#But part of me is like... No. There's going to be some sort of... At least attempt of redemption here.

[kingkaisen]

୨୧ FAMILY CHAOS ୨୧

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: one year ago, you & your husband, Satoru, adopted two of his teenage students, Yuji & Megumi. Also, your biological daughter is now five years old, and it seems that every member of the Gojo household is experiencing their fair share of troubles and keeping secrets, yourself included. What exactly is going on this week?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || fluff, angst, brief description of smut, brief descriptions of violence, canonverse, fem reader, mentions of depression, skipped meals, & suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, & gojo being the best dad and husband ever!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: . . . 9k . . . :)

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. || artwork by @/3-aem, ribbon dividers by @/cursed-carmine!

YOUR STORY — DAY ONE

Two positive pregnancy tests rested in the palm of your hand, one showing two vertical pink lines, while the other casually presented the utterly life-changing word: Pregnant.

How unsurprising.

It was only a matter of time — after all, your husband was like an animal, tossing, turning, and twisting you every possible way whenever he could get some alone time with you.

It was impossible to know which night of love-making had led to your current conundrum: Was it the night all of your kids spent their Saturday evening elsewhere? Or, perhaps, the time Satoru had you in a mating press position on a hotel bed? No, it had to have been the time he returned home from a mission amidst your solo shower, and his lack of patience led to him slipping in behind you, and furthermore, slipping into you, all the while his hand-

“Ready?”

Satoru’s voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts. He stepped out of the master bathroom, buttoning up his shirt as he walked. You quickly hid the pregnancy tests under your thigh while his all-knowing blue eyes weren’t on you.

“Ready for what?” You said nervously.

“Don’t tell me the same person who rambled on and on about wanting to go to the festival already forgot about it,” Satoru glanced at you briefly. He approached your dresser, grabbing his blacked-out sunglasses. “The kids are waiting. I don’t think Yuji’ll be too happy if he misses the lantern show. And you and I need to do that thing where we share a churro and kiss at the end-”

“Okay, okay, I’m almost ready.”

Despite your words, you hadn’t yet risen from your spot on the edge of the bed.

Satoru turned to face you. He frowned with concern. “You alright?”

The truth was that you weren’t ready to tell Satoru that, soon, there would be another addition to the Gojo household. Your hesitation was odd. This was something you both wanted, and yet . . .

And yet, the news, while delightful, was also worrisome, as the Gojo household was currently experiencing its fair share of troubles within the past couple of months — and you weren’t quite sure what adding a newborn baby to the mix would do.

Stressful times tended to occur when over half of the beloved household fought curses and curse users, both of which were more active during the summer season.

Satoru was occasionally away on important trips to other countries and continents. Your adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, — who had been part of your family officially for a solid year now — were often injured in battle. Meanwhile, Maya, your biological daughter, was arriving closer and closer to starting elementary school.

Your little girl learning all sorts of things about math, animals, and books that were longer than ten, twenty pages was a beautiful sight to see.

She was no longer a toddler, but rather, a child now, and was learning all sorts of things such as numbers that went beyond ten, beyond twenty, and even beyond fifty. There were animals — insanely cool ones, more exciting than the cows and sheep she learned about in preschool — who lived in either the forests or the sea!

There were moments of tragedy of course, such as the day she learned that her dear parents, her beloved mom and dad, were not named Mom and Dad.

Oh, the poor girl cried and sobbed, her chubby cheeks puffy and wet with tears, all while Satoru held her and softly explained to her that he would always be her daddy, she would always address him as so, but in truth, his name was Satoru Gojo.

And your name was not simply Mom or Mommy.

What a troubling day.

But that part was fine. Everything from giggling while you or her dad marked her height by using a pencil to draw a line above her head on her doorframe, enthusiastically saying, “you’re getting so big now!” to learning to sing and dance along to classic Barbie films, to crying her eyes out when she fell down during a game of tag with her friends were all parts of getting older, and it was fine.

Her having to go days or weeks at a time without seeing her dad was not.

Having to soothe her worries and fears whenever Yuji and Megumi returned home from missions with new scars and scratches decorating their skin was not.

And, worst of all, her becoming aware of her own cursed energy and being able to see those terrifying creatures was not.

A few weeks ago, after Maya saw her very first curse across the street while going down a slide at a playground, Satoru had to sit his daughter down and explain everything to her. It was a task that broke his heart.

Afterwards, he crawled into bed with you, sighing heavily.

“She was just learning about the alphabet around what, one, two, three years ago?” Satoru exhaustedly rested his head on your lap, staring up at you with sad, blue eyes. “God, I can’t keep up. She’s growing up so fast. And now she’s seeing curses. I knew this day would come, but now her childhood will never be the same.”

You turned on the lamp on your nightstand with a light tap at the base of it. With your other hand, you gently stroked the spot between Satoru’s furrowed brows with your thumb as his long legs stretched out across your enormous bed.

“We just have to teach her not to be afraid of them. Just as we explained what curses are, we have to explain to her who she is.”

The daughter of the world’s strongest sorcerer, she was.

“I thought I was ready for this. Looking after Megumi when he was a kid, learning about his power, and trying to protect him from that sick Zenin clan . . . thought that experience would prepare me for this. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. Now we have to teach our muffin and protect her from the jujutsu society as a whole.”

“Tell me about it,” you frowned. “I get at least ten emails daily from the higher-ups, all of them wondering if she’s ready to start training. She’s five years old. I told them all to go to hell.”

Satoru laughed softly, then he yawned before he started to speak again.

“I’m sure she’ll want to become a sorcerer, but if she does, I want it to be her decision. I don’t want her to feel pressured to follow in my footsteps, get what I mean?”

Your fingertips started to mess with the strands of Satoru’s white hair.

“I think the best choice would be to work with her, make sure she understands what curses are and what she can do, but also do everything we can to give her a normal life. I don’t care if she learns a cursed technique before she learns how to multiply, but no one will take her childhood away from her.”

With that, you and Satoru sealed off the end of your conversation with a kiss, but nothing more, as about five minutes later, gentle pitter-patter could be heard from the hallway as your daughter made her way to your room and hopped into your bed, snuggling right in between you and Satoru.

After seeing her first curse, she was much too scared to sleep alone.

Dealing with Maya’s current situation had your hands full. Along with all the additional chaos surrounding your entire family, you were also busy being the multitasking mother and wife everyone needed you to be. Keeping everyone fed, healthy, and happy was quite the challenge, especially when you could do very little to keep them safe in a world possessed by such evil — and they were the ones who had to fight against it. Not to mention the horrific fact that your son was quite literally possessed by the embodiment of evil — Sukuna.

Oh! And if that wasn’t enough, Satoru’s other students, old and new, often came to you for motherly love and affection they could never experience elsewhere. Though you welcomed everyone with open arms, you were tired.

Tired, and, apparently, pregnant.

—

“Alright, everyone ready? Everyone have their coats? Anyone have to pee before we hit the road?” Satoru, who stood before the double front doors of your home, scanned his watchful eyes over the bunch.

“The festival’s only fifteen to twenty minutes away,” Megumi said.

“And I bet Yuji’ll have to pee in ten.” Satoru darted his eyes across the dark-haired boy’s casual outfit, which amounted to a short-sleeved black shirt and a pair of grey jeans. “And you’re not wearing a coat.”

Suddenly, Satoru felt a tiny tug at the back of his pants leg. Turning around, he caught sight of Maya — just when did she get behind him?

With a smile, he reached down to ruffle the young girl’s hair, noting the nervous look on her face. After her first experience with a curse, it was quite rare for the young girl to not have eyes that glistened with pure fright.

“At least this one’s being so well behaved, aren’t you, muffin?” Satoru said sweetly.

“Can you pick me up?”

“Of course, sweet girl, hang on.” Satoru raised and turned his head to where Yuji was standing. “Yuji, did you-”

He cut himself off. There was nothing except an empty space where Yuji once stood. “Where’d he go?”

“Bathroom,” you mumbled.

“Right,” Satoru gave you a quick smile — he noticed your silence today. It was nice to hear your voice at all.

Looking at his other teenage son, or, rather, his uncovered arms, Satoru said, “Megumi, go get your coat.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“You can thank our new heated floors for that, but it’s cold outside, buddy, and you had a fever a couple days ago. I don’t want this bipolar weather making you sick again.”

