing with your own brain.

“Fine,” you blurted before your common sense could stop you.

Her grin stretched instantly—cocky, victorious, like she’d just won some invisible game you didn’t even know you were playing. “That’s the spirit.”

As you shoved your laptop back into your bag, a creeping realization settled over you like a bad omen. Was getting coffee with Vi actually a good idea? Probably not.

Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe this—whatever this was—wasn’t just casual teasing anymore. Maybe it was something bigger. Something scarier. Something with the potential to pull you under so fast there’d be no crawling back out.

Not that you were thinking about that, of course. Definitely not. Totally fine. Totally normal.

Absolutely. Totally. Fine.

──────────────────────

By lunch, your internal panic spiral hadn’t stopped.

Ekko sat across from you, rambling about something—maybe a new indie album, maybe a game update—but truth be told, you weren’t hearing a word. Your brain was too busy catastrophizing:

What did Vi even mean by coffee? Was it just coffee? Was it a peace treaty? A trap? Would it be weird? Would it be—

“...and then I pulled out a gun and shot myself in the head.”

Your head snapped up. “What?!”

Ekko deadpanned, holding his fork mid-air. “Oh, so now you’re listening. Cool. Just making sure you hadn’t actually flatlined.”

You blinked. “Sorry. I... zoned out.”

“Zoned out?” Ekko blinked at you. “You’ve been staring into space like a Victorian ghost for the last ten minutes. What’s going on?” His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Wait... let me guess. Vi?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I hate that you know me this well.”

“Oh my God. What did she do now?”

“I...” You sighed, sinking further into the table. “I accidentally agreed to get coffee with her after school.”

Ekko blinked. “...Accidentally?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

A grin spread across his face like wildfire. “So let me get this straight. You got a date with Ms. Criminal Record herself?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Sure. Totally. Not a date.” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was physically incapable of controlling himself.

You groaned louder, shoving a french fry into your mouth just to avoid having to answer.

──────────────────────

You stood outside the little coffee shop two blocks from school, hands shoved deep into your hoodie pocket, already questioning every decision that had led you to this exact moment.

You could still back out. Just make up some excuse tomorrow. Maybe something tragic. Like... your poor dog suddenly died. (Not that anyone would believe that. You didn’t even have a dog. But... she didn’t know that.)

Before you could spiral any further, a familiar voice snapped you out of it.

“Well, look who showed.

You turned—and there she was.

Leaning against the wall like she was posing for some effortlessly cool magazine cover. Pink hair windswept and messier than usual, a few loose strands falling over her face. Her red hoodie hanging a little loose on her frame, but that stupid, infuriating smirk? Oh, that was very much still there—the one that made it impossible to tell whether she was about to flirt with you or ruin your entire life. Probably both.

“You actually came” she added, pushing off the wall with her boot.

“I said I would” you muttered, trying—failing—to sound casual.

She grinned, holding the door open with an exaggerated bow. “After you, sunshine.”

“Stop calling me that” you grumbled, stepping inside.

The place was small but cozy—dim string lights hanging along the ceiling, the faint smell of roasted coffee beans mixing with cinnamon, and some random indie song playing softly in the background. Mismatched chairs, hand-painted tables, and customers pretending to study while actually scrolling through their phones completed the aesthetic.

Vi ordered an iced coffee with two extra espresso shots (because of course she did), while you went with something safer, something warm and without any caffeine. You were already anxious enough without turbo-charging (more) your nervous system.

As you waited, the silence between you felt... weird. Not awkward, exactly. More like... charged. Heavy in a way that made your skin buzz.

When you sat down, she stretched her legs out under the table, and her boot knocked against yours. You weren’t sure if it was an accident. (It wasn’t.)

Vi drummed her fingers against the table. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, stirring your drink unnecessarily. “Didn’t think you’d actually ask.”

Vi laughed, head tipping back slightly, a few strands of pink falling over her eyes. “Fair.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You stared at your drink like it might offer you answers. She stared at you like you were the answer.

“So...” you started, voice coming out a little tighter than you intended. “What is this? Some new form of torture?”

Vi tilted her head, smirk softening just slightly. “Nah. Just... wanted to hang out. You’re fun.”

You blinked. “You have a really weird definition of fun.”

She grinned wider. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t know how to loosen up.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh yeah? And you’re gonna teach me how to... what? Break the law? Get arrested?”

Vi actually laughed at that. A real one. Loud, full, and genuine—like you’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. It caught you off guard. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way that made your stupid heart squeeze in your chest.

“You know that’s not actually true, right?” she said between chuckles.

“It’s not?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No!” she snorted, shaking her head. “Where the hell do you people get this stuff from?”

“Oh, I don’t know...” You gestured vaguely, feigning deep thought. “The seventeen detentions... the rumors... the fact that you’ve been in a fistfight like, what? Twice this semester?”

“Pfft.” Vi waved a hand dismissively. “Okay, first off, one of those wasn’t my fault. That guy walked into my fist. Totally different situation.”

You blinked. “Right. Sure. Completely believable.” You crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair. “Besides, someone’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor —or something, saw it happen.”

Vi raised a brow, her grin sharpening. “Oh yeah? And does someone’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor have a name?”

You squinted at her. “What? Why? What are you gonna do—beat them up too?”

She laughed, taking a sip of her iced coffee like she hadn’t just casually confessed to semi-accidental assault ten seconds ago. “Relax, sunshine. I’m not that bad. I just... have a reputation. Doesn’t mean it’s all true.”

You rested your chin in your palm, narrowing your eyes like you were studying her under a microscope. “So what you’re telling me is... you’re secretly... what? Misunderstood?”

Vi tilted her head, smile softening around the edges. “Maybe.” She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Guess you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself.”

The air between you shifted—just slightly. Less banter, more... something else. Something heavier. Something that made your heart do that annoying stutter thing it had absolutely no right doing.

And that was terrifying. Because you realized—maybe for the first time—that under all the teasing, the cocky grins, and the reckless energy... there was an actual person sitting in front of you. Someone complicated. Someone interesting. Someone who was starting to feel even more like a bad idea.

“Yeah...” you muttered, taking a sip of your drink. “Not sure if that’s a good thing or a terrible thing.”

Vi smirked, tapping her boot against yours again. “Guess we’ll find out.”

──────────────────────

The second you stepped out of the coffee shop you fumbled your phone out of your hoodie pocket with shaking hands.

Your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

YOU: 🆘🆘🆘 EMERGENCY. CALL 911.

EKKO: what now 💀

YOU: I JUST GOT OUT OF THE COFFEE SHOP WITH VI. SHE WAS. NICE???

EKKO: hold on nice??? vi? pink-haired menace vi?

YOU: YES. SHE WAS ACTUALLY NICE. OR LIKE... FAKE NICE?? IDK. SHE SMILED. NOT THE "IM GONNA BULLY YOU" SMILE. THE OTHER ONE. THE... SOFT ONE.

EKKO: oh no. ur doomed. rip.

YOU: THIS IS NOT FUNNY. IM PANICKING. WHAT IF I LIKE HER. 😭😭😭

EKKO: lmao u’ve BEEN liked her. ur just now realizing?

YOU: SHUT UP. IM SERIOUS. WHAT DO I DO????

EKKO: idk. maybe stop fighting it?? 🤷🏽‍♂️ get ur little enemies-to-something arc going.

YOU: NOT HELPING.

EKKO: ok fine. step 1: breathe. step 2: admit u wanna kiss her. step 3: idk figure it out.

YOU: IM BLOCKING YOU.