“Cold weather itself doesn’t make someone sick, it’s actually-”

“I’m back!” Yuji’s sudden appearance interrupted Megumi.

“Daddy, pick me up! Pick me up!” Maya whined, tugging on Satoru while her small feet impatiently tapped against the floor; the new, heated one, which was part of the renovations made to your home last month. More chaos.

“Hold on, forgot to wash my hands. Be right back,” Yuji suddenly said, and vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Satoru didn’t sigh with annoyance, didn’t let his face reflect even the slightest hint of frustration. Instead, he continued to grin, handling the chaos just as easily as he handled curses.

“Come here, I gotcha,” Satoru lifted Maya, holding her in his arms. “Ya know, daddy’s gonna have to put you down to drive, right?”

“No!”

Maya leaned her head against his shoulder. Satoru turned to face Megumi yet again, noticed his lack of a coat yet again, and said playfully, “Megumi, put on a coat or jacket or else I’ll ground you for twelve to fifteen years, kid.”

“Fine,” the teenager rolled his eyes before walking off.

Gently, Satoru gave his daughter’s chubby cheek a little pinch — she squealed from the ticklish feeling — and he then placed his large hand over the little ear that wasn’t leaning against his shoulder before he shouted, “anyone who isn’t in the car in the next three minutes is getting left behind!”

“I would’ve been in the car if you weren’t making me grab a coat,” Megumi called back.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not dying of pneumonia,” Satoru shouted, then mumbled under his breath, “again.”

And with that, you watched as, somehow, someway, Satoru effectively managed to get a moody teenager, a hyper one, a clingy child, and you, his oddly quiet wife, to the annual Night Lights Festival.

—

The lakeside festival was a crowded, yet beautiful display of festive red and yellow decorations and lanterns that brightened the night sky. Live musicians banged on drums or strung their instruments, playing upbeat tones. A parade of dancers passed by, and lively chatter surrounded you.

Around thirty minutes into the festival, Yuji’s face was decorated with face paint, neck adorned with beads and necklaces dancers tossed at him, blush-pink hair covered by an enormous red and yellow hat, and he held a bag of popcorn in one hand and his favorite soda in the other.

Megumi, on the other hand, wasn’t a fan of the large crowd and never-ending music. He did, however, notice a person doing magic tricks with their two enormous dogs, and he stopped to watch the show. Maya, who was previously sitting on her dad’s shoulders, eagerly climbed down, eager to watch the dog show as well.

And by then, Yuji had seen something exciting and ran off. Yet again.

That left you alone with Satoru. Your smiling husband took hold of your hand. Though you gave him a smile back, it didn’t reach your eyes, and he could tell.

Guiding you away from the flow of traffic and closer towards the red bridge that stretched over the beautiful lake with lights dancing above the water — where fewer people mingled, fortunately — Satoru said, “What’s the matter, baby? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Sorry,” you shrugged, unable to look him in the eye. Not while you were telling a lie. “I was just thinking about how well you handle our chaotic family.”

“You know me. Handling chaos is just what I do. I think part of me loves it, actually, considering we’re trying to add on a new member to the family.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. The topic of pregnancy and having another child was nearly a daily discussion between you and Satoru, that was a fact, but now, when your pregnancy test came back positive and you hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell him, hearing those words struck a chord of fear within you.

“I don’t know, honey. I thought that I could handle all this. Don’t get me wrong, please don’t get me wrong, but . . . Megumi and Yuji are at that age where fighting curses is the last thing they need to worry about. Being a teenager is rough enough as it is. Megumi’s attitude is-is just . . . and Yuji stinks sometimes no matter how often he bathes. He just stinks. And seeing them and their friends covered in wounds after a mission . . . it’s just too much. I can’t help but wonder if we’re mature enough to handle it. It’s not like we’re the same age as most parents who have teenagers. Remember what happened a couple of months ago when I treated Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi to the movies and a shopping spree? Two cashiers at two different places thought I was friends with all of them. Friends!

Then there’s Megumi’s depression. I’ve been researching therapists, specifically ones I trust who work with young sorcerers, but there’s only like, two. And I doubt I could get him to talk to someone anyway. Oh, and while I was doing the laundry the other day, I found a crumpled-up piece of paper with a phone number written on it in Yuji’s pocket. I’m thinking a girl gave it to him. That means it’s time to talk to the boys about dating and everything that comes with it, right? I mean, we pretty much raised Megumi long before we adopted him, so I-I know he’s . . . educated, but what about Yuji? Do we just assume that his grandpa taught him everything he needs to know about, well, everything? What if his grandpa taught him things that we’d disagree with morally? No . . . Yuji’s a sweet kid, I doubt that.

I don’t know, I’m just so overwhelmed. Then there’s Sukuna, and what the higher-ups want to do to Yuji because of Sukuna . . . is that why we adopted him? To give him a good life before he’s executed? Or did we truly think we could find a way out of this? Because I love him more and more with every passing day and . . . and don’t even get me started on everything going on with Maya right now.

I don’t just mean the curse thing, either. My friend Jane told me that she stopped carrying her son when he turned four. Maya’s five now, and it seems like she doesn’t ever want to be put down. I have no idea if that’s normal. She’s a sweetheart, and she’s always been a bit clingy and sensitive, but there are certain things that-that she hasn’t grown out of yet and with this curse bullshit, she’s even more dependent on us than what my research says a five year old should be. I bet you being away for weeks at a time is part of it. I know I cling to you like a koala to a tree when you come back home, and part of that is because I’m always so terrified of what might happen to you while you’re away. I love you too much. The idea of something happening to you kills me, Satoru.

I thought that I was this amazing person who could take care of everyone who stepped through our door, but here I am, freaking out while we’re just trying to enjoy a nice festival. Maybe I should just-”

“Momma! Dad! There you are!” Yuji suddenly returned, this time, with a tiny tray of lantern-shaped cookies and a bag of souvenirs. “C’mon, the lantern show’s about to start!”

The excitable teenager once again started to dash away, and you started to follow, when Satoru’s large hands suddenly grabbed onto your shoulders, halting your footsteps.

“Hey, hey, wait,” he said. His fingers found your chin, turning your head in his direction. He planted a kiss that held all the gentle love he felt for you right on your lips. “I hear you, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“You say that as if we can ever have a moment of peace and quiet, but thanks for listening.” You gave him a sad smile, and he kissed you yet again.

The night ended with you and Satoru holding onto a beautiful lantern and releasing it together into the starry night sky. Watching your lantern join the countless other ones in the sky as you leaned against your husband’s chest was a temporary moment of relief from the chaos.

MEGUMI’S STORY — DAY FOUR

It happened.

The breaking point.

The final straw.

Reaching the limit — whatever it was, it happened.

Megumi told you something the day after the Night Lights Festival. Something that he now regretted as he slipped on his black hoodie.

“Megumi, let’s go!” You shouted from the foyer.

As you waited for him, your eyes darted up at Satoru, who was adjusting the hood on your head. It was a rainy, gloomy day, after all. Oh, a gloomy day it was.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. I know it. And I know you’re busy, but when you have the time, we should talk. We never finished our conversation from the other day. The one we were having at the festival,” Satoru said.

“Right, well,” you paused, hearing Megumi’s quiet footsteps approaching. “It’ll have to wait.”

“Let’s go,” you said to Megumi, all the while trying — trying — to ignore the pained look of betrayal in his eyes.

—

The car ride was a long, quiet one.

The atmosphere was tense. Odd. Heartbreaking. Therefore, you clenched the steering wheel and made the tough decision to speak to the boy in the passenger seat.

“Megumi? After your session, I was thinking we could stop by a bookstore, see what’s new in the nonfiction section. Get some black coffee, pick up some ginger chicken, whatever you want.”

“Sure.”

“And don’t worry. The first session is usually nothing more than you and the therapist getting to know each other. And the psychiatrist will mainly just ask you a bunch of questions. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Alright.”

You slowed to a stop at a red light. A sigh escaped from you.

“I know you don’t wanna go, but we’re doing this ‘cause we care about you. We’re worried about you.”

Megumi turned his gaze away from the raindrops on the car window. A therapist. A psychiatrist. A collaborative care plan.

“You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No, not at all!” You looked at him, your eyebrows pinched. “You’ve gone through a lot, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some help. Everyone needs it at some point.”

“I haven’t gone through anything Yuji hasn’t, and I don’t see him in the car.”

You were silent for a moment. Nothing could be heard except for the raindrops splattering against the roof of the car. The traffic light changed colors.

“When will this competition end? Comparing yourself to your brother?” You paused. “You’re both very different people with very different needs, and-”

“And you think there’s something wrong with me.”

There wasn't that familiar attitude in Megumi’s voice. There was pain. But, heartbreakingly, that pain was a familiar tone as well.

You wanted to look at him, grab his shoulders, and shake some sense into him, do something. Anything. But you could only crank up your windshield wiper and make a left turn.

“You were getting better, Megumi. I saw it. But now? Now it feels like you’re moving backwards. You and I have started to bond, haven’t we? We’d spend quality time together, even if it was just the two of us washing dishes. You even called me mom once. You came to me the other night for comfort and advice, and now I-I feel like you’re just . . . slipping away and I won’t just sit back and let it happen. Please stop pulling away from us, okay? I’m here for you. Your family is here for you.”

“I told you the truth the other day, and look where it’s gotten me. You think I’m fragile. Like I’m weak and I’m gonna break. And now you’re dragging me to meet a therapist and psychiatrist. Being honest with you has only backfired, so . . . I think it’s best if I pull away.”

“What do you expect me to do when my son, my son, looks me in the eyes one night and tells me he doesn’t see the point in living anymore? Do you just-just expect me to, what, sit back and do nothing as I watch you continue to skip meals again? Stay curled up in bed? Hear from your friends over and over again that you were careless with your own life in battle?” You slowed down as you drove; you could barely see, not only because of the heavy rain, but also the tears brimming within your waterline. “This is what it means to be loved by a family, Megumi. I know you didn’t ask for this, and you can hate me and your dad all you want, but I suggest you get used to it, because I’m not giving up on you. None of us are. You understand me? Do you understand me?”

Megumi’s gaze returned to the raindrops on the window. His hands were starting to tremble — he wanted to cry. He didn’t answer you, not now, because he didn’t understand.

He thought he did once. He thought he wrapped his mind around familial love and understood that he was loved and cared for — and he still does. Part of him, the logical side, knows he’s loved and cared for, but maybe, just maybe, that was part of the problem.

He got sick easily. Got injured easily. Didn’t like very many things. Turned away from affection. Was a picky eater — it made him feel like a burden to his family, who he knew loved him and went out of his way to make him comfortable, be it you preparing ginger chicken over a bed of rice while everyone else dined on honey-garlic glazed salmon, or giving up loud family movie nights to play quiet board games with him occasionally.

But right now? It didn’t matter to him whether he understood the concept of familial love or not. He trusted you with something, and this betrayal? He couldn’t understand it.

But right now? When his spirit was crushed and he dreaded every sunrise that marked another day of living? When you parked in front of the beige office building and took him inside for his very first session?

He could understand one thing: his desire to have never been born.

YUJI’S STORY — DAY FIVE

It was warm today. The rapidly changing weather switched back and forth between hot and sunny or cold and rainy as if it couldn’t decide which of the four seasons it wanted to mimic, nevermind what season it actually was.

And, damn it all, Satoru took advantage of temporary warm weather by standing over his smoking outdoor grill, but not because he craved warmth and anything that reminded him of peaceful summer days, but because one of Yuji’s favorite foods happened to be Satoru’s grilled burgers, and Yuji was having a bad day today.

With one hand, Satoru flipped the burgers over with a spatula. They still needed quite a bit of cooking. With the other hand, he raised his blacked-out sunglasses, gazing at the back of his house.

It had been a while since he last checked on the moping boy. His other moping boy, Megumi, was fast asleep after Satoru coaxed him into eating by bringing a food tray to his room that held an apple he sliced, a basic sandwich — Megumi didn’t like too many toppings — and his new antidepressants.

A short distance away, Maya was plopped down in her sandbox, digging around with a colorful, tiny shovel.

“Muffin?” Satoru called out. When the young girl looked at him and tilted her head a bit, he asked, “Want a juice box, sweet girl?”

She eagerly hopped to her feet, took a moment to shake off as much sand as she could, singing under her breath, “shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand . . . shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand.”

Afterwards, Maya and Satoru stepped through the back door. Once he sat the young girl down at the nook table in the corner of the gourmet kitchen, gave her a juice box and told her to stay put — only after putting his lips on the skin of her arm and blowing a raspberry to make her giggle, of course — he then headed upstairs to go check on Yuji.

—

“I wanna kill that annoying punk you call your father first.”

It was Sukuna’s rotten voice. Yuji was digging through the drawer of clothes in his spacious bedroom when the king of curses manifested himself on the side of Yuji’s face.

“Shut up,” Yuji mumbled.

“Who would be fun to kill next? Let me think . . . that pretty mother of yours? Your little sister? That little girl’s becoming sensitive to cursed energy now, right? Does your family know she won’t come near you anymore, ‘cause she can sense me? The evil inside of you? We made her cry and run away the other day. Remember that?”

“Shut up. Just shut up already.”

“You think these people really trust you as a vessel to keep me in check, huh? I bet they’re hoping you die and take me with you-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

“How do you think it’d feel, brat? Your own body being used to kill the useless humans you call your family? Your face being the last face they see as they die a slow, painful death?”

“Shut the hell up!”

He was shouting — he didn’t realize it, not until the silence that ringed afterward made him realize just how loud he had been.

Yuji heard two knocks at his door. When he failed to respond, whoever seeked entry twisted the knob and opened it.

“Yuji?”

“Sorry, I’m fine.” Yuji glanced at Satoru standing in his doorway. With a bundle of clothes in his hand, Yuji paused, watching his dad glance over the top of his sunglasses, his all-seeing eyes scanning Yuji from top to bottom. “Stop it.”

“He’s bothering you again, huh? Wanna talk about it?” Satoru stepped into his bedroom.

Yuji shook his head, mumbling an inaudible, “no.” He tossed the clothes in his hands on his bed — they fell with a soft plop — and suddenly, the tears started to fall.

He couldn’t help it by then. The teenager found himself turning around and wrapping his arms around Satoru, who didn’t waste a second before hugging him back.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Satoru said soothingly, rubbing his back.

“Most days, I can ignore him pretty easily and not let his words get to me, but . . .”

“But ever since he scared Maya, you can’t help but listen to him.”

Yuji gasped.

It was the secret he had been keeping since it happened.

“You knew about it?” Yuji pulled away from Satoru, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Not ‘til now. I was listening at the door,” Satoru said.

“You say he scared Maya, but don’t you mean me? It’s ‘cause of Sukuna, yeah, but it's not like he was taking over my body when she got scared. It was just . . . me. It’s his fault, but it’s still me. Does that make any sense?” Yuji looked down at the floor. “Megumi’s always been her favorite sibling, and I get it, she’s known him her whole life and stuff, but . . . not only am I her least favorite member of the family, but now she’s downright scared of me. Do you think that means I should live on campus for a while? It’s not fair for Maya to be scared of someone in her own home. She’s your biological kid, so she comes first. I’m just the one you adopted last year-”

“And you’re just as much a member of this family as she is.” Satoru interrupted Yuji with a stern tone he wasn’t used to. “Just give it time, Yuji. Your mom and I are working on a way to get her used to . . . all this. And in the meantime, don’t let Sukuna get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but just you wait. I’m gonna find some sorta loophole where I can kill him for good, and still keep you alive and well. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You’re pretty optimistic.”

“Well, you’re my boy, Yuji. I’ll be damned if you don’t become old and gray someday.”

Yuji gave Satoru another hug, but this time, instead of tears, it was with a soft smile. Though his heart hadn’t fully accepted Satoru’s words, nor had his mind accepted that he had a right to stay home, he couldn’t help but giggle when his dad called him that affectionate term.

“Damn right I’m your boy!” Yuji exclaimed.

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. Can we play baseball together soon?”

MAYA’S STORY — DAY SIX

It was somewhere between noon and evening, the big house a warming shade of yellow and orange from the setting sun peeking in through the open windows, and Maya crept down the hallways with her doll clenched tightly against her chest.

Sneaking around her home wasn’t fun — not nearly as fun as the show the The Backyardigans made sneaking seem to be in the episode she watched with dad last week. Secret agents, they were.