EKKO: no u won’t. ur too busy spiraling over vi

You groaned, aggressively locking your phone and shoving it back into your hoodie pocket like that would somehow mute your own brain—and more specifically, your heart—that was now screaming in seventeen different languages.

Nope. Not dealing with this right now.

You decided to power through it. Focus. You had enough problems as it was. Adding "possibly liking Vi" to the pile? Yeah, no. Not happening.

You tugged your hoodie tighter around you as you walked home, headphones in, trying to drown out your own thoughts with music. But it didn’t work. Your brain kept spiraling back to the same stupid question:

What happens now?

Would she treat you the same? Were things going to be weird? Did she think it was weird? Was this a one-time thing, or…?

By the time you unlocked your front door, your head hurt more than your overstuffed backpack. You threw it onto your bed with a dramatic sigh, flopped next to it, and buried your face in the pillow.

Bzzzt.

Your phone lit up. A text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: got home safe?

You blinked. Sat up. Stared at it.

You: ??

You: who is this?

Unknown Number: the love of your life, sunshine.

Your stomach dropped—and flipped—and caught fire all at once.

You: vi??

Unknown Number: ding ding ding 🏆

You stared at the screen, jaw slack, brain buffering.

How the hell did she even get your number??

Another text popped up before you could even process:

Vi: relax. i bribed ekko with gummy worms. not my proudest moment.

Vi: worth it tho.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, completely useless. No thoughts. Head empty. Just static and panic and... butterflies.

You: you’re unbelievable.

Vi: yeah yeah. but admit it... you missed me already.

You flopped back onto the bed, phone to your chest, letting out the loudest, most dramatic groan the universe had ever heard.

It was pathetic, but the actual truth was that you kinda did.

──────────────────────

By the time morning rolled around, you were running on approximately three hours of sleep, sheer panic, and the lingering chaos of that text conversation. You had stared at your phone way longer than you should’ve last night, reading and rereading her messages, debating whether each one was a joke, flirting, or some strange Vi-brand mix of both.

Needless to say, you looked like death. Again.

Slam.

Your locker door shut louder than intended, making you jump. And of course—because the universe loved making your life worse—there she was.

Vi.

Leaning casually against the locker next to yours like she lived there now. Hands stuffed into her red jacket pocket, head tilted.

“Morning, sunshine.” The smirk was back in full force. “Sleep well?”

You deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

She chuckled. “Weird. Wonder why.”

“Oh, gee, yeah, I wonder,” you shot back, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It’s almost like someone decided to text me stupid stuff until midnight.”

Vi grinned, walking in step with you down the hallway. “Midnight? Weak. I could’ve gone longer.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers, “here you are. Still showing up.”

You side-eyed her, heat creeping up your neck despite your best efforts. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta supervise you before you get arrested for... I don’t know... breathing wrong.”

Vi laughed. That warm, genuine kind of laugh that made something in your chest tangle into a knot.

As you rounded the corner toward class, a familiar voice cut through—

“Well, well, well,” Ekko drawled, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “Look who’s become... inseparable.”

Your face practically caught fire. “Shut up.”

Vi just raised a brow, grinning. “What, jealous?”

Ekko scoffed. “Please. I don’t have the emotional energy to handle two of you.”

You shoved past both of them. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be throwing myself into the nearest garbage can.”

“Oh, we know,” Ekko called after you. “We absolutely know.”

Vi just laughed again, falling into step beside you. Like she belonged there. Like this was... normal now.

And the scary part? You kinda wanted it to be.

Then days turned into a week. Then two.

And somehow... Vi didn’t go away.

She started showing up more. Sliding into the seat next to you like it was her God-given right. Stealing your fries at lunch without asking. Sending you dumb texts late at night—things like, “Are sandwiches technically tacos?” followed by, “No, but seriously, I have evidence. Prepare yourself.”

She was... just there now. In your space. In your routine. In your head.

And God help you... you liked it. Way more than you should.

But the more time passed, the more this uncomfortable little thought started gnawing at your brain like a rat in the walls:

Maybe that coffee “date” wasn’t actually a date.

You were the one who read it wrong. Of course you were. It was Vi. Vi flirted like she breathed—effortless, constant, automatic. With everyone.

This was probably just... a game to her. A joke. Maybe she liked seeing you flustered. Maybe you were just something fun to mess with—a puzzle, a toy, a distraction from her own boredom.

So you didn’t say anything. You shoved it down. Bit your tongue every time she called you sunshine, or princess, or sweetheart with that infuriating, devastating little grin.

Because what if you asked—“What is this? What are we?”—and she laughed? What if she said, “Relax. Don’t take it so seriously.”? What if you ruined everything?

Because as exhausting as it was, as much as your brain scrambled every time her knee brushed yours under the cafeteria table, or she slung her arm around your shoulder like it meant nothing... you didn’t want her to go away.

You liked this.

You liked her.

Even if it hurt a little.

Even if it meant pretending you were totally fine with being “just friends.”

Even if it meant ignoring the fact that every time she smiled at you, your heart felt like it was trying to jailbreak out of your ribs.

And as you lay sprawled out on your bedroom rug—half-heartedly scrolling through social media, half-staring at the ceiling—you found yourself thinking:

What would Carrie Bradshaw do?

Probably something chaotic and self-destructive. Probably humiliate herself so Big would stay with her... and then cry about it to her friends over overpriced brunch.

Unfortunately, you weren’t a successful writer in your mid-thirties with a nicotine addiction and a talent for making terrible life decisions look glamorous.

Before you could spiral any further, a voice interrupted from your doorway.

“God, you look awful.”

You sat up to see Ekko leaning against the doorframe, a box of pizza on his hands.

“Thanks,” you deadpanned, dragging yourself off the floor. “Nice to see you too.”

“Who died?”

“My dignity.”

Ekko snorted, kicking the door shut behind him. “Again? Damn. How many lives does that thing have left?” He put the box on your bed and sat down on your desk chair. “Brought you pizza. Though honestly, I figured you were dead since I didn’t hear from you.”

You opened the box with a groan. “You weren’t wrong.”

“About?”

“She doesn’t actually like me,” you mumbled around a bite of pizza. “She’s just... being Vi. Y’know. Flirts with everyone. Makes stupid jokes. Drives me insane.”

Ekko gave you a long, unimpressed look. “I don’t know if this helps, but... she doesn’t flirt with everyone. She’s actually kinda rude most of the time.”

You snorted, nearly choking. “Wow. Thanks, I feel so much better now.”

Grabbing a slice for himself, Ekko leaned back against the chair. “But the real question is... do you actually like her?”

Your silence was deafening.

“Right,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, well, if you’re gonna keep wallowing like a sad Victorian ghost, I’m officially dragging you out of this pit before you start writing love letters by candlelight or—God forbid—buying a typewriter for aesthetic purposes.”

You squinted at him. “...What?”

“If you actually read the texts I sent you, you’d know I found us a party.” He gave you a look that screamed “Yes, I’m awesome. Worship me.” “It’s next Saturday.”

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed like the dramatic mess you were.

Because somewhere between promising yourself you’d actually live this year—and whatever the hell living even meant—came the inevitable downside: socializing.

A thing you categorically hated.

“I have plans next Saturday,” you tried, weakly.

“You’re going to the party. Not up for debate,” Ekko shot back, already calling you out with zero mercy. “And no, rewatching Sex and the City for the hundredth time does not count as plans.”