She tried singing the little Secret Agent song in her head, tried to pretend that she was on some fun, grand adventure, but in truth, she was scared.

She was coming out of her bedroom when she heard footsteps in the hallway, and she felt it. That . . . that energy. That spirit.

Everyone in her family had that same energy, she could feel it, but unlike her dad or Megumi, this energy wasn’t friendly. It was as scary as the big monsters she swore lived under her bed when she was younger — and though dad held her tight and told her he kicked all the monsters out and scared them away, that wasn’t true. Because sometimes, she still saw monsters! Like the one she saw at the park the other day! And she swore — she swore — her big brother was one of them. He was the one with the unfriendly energy.

A little while ago, she ran up to Yuji, eager to share her grapes with him, and that was the first time she felt it. She ran away crying, shrieking away from him when he tried to follow her and ask her what was wrong. Ever since then, she would only go near him if others were around. It broke her little heart. She loved Yuji! So why, just why, did he have to turn out to be one of those scary monsters?

Maya peeked her head around the corner of her door frame and saw Yuji, who was opening a hallway closet.

“Umbrella, umbrella, umbrella. Where is it?” He mumbled to himself in a bored tone, searching the shelves for, apparently, an umbrella.

Why was he here right now, of all places? He wouldn’t move either, which meant . . . she would have to walk past him to reach the bathroom.

She wanted to cry. Where was Dad? He’d hold her, and together, they could make it past that scary monster.

Maya turned in the opposite direction of the bathroom, dashing away as quickly and quietly as she could, not wanting to draw his attention. Her heart was pounding. She then made a quick turn into what was the upstairs gameroom, and there you were! You were fluffing one of the pillows on the couch when you turned your head, smiling at the sight of your daughter running towards you, but your smile quickly vanished as the corners of your lips pointed downward, your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong, honey?” You asked.

“I have to pee-pee and there’s a monster in the hallway!”

Your frown deepened in pure confusion.

You knew quite well there wasn’t a monster in the hallway, but before you could question the young girl, she was reaching up, grabbing hold of your hand with her little one — the one that wasn’t holding her doll — and she pulled you along.

There was no one in the hallway except Yuji.

You figured that, perhaps, there was some sort of weird decoration in the hallway that scared her, but when you glanced down, you saw her wide, fear-filled eyes were locked on Yuji.

“Maya, what’s the matter?” You questioned. “Mommy doesn’t understand what you’re scared of.”

You weren’t exactly whispering like Maya hoped you would, and your words caught Yuji’s attention. He turned away from the hideous ponchos in his hands, looking in your direction with a small, “hm?” when, all of a sudden, Maya dropped your hand, raising a trembling finger as she pointed at her brother.

“Monster,” she cried out.

A shocked gasp escaped your lips. You never would have expected your sweet girl to call someone such a thing, let alone her brother. “Now Maya, that is not nice. We don’t call people things that we wouldn’t want them to call us. You owe your brother an apology.”

Yuji shut the door of the hallway closet, locking eyes with his sister. Maya shrieked, dropping her doll.

“Mommy!” She grabbed, pulled, and yanked at your shirt and pants, practically trying to climb up your body and jump into your arms.

Tears fell from her eyes as she cried, “Make him go away! Make him go away!”

No parenting book had prepared you for this, whatever this was.

The terrified girl’s nails were digging into your flesh; you had no choice but to pick her up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you said soothingly, but the fright in your voice was crystal clear.

You gave Yuji a look of panicked confusion, one that begged for answers to the obvious question, but when you looked at him — even from the distance between you both — you could see the tears streaming down his face.

“Make him go away, mommy! Make him go away!” Maya cried.

Yuji sniffled, wiping his tears off on his sleeves before turning away.

“Wait, Yuji- Maya, it’s okay, I don’t . . .”

Suddenly, with Megumi following, Satoru was making his way up the stairs before Yuji could descend them, forcing the crying sorcerer to stay put.

Yuji tried his hardest to weave around Satoru, but Satoru gripped his shoulders.

“Aht, aht, aht, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But I’m scaring her!”

“Yuji, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You cradled your sobbing daughter’s head.

“Here, Megumi,” Yuji reached around Satoru, tossing Megumi two mustard-yellow ponchos he found.

Megumi caught it and started to descend the steps without another word.

Satoru frowned.

“You two mind telling me why you need ponchos when there isn’t a cloud in the sky?”

There was no answer. Megumi continued to walk down the steps, Maya continued to sob, and Yuji continued to wipe his streaming tears, his path blocked by Satoru.

“I asked you two a question. Yuji, your mother asked you a question.”

“We’re packing our bags and leaving. We can’t stay here.”

It was Megumi who stopped walking and answered.

You could handle quite a bit, but this? This was what finally made the tears fall.

When that very first sniffle interrupted the silence, your entire family turned to face you.

It was too much. Everything. Every bit of it.

With Maya in your arms — her little tantrum had dwindled to silent sobs now — you left the hallway, stepping into the closest room you could find.

Satoru was a man who could walk through Hell with a grin on his face. He was an easygoing person, one who could tolerate everything from strong curses, the attitudes of teenagers — perhaps his own occasional lack of maturity helped him out with that — but, the one thing he could not simply grin and bear?

Seeing his wife upset.

Satoru slowly turned his head between Megumi and Yuji, looking at their guilt-ridden faces. He clenched his jaw.

“You two. Living room. Now. I’m not messing around, and don’t you dare talk back to me.”

Satoru moved past Yuji, and the boy swore he could feel the anger radiating off of him like heat.

The pissed-off man watched his sons drag their feet into the living room, Megumi’s hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt while Yuji had his head down, messy hair unusually flat like he was a kicked puppy, and Satoru then stepped into the room you occupied with Maya.

You were sitting on the ottoman in front of the bed. Kneeling in front of you, Satoru looked at you with all the softness he held for you in his overwhelmed heart, and he stroked your tears away with his thumb.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” He leaned forward and kissed your cheek. He then repeated the same act of love with Maya. “Both of my sweet girls are crying. You’re killing me.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, taking a deep breath as if to soothe yourself. “It’s just been a long, long week. I don’t wanna make them feel guilty for how they feel by crying in front of them, I swear I don’t, but . . . I think hearing them say that was my final straw.”

Satoru rose to his feet. He scooped Maya out of your arms, and said, “Come to the living room. We all need to work it out.”

The living room was softly lit by two lamps. From one of the couches where Megumi and Yuji sat, Yuji wiped away one of his own tears, then gently knocked his knee against Megumi’s.

“You okay?” Yuji asked.

Megumi didn’t answer for a while, his eyes glued on the living room floor.

“No.” Megumi’s voice was soft. “Are you?”

“No.”

Megumi and Yuji gave each other a sympathetic smile. Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. You came down, following Satoru — who held Maya — and you all found yourself grabbing a spot on one of the couches.

Satoru started to speak to the young girl holding on to him.

“Muffin, look at Yuji.”

Maya looked up at Satoru with precious eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Don’t be scared. It’s okay. Just look at him.”

She was hesitant, found herself clenching Satoru’s shirt even tighter, but . . . but eventually, she turned her head and looked at her older brother, who bounced his leg out of pure nervousness and old habit, his face a mess of falling — and seemingly never-ending — tears.

“You see that?” Satoru pointed. “He’s crying. Do you know why he’s crying?”

Maya looked up at her dad, shaking her head with a small pout.

“He’s crying because you’re hurting his feelings, muffin. Calling him a monster and running away from him is making him sad, so sad that he wants to run away from home. If he does that, it’ll make all of us sad as well. You’re the sweetest girl I know, and I know for a fact my sweet girl doesn’t wanna make anyone sad, right?” Maya blinked at him, and Satoru continued. “Yuji isn’t like that monster you saw at the park. Your brother is actually this super-duper strong, super-duper awesome, super-duper great person who’s keeping a monster at bay, so the monster can’t hurt anyone someday. He’s a hero, one who puts himself in harm's way to try and protect other people, and he loves you very, very much. Isn’t that cool? To have a brother who’s that brave, kind, and strong?”

Maya tilted her head to the side, the gears in her brain turning, and she nodded slowly.

When you started to speak, Maya looked over at you.