You scowled, hugging a throw pillow to your chest. “I’m not in the mood to socialize, okay? I’m one hundred percent sure Vi’s gonna be there, and I am not emotionally prepared to watch her flirt with other girls.”

“God, I hate her,” you muttered.

“Sure you do,” Ekko snorted, spinning lazily in your desk chair. “You hate her so much that you’ve memorized the exact shade of her stupid eyes.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You groaned. “Seriously, Ekko, I cannot deal with her right now. I just... I need a break. A Vi detox.”

“Tough luck,” he shrugged, propping his feet up on your desk. “Last week you were practically begging me to find us a party, and guess what? I delivered. So you’re coming.”

You sighed dramatically. “Why does the universe hate me?”

“It doesn’t. You just have a crush.” He grinned like the menace he was. “And if you don’t go, it’s like... letting her win.”

You blinked. “Win what?”

“Your sanity. Your dignity. Your spot in the food chain. I don’t know. Something important.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And annoyingly… he was right.

That’s how you found yourself being dragged into a house you didn’t even know the owner of on Saturday night.

The second you stepped through the door, the overwhelming smell hit you like a brick wall—a chaotic cocktail of cheap beer, weed, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of too many underage boys crammed into one place. Whoever’s house this was clearly had no concept of fire codes, personal space, or carpet maintenance.

Music blared from a speaker that was definitely not designed to handle bass that heavy. The floor vibrated under your shoes. Bodies were everywhere—crammed into corners, perched on countertops, lounging on beat-up couches, or tangled together on the stairs. Half of them you’d never even seen before in your life.

Were these people even from your school? Where did they come from? Did someone open a portal to the next town over?

You tugged your sleeves down over your hands, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment.

“I feel like I’ve walked straight into hell,” you muttered, glaring as someone stumbled past holding a bottle of something that was absolutely not soda.

“C’mon,” Ekko grinned, annoyingly chipper about all of this. “Let’s get something to drink.” Without waiting for your consent, he hooked his arm around yours and practically dragged you toward the kitchen.

You wove through the crowd, sidestepping sweaty bodies, dodging two girls aggressively making out against a wall, and narrowly avoiding being collateral damage in an increasingly hostile beer pong argument.

The kitchen wasn’t much better—just slightly less packed. The counters were a crime scene of half-empty bottles, red Solo cups, discarded bags of chips, and mysterious sticky puddles you decided not to investigate.

Ekko let go of your arm long enough to rummage through the chaos. “Alright, what’s your poison? Mystery punch that’ll probably kill us, or…” He picked up a bottle, sniffed it, and immediately recoiled. “...something that smells like nail polish remover.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Tempting.”

“Yeah, we love a choice between food poisoning and gasoline.”

Still, you grabbed a cup—more to have something to fidget with than any real desire to drink it—pointedly ignoring the suspicious floating things in the punch. “Remind me why I let you talk me into this?”

“Character development,” Ekko smirked. “Also... senior year. We’re supposed to make bad decisions. It’s, like, a rule.”

You sighed, leaning against the counter, tapping your cup but not drinking yet. Your eyes scanned the crowd—half on autopilot, half on edge—until, like clockwork…

There she was.

Leaning against the doorway to the living room, one boot casually kicked back against the frame. Vi’s signature leather jacket was—surprisingly—nowhere in sight, abandoned for the night. Pink hair pulled back just enough to show off the sharp undercut, with a few loose strands falling perfectly (and infuriatingly) over her forehead.

A half-empty beer bottle dangled lazily from her fingertips as she laughed at something the girl next to her said—a pretty brunette with a red streak in her hair and a hand resting just a little too comfortably on Vi’s arm.

Like gravity itself had shifted, every nerve in your body zeroed in on her. Of course she was here. Of course she looked stupidly, unfairly cool. Of course she had that cocky, heartbreaker grin tugging at the corner of her mouth like she owned the house.

Ekko followed your gaze, groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh no. Don’t do it. Don’t even start.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you shot back, defensive. “I’m literally just standing here.”

“Mmhmm. Sure.”

Then, because betrayal runs deep, Ekko mumbled something about “blue hair” and promptly vanished into the crowd. So much for ‘Yeah, I won’t leave your side. I’m your emotional support human.’

“Traitor” you muttered under your breath.

With a sigh, you glanced back toward the doorway—because you were weak and apparently a glutton for pain—but... she was gone.

Vi was no longer there.

The brunette she’d been talking to was still standing there, frowning and glancing around like she hadn’t expected her conversation partner to ghost her either.

For one brief, ridiculous moment, you actually wondered if you’d hallucinated her. Maybe the combination of party fumes and emotional damage had finally fried your brain.

“Cool. Awesome. I’m officially losing it,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your face.

“Miss me, sunshine?”

Her voice—low, smug, dangerously close—purred into your ear.

You jolted so hard you nearly flung your drink. Whipping around, you came face-to-face with her.

She was standing way too close. Hands shoved into the back pockets of her ripped jeans like she hadn’t just scared you half to death. Her cropped tank showed off toned arms and tattoos that curled out from beneath the fabric.

“Not really,” you shot back, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Vi grinned, tilting her head. “Liar.” Her eyes flicked over you, softer now, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“Didn’t know you’d be here either,” you mumbled, instantly hating how breathless you sounded.

“Oh please.” She bumped your shoulder lightly with hers. “It’s me. Of course I’m here.” Her grin softened just a fraction. “Glad you showed up though.”

You blinked. “Wait... really?”

“Yeah.” Her smile was lazy but genuine. “Parties are boring without you.”

And before you could even begin to figure out what the hell that meant, a voice from the living room yelled over the music, “SPIN THE BOTTLE! LIVING ROOM. NOW.”

Vi’s eyes lit up instantly. “Wanna play?”

You looked between her excited face and the drink going warm in your cup. “Screw it.”

You tipped the cup back, downing the whole thing in one go. It didn’t taste as bad as you expected—but it wasn’t good either. Wincing, you wiped your mouth. “Let’s play.”

Vi grinned wide, her fingers curling gently around your wrist. With a playful tug, she pulled you toward the living room. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

You knew—you just knew—you were gonna regret this. But with her looking at you like that, and the growing crowd surging in the same direction, any resistance felt... pointless.

Senior year was made for bad choices, wasn’t it?

A circle had already formed on the floor—red solo cups, empty bottles, and shoes scattered around like landmines. Someone shoved an empty beer bottle into the center, laying out the rules with a drunken grin: spin the bottle, kiss whoever it lands on. No chicken-outs. No take-backs.

Hovering awkwardly at the edge, you felt whatever flimsy bravado you’d gathered start to crumble. But Vi didn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, she tugged you down next to her, thigh pressed firmly against yours, anchoring you to the spot.

She nudged your shoulder, smirking. “Relax. It’s just a dumb game.” Her voice softened, losing some of that usual cocky edge. “If it lands on someone weird, we can just pretend it was rigged. I’ve got your back, sunshine.”

...God, why was she being nice? Friendly. Sweet, even. This wasn’t fair. She wasn’t allowed to be hot and considerate. It was emotional terrorism.

The bottle spun a few times—cheers, groans, awkward laughter as strangers kissed. Your nerves shot through the roof every time it started slowing down.

Then someone nudged the bottle toward Vi. “Your turn, Pinky.”

Vi rolled her eyes but smirked, leaning forward and giving the bottle a lazy flick of her wrist. It spun wildly, clattering against the floor as the whole circle leaned in to watch.

Your stomach dropped.

The bottle slowed... slowed... then—

It landed on you.

A stunned beat of silence. Then someone let out a sharp whistle. Another voice gasped, “No freaking way.”

Your entire face went up in flames. You swore you could feel the heat radiating off your skin.

Vi blinked, like she hadn’t expected it either. But then her grin stretched wider—less cocky, more... mischievous. A softness tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She scooted in closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “Wanna skip? Or...” Her gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, softer now. “...Or do you want me to kiss you?”

You swallowed. “It’s... it’s the game, isn’t it?” you mumbled, trying—failing—to hide how badly you wanted to say yesjust because it was her.

Vi didn’t say anything. Instead, her hand slid up, fingers finding the side of your neck, warm and gentle. Her nose brushed yours as she leaned in, close enough that you could feel her breath, hot and uneven against your mouth.

Then she kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or rough, or showy like you expected. Neither of you fought for dominance. None of the dumb clichés. It was... soft. Warm. Her lips moved against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world—like you were something delicate, something meant to be held like this.

It made your head spin. Your fingers twitched uselessly against the fabric of your jeans, torn between gripping onto her or pushing her away before you fell any deeper into whatever trap this was.

When she pulled back—just barely—her forehead lingered against yours, her breath mingling with yours. Her thumb brushed lightly at your cheek, absent, casual... like muscle memory. Like this wasn’t a big deal to her. Like it was nothing.

And that’s when the crack split straight through your chest.

Because as much as you wanted to believe—God, you wanted to believe—that this meant something, you knew better.

This was just Vi being Vi. Flirty. Charming. Sweet when it suited her. A kiss for the sake of a game. A moment that meant absolutely nothing to her while it meant way too much to you.

You weren’t special. You were just the person the bottle landed on.

Of course she didn’t really want you. Not like that. Not really.

“Excuse me” you muttered, barely able to get the words out before the lump in your throat suffocated you.

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the laughter and the teasing whistles from the crowd. Your chest felt too tight. The walls too close. The air thick like smoke.

“Hey—wait—” you heard Vi start, but you were already pushing through the bodies, practically shoving your way toward the front door.

The cold air outside hit you like a slap the second you stepped out. You gulped it down like you’d been drowning, wrapping your arms around yourself as you paced toward the curb, trying to make the knot in your chest unclench.

“Damn it,” you hissed under your breath. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

“Hey. Hey—wait.”

The door creaked open behind you, and heavy boots clattered down the porch steps.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Sunshine, what the hell?” Her voice was a mix of confusion and something—something almost guilty. “Why’d you run off?”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your back to her. “Go back inside, Vi.”

“What? No.” Her boots crunched against the gravel as she stepped closer. “Are you—what’s wrong?” Her voice softened, worried now. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head quickly, biting the inside of your cheek until it hurt. Because talking to her—hearing her voice that soft, that close, that worried—when you knew it was probably just more of the same sweet nothings would break you.

“It’s… It’s nothing,” you managed, voice shaking. You wiped at your eyes with your long sleeves, trying—failing—to stop the sting of tears. “I’m just… I’m being stupid. You didn’t do anything.”

Vi huffed, trying to laugh it off, like it might fix something. “Was the kiss that bad?” she joked, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “C’mon, sunshine... I didn’t think I was that bad.”

Your stomach twisted.

It’s a joke to her.

God. Of course it was.

“Jesus, Violet.” You spun around, not caring that your eyelashes were wet or that your voice was barely holding steady. “Is this all a joke to you? Is that what this is?”

Her smirk faltered, confusion knitting her brows. “What?”

“You—” Your hands flew up, gesturing wildly between the two of you. “You tease me. You flirt with me. You ask me to get coffee. You make me—” your voice cracked, sharp and bitter, “—you make me like you. You make me think maybe... maybe this means something.”

You shoved your hands into your hair, tugging at the strands like it might ground you. “And for what? For a laugh? For fun? Some experiment? Am I just—what—a game to you, Vi?”

Her face fell, eyes widening. “What? No. No—no.” She stepped forward, hands half-raised like she wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if she was allowed. “That’s not—God, that’s not what this is. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what, exactly?” Your voice was sharp now, brittle and trembling. “Didn’t mean to lead me on? Didn’t mean to kiss me like I was—like I was something more than just another one of the girls you flirt with?”

“I never—” Vi’s breath caught. Her jaw clenched, and for a second, her eyes softened like she was about to say something real—something honest. But the words got stuck. “It wasn’t supposed to—Shit.”

Before she could untangle herself, another voice cut through the tense silence.

“Hey.”

You turned, breath still ragged, to see Ekko jogging up from down the sidewalk. His eyes scanned the scene—your tear-streaked face, Vi standing frozen, guilt and frustration painted across her features.

“The hell happened?” Ekko asked, glancing between the two of you, then settling his gaze on you. His entire face softened. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, wiping at your face again. “Can you—can you just take me home?”

“Yeah. Yeah, c’mere.” Without waiting for permission, Ekko shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders like a shield. He shot a glare at Vi, jaw tight. “You seriously upset her this bad? What the hell, Vi?”

“I didn’t—” Vi started, reaching out, but you flinched away before she could touch you. Her hand froze midair, hovering like even she didn’t know what to do with it anymore. “It’s not what it looks like, I just—”

You stepped back, hugging Ekko’s jacket tighter around yourself. You looked her dead in the eyes, knowing exactly how exhausted, hurt, and done you must have looked—hating how your voice trembled, but pushing through it anyway.

“I just… need some time.”

Vi’s lips parted like she wanted to argue—wanted to explain, to fight for whatever this was—but no words came out. Her hands balled into fists, then relaxed, then balled again, as if even her own body couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go. She just stood there, helpless, watching as you finally turned your back on her.

Ekko’s arm slipped around your shoulders, firm and grounding. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

You let him lead you away—away from the party, from Vi, from the chaos. And not once did you look back.

If you did…

You were afraid you might break completely.

──────────────────────

The drive was quiet. The only sounds were your soft sniffles and the low, rattling hum of the old engine in Ekko’s beat-up car.

He didn’t say anything at first—just drove, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road like he knew you needed the silence.

Eventually, he broke it. “You wanna talk about it?” His tone was gentle. Careful. He didn’t push—you could either dump everything out or let it stay bottled. Your choice.

You let out a shaky breath, staring out the window like the night sky might have answers. “I’m so stupid, Ekko.” Your voice cracked, raw. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We were talking and... she was being so nice. Saying she was glad I came. Acting like... like she actually cared.” Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his jacket. “And then suddenly, we’re sitting in a spin the bottle circle—like, seriously, what are we, fifteen?”

You scrubbed at your face aggressively, frustrated with yourself for crying, for feeling. “And because the universe hates me, it was her turn. And the bottle just—of course—had to stop on me.”

Ekko’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Did she… do something you didn’t want?” His voice was careful now. Protective. Ready to fight if he needed to.

“No,” you blurted out quickly. “No. Nothing like that. She... she kissed me. And it was... God, it was good. It was soft, and warm, and... she was being so... careful. Like she actually cared.” Your throat tightened. “And that’s exactly why I had to get out of there.”

Ekko glanced over, brow furrowed. “Okay… but I still don’t get how it went from that to... you crying in the middle of the street.”

You sighed hard, leaning your head back against the seat. “She made a joke. A stupid, dumbass joke about not thinking the kiss was that bad. Like—like it was just... funny. Like it was nothing to her. And I just—” You let out a bitter laugh that didn’t sound like you. “I realized I’m a joke. I’m the joke.”