“You have a family of people who fight those scary monsters you’ve seen all the time. In fact, your dad is the strongest monster-fighter in the whole world. None of them can lay a hand on him because of how strong he is. And guess what?”

“What?” Maya squeaked out.

“You’re his daughter, so that really strong monster-fighter strength has been passed on to you,” you smiled. “Nothing bad will happen to you, honey. Everyone in this family will make sure of it; me, your dad, Megumi, and Yuji, who I think could really use an apology from you right now.”

Maya, albeit hesitant, hopped off her dad’s lap. She wiped the tears off her chubby cheeks and glanced back at Satoru.

“Go on, it’s okay,” he nodded.

In a way, it was quite hilarious. The person she feared was nothing more than a sulking boy with teary, light brown eyes, and a sad frown. Kicked puppy.

Maya stood in front of her brother. She didn’t fully understand what you and her dad were trying to say, but she knew a few things for certain:

No one else seemed scared of Yuji.

Dad said Yuji wasn’t a monster; he fought monsters.

That evil energy wasn’t the only energy she felt from him, there was something else there. Something kind and warm.

She loved Yuji, and she didn’t like making him feel sad.

“I’m really, really, really sorry,” Maya mumbled.

“It’s okay, Maya Papaya,” Yuji smiled softly.

“You’re like Barbie!”

Oh, her famous compliment. Yuji’s grin widened in amused bewilderment, though he didn’t fully understand what about him could have reminded her of Barbie.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know, I think she’s way cooler than I am,” Yuji reached forward slowly in case his little sister was still hesitant to trust him, and when she didn’t back away, he ruffled her hair. Maya responded to that by stepping closer with her arms out. As Yuji happily leaned down to hug her, god, it felt as if his heart melted and was being glued back together all at once.

A moment after the hug ended, Satoru spoke up. “Muffin, why don’t you go play with dolls, hm? I know my big girl can play all by herself, right?”

“Uh huh! I can go do that!”

Everyone listened to the pitter-patter of Maya’s footsteps. Once the conclusion was drawn that she was in her room, you and Satoru glanced at the boy on the other couch who was playing with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt.

“My turn, right?” Megumi mumbled.

“You’re not in trouble. Neither one of you are. It’s just that, at the first sign of chaos, you two wanna hit the door. You both need to understand that no matter what happens, no matter what you do or how you feel, those beds upstairs are yours. We’ll work through any situation no matter what it is because you’re our children. Your dad and I will chase you down and drag you both back home if we have to, but please don’t make us have to.” You paused. “Megumi, do you truly hate the idea of getting help so much that you’d rather stop living here with us? Are you that angry with me?”

“It isn’t like that. I just feel like a . . . burden again.” He couldn’t look you in the eye. “But I’m not angry, I’m just hurt. It feels like a betrayal.”

“What did . . .” Your voice was wobbly. You used every bit of your strength to hold back your own tears. “When you told me how you were feeling, what did you think would happen? What did you want to happen? Did you think I wouldn’t do something?”

“I knew you would, I just . . . I wanted to talk to you, not a therapist.”

“Me?” You blinked.

“Well, you’re my mother, aren’t you?”

Oh.

Oh, you were certain you misheard him. Your wide eyes found Satoru’s, and your husband gave you a knowing grin.

“I heard it, baby. He said it.” Satoru said.

“I’m gonna cry again,” you wiped at the tears threatening to stream down your face; it was crystal clear during this moment who Maya got her sensitive side from. “Can I hug you? If not, that’s okay.”

Megumi looked up at you. He thought about it for a moment, then with a whisper of a smile, he said, “Yeah, sure.”

You made your way over to where he sat, and he stood up. You wrapped your arms around him, taking extra care not to hug him too long or squeeze him too tightly.

When you pulled away, you said. “I still think you should give your current treatment plan a proper try, but you can always come to me, Megumi. Always, always, always.”

After you released him, you then walked over to Yuji, your arms open, and he grinned widely, hoping to his feet to hug you.

“I owe you an apology, Yuji.”

“Huh? For what?” He pulled away, tilting his head a little.

“For neglecting your needs. You should give therapy a try as well. I didn’t think it was necessary at first, seeing as you were always smiling and laughing no matter what, but after everything you’ve been through, you need it as well. I’m sorry for not considering it sooner.”

“Oh, well . . . okay, I guess.”

“I think someone else needs therapy.”

The interjection came from Satoru. Turning around, you raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean Maya? Because a child therapist doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“I was talking about you, but honestly, let’s get the whole family in there,” Satoru motioned you over, and your lips fell into a little frown. “What’s that look for? Aren’t you always saying everyone needs someone to talk to at some point?”

“That’s true,” you said. You walked over to Satoru and claimed the spot next to him on the couch, and he wrapped his arms around you. “I think I could use a massage, or maybe a vacation as well.”

“I’m on it,” Satoru smiled down at you. Then, as he looked back at his teenage boys, he said, “So now, on to dating . . .”

SATORU’S STORY — DAY SIX

The conversation with your boys lasted well into the evening until the orange rays of the setting sun kissed the sky goodbye, and the bright moon appeared along with the stars.

But not every bit of chaos had been resolved just yet. There was something else, something lingering in the back of Satoru’s mind, and that was why instead of showering together before winding down for your nightly routine of soft chatter, massages, and watching an episode of two of your favorite show together, you and Satoru found yourselves strolling through the Night Lights Festival once again.

“Satoru, we’ve all had a long day. Why’d you bring me here?” You asked, looking up at the side of his face, your fingers intertwined.

“Because I wanna spend time with the person I’m in love with, obviously. You’re the love of my life, my amazing wife,” he turned his head, smiling down at you. “Look, I’m even rhyming now like a lovesick poet.”

“But why are we at the festival again? After the day we’ve had, our bed was calling my name. I was hoping we were gonna cuddle up and watch our show together, or anything that involves lying in bed . . . Please don’t make a dirty joke.”

Satoru shot you an amused grin.

He guided you towards a food vendor that smelled of heavenly sugar. After ordering one chocolate-filled churro, he turned around to face you as he waited.

“Well, you and I never get any alone time nowadays, and we really needed to talk. I figured, why not do it here? The festival only comes once a year anyway. I wanna do our little churro tradition as many times as possible.”

“Why do we need to talk? You’re not divorcing me, are you?”

“Never. You’re stuck with me in every lifetime. I really believe it, ya know. I had a dream once where we both died and-”

“Here you go. Enjoy the festival.” The friendly vendor owner unintentionally interrupted Satoru, a churro in hand.

Satoru took it with thanks. You two continued strolling until he found an outdoor bench close to the lantern-lit lake and bridge.

“What was I saying?” He asked, sitting down.

As he took the first bite of the churro before passing it to you, you said, “Listen, if this is about my rant the other day, I really don’t feel the need to continue that conversation. Talking with everyone today helped some.”

“There’s more to it.” Satoru’s tone was serious at first. The lanterns nearby illuminated his expressionless face. Strands of his white hair shifted as he nodded down at the churro in your hand. “Come on, bite the churro.”

You did so. A beat of silence passed between you both. You handed him the churro; his turn to take a bite.

“I’m waiting,” he said, taking the sweet treat.

“For?”

“For you to tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. And for you to tell me why you haven’t told me until I brought up that there’s something you need to tell me.”

You blinked at him. He was right, after all. You were keeping something from him, and of course, he’d recognize the signs of secrecy. But you wanted to hold on to the secret news of your pregnancy a little longer.

“Really? You know me better than I know myself.” You avoided looking at him as he gave you the churro. Your bite was nothing more than a hesitant nibble. “Do you honestly think I’d keep secrets from you?”

“Then why won’t you tell me you’re pregnant, baby?”

Your limbs froze. Your heart skipped a beat, and though he spoke sweetly, kindly, you were still as stiff as a statue.

“Look at me,” he softly demanded, hooking his fingers around his blindfold and pulling it down, letting it dangle around his neck.

You glanced up at him, almost feeling like a shy child getting scolded.

“I . . .” Whatever excuse you wanted to give died in your throat. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Really needa ask?”

“Your eyes.” You mumbled. Duh. Of course. Of course, you couldn’t keep something like this from the Satoru Gojo.