“I don’t—” Ekko started, but you cut him off, voice rising.

“She flirts, she teases, she calls herself ‘the love of my life’ like it’s some punchline. And then what? Nothing. Nothing ever comes of it. Who the hell does she think she is?” You threw your hands up in frustration. “She kisses me like it means something, like it’s real, like—like I’m not just the idiot who watched her flirt with some random girl the second I walked into that party.”

Ekko pulled into your driveway, shifting the car into park. He leaned back, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at you. “Okay, so... do you want my opinion? Or should I just sit here and nod like an enabler?”

You sniffed, wiping your face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

He pointed a finger at you. “First off... I think this? This is more about you than her.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he held a hand up. “No. Uh-uh. Let me finish.”

“She’s single. She can flirt with whoever the hell she wants.” He gave you a look—firm but not unkind. “And also... she doesn’t know you like her.” His head tilted. “Like, actually like her. Until a month ago, you would’ve rather eaten glass than admit you didn’t hate her. Hell, you probably still wouldn’t admit it.”

He gestured between the two of you. “You think everyone’s a mind reader? Not everyone’s mentally connected to you like I am.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back... but nothing came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little bit.

Ekko sighed, softer this time. “And look... I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be upset. You do. If she really likes you—like likes you—she could’ve been clearer. She could’ve handled this way better.” His hands tapped the wheel absently. “But you both? You’ve been dancing around each other for months. Pretending. Poking. Flirting. Fighting. And neither of you wants to admit it’s real unless the other says it first.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight, heart heavier than before—but not in the same way.

“I think,” Ekko continued, glancing over, “you both need some time. To figure your shit out. And then you need to sit down, talk it over... and actually talk.” He nudged your arm with his elbow. “Without yelling. Without storming out. Like actual functioning humans.”

You stared at the dashboard, then sighed. “I hate feelings.”

Ekko grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

──────────────────────

The week that followed the absolute disaster of that party was, without a doubt, one of the weirdest weeks of your life.

Vi gave you the time you’d asked for. Completely. No texts. No teasing. No dumb flirty comments. Not even that annoying smirk she always threw your way when she passed you in the hall. Nothing. It was radio silence.

And God... it felt awful.

You felt empty.

How could someone who’d only been in your life for a few months leave a void this massive? It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. But it did.

Everywhere you went, there were things that reminded you of her. A song playing in someone’s car that you knew was on her playlist. A broken vending machine that still had the dent she put in it after punching it last month. Even stupid little things—like seeing strawberry gum at the corner store and immediately thinking of her.

More times than you wanted to admit, your thumb hovered over her name in your contacts. Ready to text. To send a dumb picture. Or ask if she still wanted her hoodie back. Or say... something. Anything.

And every single time... you locked your phone, shoved it back into your pocket, and told yourself you needed to get your head on straight. That if you were going to talk to her, it needed to be for real. Not another half-baked argument. Not another awkward almost-conversation.

You didn’t see her at lunch. You didn’t catch her between classes. It was like she was a ghost—everywhere and nowhere all at once. You couldn’t tell if she was actively avoiding you or if the universe was just being cruel.

“Can you not look for her every five seconds?” Ekko’s voice dragged you out of your thoughts. He was halfway through annihilating the saddest excuse for a cafeteria chicken sandwich you’d ever seen. “Seriously. Either do something... or stop torturing yourself.”

You sighed, slumping forward, poking half-heartedly at the fries on your tray. “I’m not—”

“You are.” He pointed at you with a fry. “You keep pretending you’re not, but every time someone walks past that door, you flinch like it’s her.” He chewed, swallowed, then added, “It’s getting sad, dude.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I know... I know. I just... I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Try ‘hey.’ Or ‘can we talk?’ Or, I don’t know, literally any words that exist in the English language.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Look, I get it. You don’t wanna screw it up. You wanna do this the right way.” He paused, looking at you seriously. “But avoiding her isn’t the right way either.”

“I’m not avoiding her,” you muttered, though you knew it was a lie.

Ekko snorted. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you nearly dove behind the vending machine this morning when you saw her coming.”

You winced. “That was... situational.”

“Sure, bro.” He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Totally situational.”

You sighed, letting your head thunk against the table.

You were miserable. And this wasn’t fixing anything.

You missed her.

God, you missed her so bad it physically hurt.

And maybe... maybe it was time to stop running from that.

For the rest of lunch, you sat in silence, pretending to care about Ekko’s ongoing rant about how cafeteria pizza should be a crime against humanity. But your mind wasn’t really there.

It circled the same thought, over and over like a broken record:

“Talk to her. Just… talk to her.”

Easier said than done.

Your knee bounced under the table as the anxiety built. You were so deep in your own head that you didn’t even realize lunch had ended until Ekko snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Earth to emotionally constipated lesbian.” He stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You good?”

You nodded. Sort of. “Yeah... yeah. I’m gonna do it.”

Ekko’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I mean... I have to.” You shoved your tray aside, gripping the strap of your bag like it was some kind of life preserver. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending like it didn’t happen. Like none of it meant anything.” You swallowed hard. “Even if it’s just to get closure... I need to know.”

“Okay, yeah!” Ekko grinned, clapping you hard on the back. “Now we’re talking! So... what’s the plan?”

You stared at him blankly. “I have... absolutely no fucking idea.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like this was somehow his problem too. “Damn. Why do I always gotta do everything around here?”

You snorted. “Tragic, really.”

Rubbing his eyes like you were physically exhausting him, he muttered, “Alright, first of all—you cannot ask me how I know this.”

You squinted. “That’s... very suspicious.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved you off. “Look, I’ll text you her address. You still have her hoodie, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Use that as your excuse. Tell her it’s her favorite hoodie and she’ll literally die without it. I don’t know. Be creative. Improvise. Lie a little.”

You blinked at him. “...I don’t know how you got her address, and I don’t think I wanna know. But you’re a lifesaver.”

“Damn right I am.”

The rest of the school day was a blur—an endless loop of your brain spiraling between panic and regret. You barely heard anything your teachers said, your leg bouncing under your desk the entire time as you worked yourself into a mental breakdown over:

How the hell were you going to explain knowing where she lived without sounding like a stalker?

What the hell were you even going to say when you got there?

“Hey, sorry I accused you of using me in front of half the party.”

“Hey, my bad for melting down after you kissed me in front of everyone.”

“Hey, I think I might actually be in love with you and it scares the absolute shit out of me.”

No. Nope. Absolutely not that last one. Not even under threat of death.

By the time school ended, you had worked yourself up so badly that your hands were actually shaking as you punched the address into your phone.

The walk there felt longer than it probably was. Every step sounded like a countdown to your own execution. You stopped a few houses away, took a deep breath, and before you chickened out completely, you fired a quick text to Ekko:

You: just got here. if i die tell my mom it was self-inflicted.

Ekko: 🫡 soldier’s death. respect.

You stared at the door. You could still back out. Run. Pretend you got lost. Fake a kidnapping. Anything.

But no. You were here. You owed it to yourself to face this.

You raised your fist and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a girl with long blue hair and sharp eyes. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place where you’d seen her before.

“Uh... hi.” You tried your best not to sound like you were about to have a stroke. “Is Vi home?”

The girl blinked at you, unimpressed. “Yeah? Who’s asking?”

“It’s... uh... Y/N. I’m one of her classmates.” Your voice was way too shaky for your liking.

The moment your name left your mouth, her bored expression morphed into something far more interested. Her eyebrows shot up. “Ohhhh. You’re Y/N?” Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Damn. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your stomach flipped. “...Is that... good?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Fat Hands is upstairs. Second door on the left.” She jerked her thumb toward the stairway behind her. “You can go up.”

“...Fat Hands?” you echoed, confused.

“Yeah.” The girl smirked. “It’s a long story. You should ask her about it sometime.”

You didn’t know whether to be concerned or amused. Probably both.

Clutching Vi’s hoodie to your chest like it was some kind of emotional shield, you nodded. “Uh... thanks.”

“Good luck,” she added, a little too cheerfully. “You’re gonna need it.”

You gulped and stepped inside, every nerve in your body screaming.

Each step up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain. Second door on the left. Second door on the left. You hovered in front of it, fist raised but frozen midair. Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

This is so stupid. This is so stupid. Why am I like this?

But before you could talk yourself out of it... you knocked.

From the other side, her voice came through—groggy, surprised, and a little confused.

“Yeah? What—?”

The door creaked open.

Vi stood there, in an oversized t-shirt, hair messier than you'd ever seen it, one eyebrow raised the second her eyes landed on you. Her lips parted slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“...Y/N?”

You swallowed, throat dry. “...Hey.”

Her expression shifted—surprise first, then caution, then something softer that she quickly tried to mask behind a casual lean against the doorframe. Her arms crossed, like she was bracing herself.

“I brought you this.” You held out the hoodie—hers—the one you'd conveniently “forgotten” to return. Every speech and rehearsed line you’d come up with vanished from your head like smoke.

“...Okay...” Vi took the hoodie slowly, like she wasn’t sure if it was a gift, a trap, or both. “Why are you... I mean... what are you doing here?”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet. “Can I... come in?”

For a second, she didn’t answer. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, then closed again. Then quietly, almost hesitant—

“...Yeah. Yeah, okay. C’mon in.”

She stepped back, letting you into her room.

It was... surprisingly clean. Organized chaos. Posters covered the walls—bands, old boxing matches, graffiti art. A few half-built mechanical things sat scattered across her desk, alongside a screwdriver and a pair of welding goggles. The air smelled faintly of citrus, metal... and Vi.

You stood there awkwardly, not sure whether to sit, stand, or bolt out the door. The silence between you was suffocating.

“Uh, I...” you tried, but nothing made sense anymore. “I had this whole speech, about how this is your favorite hoodie and you really needed it back, and how I’m an idiot for not returning it sooner and—”

Vi sighed, dragging both hands over her face. “Look... if you’re here to yell at me again, just get it over with. I swear, I still have no idea what the hell I did that night.”

You inhaled sharply. “That’s... that’s the thing.” Your gaze dropped to the floor, then back up to meet hers. “You didn’t really do anything. Not... not technically.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why...?”

“Because...” You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the words out. “Because you drive me insane, Vi.” Your voice cracked. “You flirt. You joke. You act like it’s all fun and games. You kiss me like it means something, and then... the second I walked into that party, you were flirting with someone else.” Your throat tightened. “And I didn’t want to care. I really didn’t. But I do. I care way more than I should. And it scared the hell out of me because... because I thought it was just a game to you.”

Vi’s face softened instantly. “Hey... no. No, Y/N...” She stepped toward you, then paused like she wasn’t sure if getting closer was allowed. “It wasn’t a game. Not to me. Not... not with you.”

“Then why do you act like it is?” your voice broke—thick with frustration and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why do you call me every pet name in the book and keep proclaiming you’re the love of my life like it’s some kind of joke? Like I’m supposed to just laugh it off and pretend it doesn’t mean anything?”

Vi flinched, like the words physically hit her. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out for a second. Then finally—

“Because that’s... that’s how I am, Y/N. That’s how I’ve always been. Joking’s easier. Safer. I didn’t think you’d... I didn’t think you’d ever actually... care.” Her voice softened, breaking. “I didn’t think I was allowed to hope you would.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You blinked, stunned. “...Wait. What?”

Vi dragged a hand through her hair, pacing a few steps like she couldn’t sit still with everything bubbling out of her. “Yeah. Yeah. Look, you think I was messing around? God, Y/N, I’ve been terrified. You’re...” she shook her head, laughing bitterly. “You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’ve got your shit together... I never thought I had a chance. So yeah, I flirt. I joke. That’s what I do. But that kiss?” Her voice dropped, raw, trembling. “That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t a bit. That was... real. And I’ve been losing my mind ever since.”

She stopped pacing, turning to face you fully, breathing like it physically hurt. “I wanted to kiss you. I wanted it so bad. And then you ran, and I... I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Your breath caught. The tension between you was like a live wire—crackling, fragile, dangerous.

Vi bit her bottom lip, then let out a shaky laugh, almost self-deprecating. “...I really fucked this up, huh?”

You stared at her. “...You kinda did.” You crossed your arms. “But it’s okay... because I kinda fucked this up too.”

She winced, then smiled—soft, lopsided, and so Vi it hurt. “Yeah. Fair.”

And God... seeing Vi— reckless, cocky, unbothered Vi—standing there looking vulnerable, nervous, uncertain... it tugged at something deep in your chest.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “...So what the hell do we do now?”

Vi blinked at you, surprised for a second, then grinned—tentative but real. “I don’t know. But... maybe we stop running from it.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she added, “From... this. From us.”

Your heart stuttered. “...Yeah. Maybe we do.”

Vi stared at you like she was waiting for permission. Like if she even breathed wrong, you might vanish. Her fingers twitched at her sides—like she wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if she was allowed to.

And you were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting it. Tired of holding yourself together like you weren’t seconds from falling apart every time she looked at you like that.

“Vi...” you started, but the words barely made it past your lips.

Her gaze dropped to your mouth. Her tongue darted out, nervously wetting her bottom lip, and that—God, that—snapped something inside of you.

“Screw it,” you whispered.

You stepped forward at the same time she did, like gravity itself finally gave up pretending you two weren’t being pulled together. Her hands cupped your face, tentative at first, but the second she felt you lean into her touch—like you needed it—her grip tightened.

And then she kissed you.

Not like the playful teasing at the party. Not like something for show, or a joke, or a dare. This was different. This was desperate, and clumsy, and real. Her lips were soft but firm against yours, a little shaky, a little frantic, like she’d been thinking about this every second since the last time and had no idea if she’d ever get to do it again.

Your hands fisted in the front of her shirt, pulling her closer, like you could physically make up for all the distance and the hurt and the confusion that had built between you. Her arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like something precious—like she was terrified of letting go.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, both of you were gasping like you’d just surfaced from underwater.

“...Okay,” Vi rasped, smiling so softly it hurt. “Okay. Yeah. We’re really doing this, huh?”

A laugh bubbled out of you, watery and real. “Yeah... I think we are.”

Her thumb brushed your cheek, gentler than you’d ever thought Vi could be. “I meant it, you know... what I said. None of this was ever a joke. Not you. Not... us.”

Your hands slid up, cupping her jaw, your thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbone. “I know. I... I didn’t want to believe it at first. But... I do now.”

Vi grinned, but it was softer than her usual cocky smile—almost shy. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now, huh?”

You pretended to think. “Hmm... yeah. Guess I am. What a nightmare.”

She chuckled, dipping her head to kiss you again—softer this time, slower, like she wasn’t in a rush anymore. Like she had all the time in the world now that you weren’t running from each other.

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The next morning felt... weird. But the good kind of weird. The kind that made your stomach flutter every time you remembered how Vi had kissed you, how her hand fit perfectly in yours, how the two of you had talked until way too late—about everything. About the party, about the feelings neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud until now. About you. About her.