“I would’ve pieced it together either way, ‘cause you’re right, I do know you better than you know yourself.” Satoru smiled for a moment, but then it vanished quickly. It was his turn to take a sad bite of the churro. Those bright blue eyes glistened with a sliver of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know when or how. With everything going on, I feel like everyone will freak out at the idea of adding a baby to the mix. Especially considering our boys are ready to pack their bags and run away when they spill a cup of water. I didn’t want them to feel like us having another child would mean we no longer wanted them around. Hey, we’re having more biological children, so we don’t need the adopted ones, hit the road! ya know? I read somewhere that adopted kids and teens sometimes feel like that’s what’ll happen, or they feel like they’ll always come last to the biological children. And that’s only part of the reason why me being pregnant right now isn’t a good idea. I don’t know why we thought we would be able to handle another kid at a time like this.”

“Two kids.”

“Huh?”

“We’re having twins.” Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on the outdoor bench. “I can pick up on things earlier than an ultrasound can. And . . .” Satoru's eyes darted down to your stomach. “Yeah. I’m looking at two individual cursed energies.”

You couldn’t help but gasp. Twins? Was he being serious? Was this real?

“Oh my god. Satoru I . . . I mean, thank goodness we have a big ass house, right?” You gave a hollow laugh. One out of pure shock. “H-How do you feel about all this? I can’t tell.”

Satoru reached down into the pocket of his black jacket. He pulled out his phone, let the brightness on the screen illuminate his face, and opened the messaging app. Your husband then handed his phone to you. What stared back at you was a messaging thread with Kento.

Satoru spammed the poor man with multiple text messages, some short, incoherent, and incomplete, some using all caps, others long and decorated with emojis, but every message expressed his pure excitement. The last thing you saw before handing his phone back to him was a selfie he sent of himself crying tears of joy.

“Not only did I cry, but I went on a two-hour run to release some built-up excitement. I think it’s safe to say I’m beyond thrilled. I just wanted to wait for you to figure out, because I thought you were gonna be excited to tell me, and I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise, but then I realized that you knew, and I could see how stressed out you were. You were going through tea like a teaholic, didn’t finish your crepes, and the last time I gave you a massage, you were so tense, it was like I was rubbing down a rock.” You took a bite of the churro. Satoru continued speaking. “You know I’m always gonna be here for you, right? There isn’t any part of this that you’ll have to go through alone. Even when I’m away, I will always be coming right back to you. We will figure it out, baby. Every bit of it. I wish I could be the pregnant one, not you, just so I can take some stress away from you.”

“And now you’ve made it weird,” you laughed — a genuine one this time — and watched as Satoru shrugged and took a bite of the churro you handed him.

“As weird as you are,” you paused, the churro now in your hands. “I’m glad you’re in my life. Who knows? Maybe preparing for two new members of the family could be the bonding time this family needs. Not sure.”

“Look at you being optimistic, I love it.”

You took the last bite, playfully rolling your eyes at him, but your fake attitude fooled no one. You were crazy in love with that handsome man across the table.

“Okay, c’mere, time for you to kiss me. The person who takes the last bite has to give the first kiss. Don’t tell me you forgot,” Satoru said. Though he told you to come to him, he was the one who rose from his seat and made his way over to your side of the bench. He straddled the bench seat, facing your side, and placed his hands on your hips as if to coax you into facing him.

“Pretty sure you just made that up. And aren’t we, like, both supposed to take the last bite together, causing our lips to meet, then we kiss?”

“I think the two of us should only try that with pasta, honey. We did it during that pasta making class we went to. I think one of us would choke to death if we tried to do it with a chocolate-covered churro,” Satoru tugged on you a little tighter, his lips falling into a small pout. “You’re taking too long. Just kiss me already. You’re ruining the mom-”

You cut off your talkative husband with what he so eagerly wanted — a sweet kiss. Not only could you feel his soft lips against yours, but you could feel him fighting off a smile as he kissed you back with passion.

That smile fully formed once you both parted, your face inches apart. His bright eyes stared into yours in a way that made it hard for you to breathe, and he gently stroked your cheek.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“I think all of this chaos has taught me that, even though it’s hard, I can handle a lot of things. But promise me that you will never stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now. If for any reason you stop looking at me with all of that love in your eyes, I think that’s what will finally break me. Just promise me we will never become one of those couples who fall out of love with one another but are still together out of convenience.”

“I’ve stared at you like this since the first day we met, April 8th, 2005. I thought I was the coolest guy on the planet, but around you? I was a nervous wreck who wouldn’t stop blushing and stuttering. I still look at you now the same way I did then, and I know I still will when we’re old and wrinkly, and you know it too. But I promise, if that’ll put your worried little mind at ease.” Satoru caught you by surprise with one last little peck against your lips. Then, the tall man stood and held his large hand out for you to take. “C’mon, let’s burn our fingers tossing lanterns into the sky again while trying to look like a cute couple.”

You laughed, letting your hand fall into his. You didn’t know it, but several festival goers caught glimpses of you and your husband together. They prayed to someday find a cherishable love just as precious.

♡ — What did you think? Let me know! Feedback is appreciated and encourages me to post more dad!gojo content!

♡ — @marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf @dreamypirate @rac00ns-are-c00l4

[c0sm1cp0tat0]

Yandere! Saja Boys x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Accept it. Accept it. Accept....it??

Accept their feelings for you?? But you didn't know how. Did they demand you to reciprocate or merely stop resisting their feelings? You didn't even know WHAT feelings they meant, either.

Did they really like you?? Five of them? Five men, no, demons? That was ridiculous. They must not know what temporary attraction is. Thats why they keep driving you crazy and telling you how they'd die and kill for you.

You stumbled now after your side jabbed into a piece of furniture. You were on the run. On the run as in, through their huge ass penthouse, that is.

"Come on, [Y/N]~ The fans want it, so you can't run from ittt~!!" Abby's voice was like the eery hiss of a very beautifully patterned, very poisonous snake in your ear. He was hot on you heels; he didn't even need to try. Infact, you sussed out that you were actually the only one running here. He was about to catch up to you with just his relaxed strides.

You're wondering what's happening right now? A week ago exactly, you'd signed to be their manager. You were allowed back home-- briefly. But then you were thrown into this quick sand-pit of gigs, fan meets, approving merch. Other things that you could have sworn they were able to do themselves.

You spent more time with them that you ever had when they held you captive. You had a feeling they had a part to play in that.

And somewhere along the way, the fans had sussed out a few things. The prime one being how all five of the members looked at you when you weren't looking. That person they all said they already liked?? I wonder who they guessed that out to be.

The members didn't even care. They'd throw their arms around you in public. Fix you with this 'you're making me feel some typa-way' kind of stare while ON CAMERA. Watch you much too intently as your sorted through paperwork during fan meets. Yes, fan meets, as in the one event in which they're supposed to focus full attention on their FANS.

But the worst thing is, you'd expected the fans to do something. To rage. To demand refunds for the lack of attention. And then the Saja Boys would have to fire you and you'd be free. Instead?? You saw comments under the upload of the meet on Youtube.

"Guys GUYS GUYS. The Saja men are hot n all... but hear me out....THEIR MANAGER."

"Omg yea"

"She's clueless man"

"They're S. M. I. T. T. E. N."

"She's adorableee I wanna carry her in my pockettt"

"TAKES CARE OF THEM SO WELL OMG"

Now, there were things online. Fanart. Fanfiction. Direct messages to you, to the members. Asking if you were together. Asking for something you learned as fanservice.

There were shipwars. Now, Jinu had explained this one to you but you still didn't quite get it. Fans... fighting over...who you looked best with?

There were comments that you had to read through in order to delete the hateful ones.

"OH. EM. GEE. [Y/N] and Abby. have y'all SEEN the size difference?? So cute!!!"

"Dumb bitch, [Y/N] X MYSTERY for LIFE have you seen them?? [Y/N] literally has him on an invisible leash!!"

"I don't know, I think I like Jinu and [Y/N]'s love-hate relationship better. Remember when he hugged her and she called him a melonhead?? ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ XD,"

"HAHA uncultured swines, y'all ever heard of Baby x [Y/N] x Romance??"

"TRY ME, OT6 FOR THE RUN AHHHHH"

You'd shut down the laptop then. It was too late to delete those either way; the PR manager of their company had already seen.

And decided that they could make some bank off of this. And when a higher-up decides that there's money to be made?? You're delusional if you think you're getting away unscathed.