So when your phone buzzed with a text from Vi that read:

“Get ready. I’m picking you up for school. No arguments.”

—you couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

And true to her word, ten minutes before you were supposed to leave, a loud, familiar motorcycle engine rumbled outside your house. You peeked through the window to see Vi leaning against her bike, looking all cocky like she wasn’t absolutely whipped.

Your heart did a stupid little flip.

By the time you grabbed your bag and stepped outside, she was grinning. “Mornin’, princess.”

“Morning,” you said, trying not to smile like an idiot.

She handed you a helmet, waiting for you to strap it on before sliding onto the bike. The second you wrapped your arms around her waist, she squeezed your hand against her stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The ride to school was a blur of wind, adrenaline, and the kind of giddy happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Meanwhile Ekko who had stood on your front porch, and knocked for longer than he had to, was calling you like no tomorrow. His brows furrowed. “Hello? You alive? Where the fuck are you?”

He was ready to call your parents when the distant sound of a motorcycle made him glance toward the street.

His eyes squinted. “No. No way.”

Sure enough, he watched as a very familiar red motorcycle pulled into the school parking lot... with you sitting on the back of it. Arms around Vi. Laughing.

And then—oh.

Vi parked, kicked the stand down, and helped you off like it was the most normal thing in the world. And when you slid your helmet off, she took it from you, casually threading her fingers through yours as the two of you started walking toward the school entrance.

Hand in hand.

Ekko blinked. Stared. Looked down at his phone like it might be lying to him. Looked back up and shook his head, snorting under his breath as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. “About damn time.”

As he caught up to you two, he didn’t even bother hiding his smirk. “Wow. Look who finally figured it out.”

Vi shot him a grin. “Took some elbow grease, but yeah. We got there.”

You rolled your eyes, blushing. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.” Ekko wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m milking this for weeks.”

Vi threw an arm around your shoulders. “Let him. He earned it.”

And for once, walking into school didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel complicated. It felt... kinda perfect.

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masterlist

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — no tears left to cry . . . softdom!chris

in which . . . you leave the boy who broke your heart and fall into the arms of the one who’s been waiting to love you right.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , creampie , mentions of cheating , mentions of a toxic & manipulative ex , not proofread!

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #9

it had been a long time since you felt like this.

free.

light.

not entirely healed, no, the pieces were still settling back into place. but, you weren’t crumbling anymore. not crying in the bathroom at 2am over texts you shouldn’t have read. not biting your tongue to keep from speaking. not choosing silence just to avoid another argument you’d lose.

your ex hadn’t touched you in months before the breakup. and when he did, it didn’t feel like love. it felt like control. like you were being tolerated.

but chris?

chris touches you like you’re sacred.

when you were in your previous relationship with your ex, you hadn’t meant to fall into his arms. not at first. you hadn’t meant to cheat. chris was just supposed to be your best friend, someone who understood how broken you felt without asking too many questions. someone who didn’t push, didn’t judge, didn’t try to fix you.

he just…stayed.

stayed when your voice cracked. stayed when you showed up crying. stayed when your hands shook and your smile faded and all you could offer was a tired glance and a quiet, “can you just hold me?”

and when your body started craving something more—something warm and real—he gave you that too. slowly. gently. never more than you could handle.

and now?

now your smile has returned.

your eyes aren’t empty anymore.

you’re laughing again. loudly, carelessly, the way you used to. you’re dressing like yourself, speaking like yourself, taking up space like you were meant to. and chris sees it. he’s the reason for it, and he knows it.

“damn,” he says from across the room, arms behind his head on your bed, eyes glued to you as you tug your hoodie off. “you always this hot or am i just noticing ‘cause you’re finally glowing again?”

you shoot him a look, playful and flushed, and toss the hoodie in his direction. it hits his chest, and he grins, catching it before it falls to the floor.

you crawl into his lap with ease. you’ve done this before, but this time it feels different. you’re not crying, you’re not falling apart, and you’re not begging for comfort. you’re just… here. present. and a little bold, hands braced on his chest as you straddle him in your tiny sleep shorts and your favorite tank top.

his breath catches. not because you’re doing anything wild, but because you’re yourself again.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “not a single tear left. just my pretty girl.”

you smile — really smile — and tilt your head, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “you like this version of me better?”

“i love every version of you,” he says instantly. “but this one? the one who knows how fucking perfect she is? the one who doesn’t let anyone dim her light anymore?”

he pauses, voice softer now. “yeah, baby. this one makes me proud.”

your stomach flips, warm and dizzying, and your lips press to his without thinking. he kisses you like he’s been waiting for it. patient but eager, firm but gentle. his hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him harder, deeper, letting your hips shift the tiniest bit.

you moan into his mouth when his thumbs press into your skin, anchoring you there. the tension between you simmers, slow and golden, not rushed. he lets you take the lead — for a second. lets you move how you want, chase what you need.

but then his hand slides up your spine and into your hair, and the kiss turns hungry.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“lay back for me, baby.”

you flip over, on your stomach how he always wants you, heart pounding as you sink into the pillows, and he follows—slow and deliberate—his mouth brushing your jaw, your neck, and your shoulder.

“you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “been dreamin’ about the moment you finally let me love you like this.”

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hands skating up the backs of your thighs before settling on your hips. “look at you.”

his voice is so soft it’s almost ruined. like he can’t believe this is real.

he leans down over you, chest brushing your back, mouth dragging across your shoulder and up to your ear.

his hand slides up your spine again, slow and warm, and you feel him press against you from behind. a slow grind, no rush. just letting it build.

you arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in your ear.

“that’s it. fuck—feels so good already, baby.”

he lifts your hips slightly so he can pull your silk shorts down, giving your ass a soft slap before pulling your panties down as well. he watches as a shade of delicate pink blooms across your skin.

you can hear him pulling his sweats down, along with his boxers. god, you were so ready. you could never enjoy sex with your ex because he was just…awful. it never felt like love. just tolerance.

chris kneads the flesh of your ass gently, fingertips digging into your skin. he spreads your cheeks slightly, admiring you. “god, you’re so perfect…”

he drags the head of his cock through your weeping folds, coating himself in your wetness. he presses his tip to your drooling entrance, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. he wants confirmation. you nod, a little too desperately. he grips your hips slightly tighter.

you whimper a little when he pushes himself in, the stretch hitting deep, slow and steady as he settles fully inside you. his hands grip your hips, not too tight, but grounding.

he stays still for a second, just breathing. letting you feel it. letting himself feel it. how euphorically deep he is inside you. how your walls feel stretched and hugging around him. how connected he feels to you in this moment.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

you nod, flushed cheek pressed to the pillow. “yeah…more than okay.”

he kisses your shoulder again, then starts to move. deep and slow, rolling his hips into yours like he’s trying to learn every inch of you.

you bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whiny moan. your breath’s shaky, but it’s not from nerves. it’s the way he’s touching you. the way he’s talking to you. the way he feels inside you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “so perfect like this. fuck, i missed you like this.”

you let out a soft moan, your hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laces your fingers together instantly and holds it there—his hand wrapped around yours as he keeps thrusting into you, deeper now.

“you’re glowing, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “you know that? haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

you choke out a soft laugh, already breathless. “it’s your fault.”

he grins against your skin. “yeah? good. wanna be the reason you never cry again.”

he fucks you like he means it—slow but purposeful, hitting deep with every thrust. his free hand smooths over your back, your waist, your thigh, anywhere he can touch you.

“you feel so good,” he whispers, over and over. “so good. i’ve got you.”

and he does.

you’re not just getting fucked—you’re being worshipped. every sound you make, every arch of your hips, every shaky breath…he’s soaking it all in like he can’t get enough.

and you?

you finally feel whole again. like you’re not just being held, but chosen.

his hand tightens around yours, the one still laced with your fingers, and he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as his pace starts to build—just a little. enough to make your breath catch. enough to make the heat curl tighter in your stomach.

“you’re takin’ me so well,” he murmurs, forehead resting against your back for a second like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. “so fuckin’ perfect, baby. like you were made for me.”

you moan into the pillow, trying to stay quiet, but you know better. chris loves hearing you. his free hand slips beneath your body, palm splayed against your stomach, pulling you back into him with every slow, deep thrust. your hips lift slightly, the moderate angle change immediately affecting you.

your thighs start to tremble, and he notices immediately.

“yeah? that’s it. right there, baby,” he praises, voice low and warm in your ear. “you feel that? been holding back for me, huh?”

you nod, breath hitching when he pushes in a little deeper this time, angle hitting something that makes your whole body jolt. chris splays his hand over the evident bulge in your stomach proudly, which encourages him.

“chris—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he groans softly, hips stuttering like he’s barely holding himself together. “fuck, you sound so good… i’m not gonna last if you keep saying my name like that.”

you turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—his flushed face, his damp curls, the way he’s looking at you like he’s completely gone. completely in it.

the tip of his cock kisses the sweet spot inside of you relentlessly, causing ropes of pleasure to curl in your lower stomach, right where his hand is splayed.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice shaky. “please. don’t stop.”

he doesn’t.

his rhythm stays steady but more intense now, deep enough to make your toes curl, to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. well, not exactly silent. the sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, quiet and messy and desperate. and all the while, chris is talking to you.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying, like a mantra. “you’re mine. so good for me. so fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

his hand dips lower again, brushing your clit, slow and purposeful, and your hips jerk at the touch, making chris groan.

“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he asks softly, like it’s something sacred. like he’s asking permission to watch you fall apart.

you nod quickly, the pressure building fast, overwhelming. chris feels your walls pulsing around him. he already knows the answer. “close,” you breathe. “i—so close, chris…”

“then let go, baby. shit—cum for me.”

oh, you do.

your whole body arches, face buried in the pillow as the climax hits, fast and hard, ripping the breath from your lungs. your fingers squeeze his hand so tight he almost whimpers, and his pace stutters when he feels your velvety walls flutter around him.

“shit—fuck, baby, that’s it,” he growls, voice breaking. “so good for me. i can’t—”

he doesn’t pull out.

he buries himself deep, a few more ragged thrusts before he’s right there with you—low groans pressed against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to your back, trying to catch his breath, his hands still running down your sides even though you’re both shaking.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

just kisses the space between your shoulder blades again. and again. and again.

“you okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and careful.

you nod, still breathless. “yeah. that was…”

he hums. “yeah.”

a quiet beat passes, and then he slowly pulls out, murmuring soft apologies when you flinch at the sensitivity. he leaves for a second—just enough time to grab a warm towel and a glass of water—then comes right back, slipping into bed beside you. god, he’s such a sweetheart.

“here,” he says gently, handing you the water and helping you flip over and sit up enough to drink. “take a few sips, baby.”

you do. his hand stays on your lower back the whole time.

once you’re done, he tosses the glass aside and tugs you into his chest like it’s second nature. like this is just what he does now. his fingers stroke your hair. his nose brushes your temple. his lips graze your cheek.

“you were perfect,” he whispers.

you smile, still dazed. “i feel like myself again.”

“you are yourself, baby,” he says. “i just reminded you.”

“you always do,” you say, voice quiet.

he nods, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i’m always gonna take care of you, y’know that?”

you curl into him even more, nose pressed to his neck. “yeah. i know.”

and he smiles—soft and sleepy—and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

“good.”

and with his arms around you, his voice in your ear, and his warmth still lingering between your legs, there’s nothing left to ache over—no heartbreak, no fear, no tears left to cry. just him. just you. just peace.

author’s note . . . sorry this is a lil late! this is one of my favs so far :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[dissociativewriter]

@saybeyonce for some reason tumblr hates me and won’t let me respond to your ask directly :( so we’re doing it this way!

first of all, let me say THANK YOU! you’re very very sweet, but unfortunately i’m not that popular 😅 but thank you for being such a sweetie!

second, this is such a cute idea!! i hope you like how this turned out <3

request event • not proofread

Sylus attracted kittens like he attracted enemies, it seemed.

Though unlike his enemies, any kittens that appeared at his doorstep were taken care of. If they had any injuries, he was quick to clean them up. If they were hungry, they were fed any suitable food he’d had on hand.

They just never stayed.

Sylus was alright with that, he supposed. After all, Onychinus wasn’t the most suitable place to raise a kitten. And with how often he was gone, would they even receive the proper care?

So, he was content to let the kittens leave his care. Content to have his only animal companion be his dear Mephisto, that intricate mechanical crow.

That was, until you came along.

Taking his world by storm, no corner in Onychinus’s base was spared from your influence. There were bits of you everywhere, Sylus found, not that he was upset. Every decision made was made with you at the back of his mind. You were constantly there, a consistent presence he didn’t want to miss. Hell, he didn’t even leave the base that often anymore, in case you decided to visit.

You’d ensnared him. Tangled him in a web of love and care and affection that he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to escape from. He’d do anything for you, drop the world at your feet, supply you with the means to bring its leaders to their knees.

Or, in this case, take in some kittens.

This wasn’t what he’d expected when you shyly came into his office a few hours earlier, ulterior motives hidden behind your disarming smile.

No, he hadn’t expected to spend his free time between missions with a kitten cradled on his forearm and another perched on his shoulder. But you looked so happy petting and playing with the kittens you’d brought home.

“They were in a box on the side of the road, Sylus!” you’d cried. “Who knows if someone was going to pick them up? I couldn’t just leave them there!”

Now here he was, entertaining six frightened yet highly energetic kittens. His sighed as he scrolled through pet sites, researching the best litter boxes, foods, and toys for cats as another kitten climbed his chest, making biscuits on his pecs.

Sylus couldn’t get you to stop laughing.

Your charity knew no bounds, it seemed, as you brought back another kitten the next day. “She was under your bike,” you explained. “What if she got run over? I couldn’t just leave her there!”

This repeated twice more, before Sylus finally told you that nine kittens might be too many.

“Nonsense!” you pouted.

“Kitten, we don’t even have names for these nine,” he sighed.

An hour and a half later, you returned to the base, box in hand.

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “What do you have there?”

“Collars for the kitties,” you answered. “With names on them!”

Taking the box from you, Sylus sifted through the tags. “Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.” He looked back to you. “The Muses? I didn’t think you enjoyed Greek mythology.”

You shrugged. “Since they’re N109 kitties, it felt fitting. So many things here get their names from Greek mythology, so why not them?”

Sylus nodded, defeat and surrender detailing his sharp features. “Alright, I’ll order more supplies. Go round them up so we can get their collars on,” he muttered.

You grinned triumphantly.

Sylus truly had become prey to Linkon’s Kitty Goddess.

a/n: this was very very fluffy, i had a lot of fun writing it! i also had to get my greek mythology obsession knowledge in there lol. anyways i wrote this kinda fast so i hope you like! <3

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open!

masterlist