To top it all off, the Saja Boys were all too happy to encourage this shipping nonsense, too.

So here you were, dashing from the truth. Panting, eyes widened. You kept on looking back. You were going in circles around the huge penthouse complex. Through every single room. By now, you were in a full-on sprint. You looked back. Abby was still right behind you.

And you were so busy looking back, you didn't notice the solid chest that you were about to bash into.

"Don't you know we can teleport? Tsk, tsk, tsk." Jinu tutted with a smile, clawed finger coming under your chin and lifting it so that you looked up at him like an angry albeit guilty child.

Ten minutes later you were pushed into a fancy studio. Tried to slip away, was dragged right back.

The professional photographer hired looks you up and down, chewing his gum obnoxiously loud. He had you figured out in seconds.

"Hmmm, not a normal manager are you? Quite young. Not a bad face. Not bad at all." He paused, regarding your tense shoulders. "Relax yourself hun, you're gonna earn in millions for this."

The first reference pose he showed you already had you rushing for the exit.

"Oh no no no you don't." Jinu smiled, grabbing you by the collar and lifting you right off your feet.

"You're our manager now. Keeping the fans happy is one of your commitments. This is one of your commitments."

So now, you found yourself propped upon Abby's lap. Your feet weren't touching the ground. He'd been grinning like a madman as you struggled to climb into his lap and he'd lifted you up, helping you. Now he was all professional. Arm loosely draped around your waist, leaned back. Staring at the camera with sensuality.

Your arms were twitching around his neck, aching to tear away. under your own biceps, you could feel his own, thrice the size of yours and solid as a rock, flexing.

You only realized now how big he truly was.

While you'd lost weight out of stress, he'd become even more beefy in preparation for the photo shoot.

He could feel you slowly start to tremble. Smiling in pleasure, he leaned in, "Don't worry darling, I won't crush you." He knew you were wary of him in particular due to his physique. Such a caution was...how does he say it... fucking adorable.

"Yeessss...yes yes yess give me all that emotion. The anxiety." Photo dude's eyes swivelled to Abby, "The attraction. [Y/N], don't be shy and lean in a bit closer, will ya babe? It's not everyday you get to sit on the lap of a top idol."

But you didn't want to. The photographer was only doing the top half of your bodies, so it couldn't properly be seen that you were on his fucking lap. Your left leg was subconsciously stretching, trying to reach the ground. How would your boyfriend react to this if he were still alive? Your frown deepened.

While the members leaned into fully assess the photos captured, their eyes sparkling with facination, you hung back, wondering if you could make a break for it now.

The next round was just as if not even more appalling. You were hiccuping, feet tripping and sliding against the floor as you tried to book it to the door. Jinu was smiling happily at the concerned-looking photographer. His large hand held the back of your collar, effectively preventing your escape.

"Sorry, she's very shy."

The photographer tuts, almost pityingly, "Oh, darling darling, we can't have this shyness in the entertainment industry...not if you wanna make the big bucks."

The rest of the member's eyes swivelled and darkened as the man smeared lipstick carefully over your rosebud lips.

While you were still fighting the urge to sprint, he had the audacity to even cheer you on "Don't be shy, get that man!!"

So you walked hesitantly towards Romance, hands shaking in tiny fists. He was leaned back lazily on the red velvet sofa being used. One side of his pretty lips quirked up. Lips that were also painted in that same shade as yours.

He beckoned you with a finger. And when you got barely into arms reach, he reached out and snatched you towards him.

"The whole face, he said, baby." The pinkette man almost snarled into your ear, fine brows furrowed cockily as his small smirk grew into a full on wicked smile.

You winced. Romance didn't hold you still or anything. You had to do it yourself. The handsome pinkette leaned in, cedarwood and rose scent engulfing you. His smirk returns, entertained as he notices your knuckles whitening on the couch fabric, stopping yourself from pulling away.

"We don't got all day." The photographer snarked.

Romance had no qualms of speeding it up. His large hands framed your face. At each peck on your cheek, your nose, your chin and forehead, you winced. You were trying not to struggle. But your legs still squirmed in protest. It was so adorable.

Soon, your face was covered in lipstick prints. Romance's eyes began to glow. He shut it down immediately. His marks. All over your pretty little face Fuck.

Click, click, click.

You tried not to wince at every audible shutter of the camera.

"Oh lord, even I would pay for these. Look at the emotions in his eyes."

When it came your turn, Roman actually had to tighten his hold to stop you from shuffling away, "Keep tryna chicken out, huh? Too bad, you can't because you already signed the contract~" It was rasped in your ear.

You shook off his grip, eyebrows tight in frustration and determination. But it wavered way too easily as one of the boys whistled. Probably Abby. "Come on, sweets!! Just like you did to Jinu that night!!"

The photographer looked at the man with wide eyes then looked back to you. You smiled crookedly, trying to appear innocent. But that wasn't going to get you out of this. Nothing was.

So you shut your eyes, and got to work.

When you opened your eyes, Romance was slumped in your arms. Just like your own, every inch of his face was covered in hot pink lip prints almost matching his hair. Mouth in a blissed-out smile. Face heated. It was like he was on something.

The camera shutter went off, "Excellent," The photographer breathed, eyeing the shots with wonder.

Mystery's reference one had you stumbling. "Is this...really okay to publish to fans??"

"Oh, darling," Photography guy chuckled like he knew something you didn't. But you knew something too; that you didn't fucking want to know what he knew.

So you stood, as they put a fucking collar around Mystery's muscular neck. Put a leash on the collar and tied an intricate knot around your wrist with the end of it.

And while Malak looked thrilled at the idea of being tied to you, you shook your wrist, eyeing the ribbon unaffectionately.

"Woah!" Your finger dug into his back when he delves for your neck. You weren't used to such a sensitive place being touched. Your other hand went to his hair, tightening on his scalp.

"That's it, put those big arms 'round her, champ!! Nuzzle your face in a bit more. Nice and tight now!!"

And oh god, the blue-grey haired boy didn't have to be told twice.

You hadn't thought much about it before. But now they were all pressing into you one after the other and you couldn't help but notice how big they all were. Even Baby, the smallest of them all was much taller than you.

"How much longer?" You couldn't help but mumble now, as you sat leaned back against Baby's chest as per the photographer's instructions. His legs were on either side of you. He'd locked them around you at some point and laughed when you couldn't get free. But he did let go. You still couldn't flee though.

"Trés adorable!! Just like that!! Put your arms around her neck!!" The photographer couldn't even hear you. He was gushing over the sight of you two together. You just didn't understand the appeal.

You actually forced yourself to look at the photos this time. They were aesthetically pleasing to say in the least. Though you didn't like the concept, the photographer had made them into a masterpiece. In some shots Beni looked cocky, smiling at you satisfiedly from the back. In others, he looked at you with this...mix of feelings in his eye.

You looked back at him now and he stared back unwaveringly. His lips didn't turn up into that mean cocky smirk or anything as usual. It was his large eyes that spoke to you instead. Just... pure emotions. Vulnerability. Want. Deprivation. He was spilling himself out to you without even speaking. Without even hesitating.

"Last member, honey. Gee-wizz you must be having the time of your life." Photo guy said jokingly but also seriously you didn't know which it was. You hoped it was joke. You were not having fun.

Especially when Jinu grabbed your shoulders and steered you back to the couch.

You were in shorts. you could feel the taut fabric of his pants as photo dude directed you to put your leg over his. You were told to go closer and you hesitated.

"Come onnnn, you kissed me before without hesitation. You're thinking for this??" This guy had a slap with his name on it lined up if he didn't shut up.

It was the second time photography guy's eyes almost popped out of his skull. You scooted closer to Jinu and quickly said, "Jokes, ahaha. Jinu's really funny off camera." You couldn't help but wince. What a lie. Jinu made you do the opposite of laugh. The amount of times you'd held back tears at the idea of being unable to leave their house, god.

His hand was now on your ankle, caressing. Moving up further. Photo guy was drinking this up. "Juuust like that. Keep looking at her like that."

He wouldn't say much about your emotions. Probably because he could read out clearly how badly you wanted to leave from here. You were sick of being surrounded by these male demons. But no one would understand.

⌗☾︎ ‧₊˚ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦��⋅₊˚☽︎⌗

It was almost as if they knew how badly they'd pushed you the last day. Today, you were allowed home while the editors did their work on the shots and the bodyguards alone escorted the boys to their gig.

And it was almost as if your body knew how fucking mentally drained you were. The next minute you got home, you were out cold in your own sweet, sweet bed.

Now, 2pm the next day and you were still dead to the world. Your small form submerged in the sheets. Not silken soft ones from the penthouse, but your own. Mediocre cotton with coffee stains. You were in heaven; a dreamless sleep like no other.

You weren't on alert. You were safe in your own home. Your own personal space.

You loved your personal space. But guess what? The Saja Boys love your personal space too.

While you were passed out still, your front door opened. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. She doesn't even have an extra lock on the door." The low voice of Jinu buzzed in the background.

Baby Saja was the first to find your curled up form, barely taking up half your bed. And yet so comfortably asleep.

"Damn, she's exhausted."

"We worked her to the bone so that she'd stay," Abby shrugged, huge form leaning upon the door frame with his arms crossed.

Romance narrowed his eyes. Was he jealous of your bed? Maybe. His hand closed around one of the bed posts. He shook it hard. The entire bed shook. Self satisfied he stood up straight. "This beds rickety. Unsafe for her."

They were talking so carelessly loud. Mystery wasn't talking but was creating his own racket as he crawled onto the bed beside you. Feeling the sheets, grimacing in dissaproval when he sees they're not soft and luxurious like theirs. But you weren't stirring.

You were on your stomach, small arms closed around your head pillow as you mushed it up close to your face. It wasn't difficult for the boys to admire you like this.

Leaning in, pecking your face, stroking your hair. Running their hands down the dips and curves of your body through the duvet. Enamoured, they were. Good for you, you didn't wake up and notice.

"Wakey wakey baby~ We got pizza. It's your favourite; BBQ chicken." Jinu smiled, running his hand through your hair. Never had they seen you in such a state of peace and calm and vulnerability. Even when you slept over at theirs, you forever looked high on alert. Eyebrows knitted together, mumbling as if you were attempting to repell these demons even in your sleep.

You stirred, and turned over, still dozing. They watched, calmly. Until Abby, the more thoughtless and callous of them all, scooped up your small form into his arms. He liked having you against his muscles like this. It was a fixation for him at the moment; how pliant and clueless and soft you were between his arms.

It was a small of a thing as an all-too-familiar ghost of breath against your neck that had you jolting awake. You opened your mouth for a curse but your throat was all closed up from sleep.

You scrambled away and sat up, rubbing your eyes. You chose to ignore the way you were woken up, "How do you know my favourite-??"

They exchanged looks. They may or may not have looked under your car seats for takeaway bills and learnt the contents off by heart.

They wanted to tell you, but they shrugged instead. "All humans like pizza. And these just seemed to be popular toppings."

You walked straight past them to the bathroom, yawning as you did so. They sighed in relief. Thank god you were too tired to give them second thoughts. At the same time they wanted your thoughts though. Seconds, thirds, all of them.

You were an angelic little thing. All flushed cheeks and droopy eyes. Voice husky. Unable to even comprehend what they were saying properly because you were too disoriented. It was the first time they got to see what you were really like after an actual deep sleep. You were fucking ethereal.

In a loose knit sweater and the smallest fucking sleep shorts, you were walking sin and had no idea about it.

Mystery smiled, ringed fingers stroking against the coarse fabric of your pillow. It was an immense joy that filled him as he watched you obliviously walk into the bathroom. He was about to make good on your promise to him.

⌗☾︎ ‧₊˚ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶⋅₊˚☽︎⌗

TAGLIST ༉‧₊˚✧↳ @yumekono @levifiance @amery-benson-cvii @wantstoliveinfantasy @osball @apelepikozume @st3f13ily @little-ponkan @strayharmony943 @lazy-panther @scara-simp69 @p1nkpaperstars @ryuucollapse @tatsuri-zomushiki @crescent-z @wpdarlingpan @natllo @daikiswife @kinichportablecharger @realifezompire @i-am-here3 @daiyanomochi @elevenbts @hornehlittleweeblet @reni502 @nonetheartist @sanaxo-o @mshope16 @calmmell @luna-looniesblog @doodle-with-rhy @starr-matterr @fidenciocryptidcreechur @chirikoheina @ceramic-raven @whatdoesthesenpai @megapintofmilkshake @lover-girl009 @yandereaficionado @moon0goddess @neuvilletteswife4ever @hurts-my-brain @consecratedvampire91 @moonchildjae00 @coolnekochan9961 @misdollface

[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part seven]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

NOTE: This will be the final part of soft launch season! If you have any requests for other things you want me to write, please let me know!

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven

ACT 7: HOLD ON FOREVER

The car is barely holding on.

His tyres are cooked. The rears are sliding on every turn. The delta’s flashing red on the dash, again. He can hear the gap shrinking behind him, sector by sector, the other car clawing closer like breath on his neck.

But he doesn’t panic.

Not now.

Not with one lap to go.

The radio clicks.

His engineer's voice rings loudly in his ear. “One more lap. Bring it home, mate.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

He blinks sweat from his eyes, rolls the steering just right through the corner, heart beating so loud it’s drowning out the engine.

Then, voice low, clipped: “She’s watching, yeah?”

A pause. Crackle.

His engineer responds. “Yeah. She’s here.”

That’s all he needs.

No more doubt. No more fear.

He exhales. Slow. Steady. Everything narrows, the track, the wheel, the moment.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

And he does.

Because suddenly it’s not about the pressure or the points or the guy in second gaining half a second through the chicane. It’s about her, standing somewhere in the crowd, probably frozen in place, probably holding her hands in front of her mouth like she always does when she’s scared.

He doesn’t have a photo of it. Doesn’t need one.

He knows.

Knows she’s watching him fly through this final lap like she can will the car across the line with sheer hope.

Knows she believes in him in a way he’s still learning to believe in himself.

And that…grounds him.

Gives him that last reserve of calm, of clarity, that he’d been scraping for the entire race.

So he drives.

God, he drives.

Final corners. Final straight.

The flag drops.

His name is called.

And suddenly, everything’s gone, weightless and electric and real. The team’s screaming in his ears, fireworks going off in his chest. He’s laughing and yelling and blinking hard behind the visor.

But none of it matters until he sees her.

Through the crowd. By the barrier.

Still frozen. Hands still over her mouth.

And she’s crying.

Or smiling.

Or both.

And he doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

He just runs.

Helmet still in hand, suit half-zipped, legs already sore, lungs burning.

But he runs.

Because he said he had it.

And what he meant was: I’ve got you.

Liked by lando, mclaren and others ynusername he did it!!

user33 SHE'S BACK

user34 i'm sorry but she has to be some sort of lucky charm

lando only because you were here

The room is small. Not glamorous, not staged, just some tucked-away team space with a sofa and a half-empty water bottle on the floor. Someone left a radio on low, but it’s barely audible beneath the hum of the air conditioning.

They’ve shut the door behind them.

And for a second, neither of them says anything.

He’s still half in his race suit. Hair damp. Hands red from the gloves. He looks like adrenaline incarnate, wild around the eyes, exhausted down to the bone.

But she’s there. And that softens everything.

She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, hands in her lap. Watching him like she’s still trying to believe this version of the day is real, the quiet, not the chaos.

He sinks down beside her. Doesn’t speak.

Just rests his elbows on his knees, head falling into his hands. Breathing hard. Coming down from all of it, lap by lap.

She reaches out. Fingers brushing lightly across his back. Not asking for anything. Just there.

He leans into her touch instinctively. Like gravity. Like a reflex.

“You alright?” she asks eventually, voice low. Gentle.

He turns toward her, eyes dark and tired and so full.

“I didn’t feel okay until I saw you,” he says.

It’s not poetic. Not polished.

But it’s true.

She nods, lips pressed together. Then reaches up and cups the side of his face, thumb brushing beneath his eye like she’s still checking if he’s real. If he’s here.

“You scared me,” she murmurs. "But I'm so proud."

“I scared myself,” he admits.

And then he exhales, long and slow, like her presence alone lets him let go.

He shifts closer. Pulls her legs across his lap. Wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face into her shoulder, letting himself just fold into her. No words. Just quiet.

Her fingers comb through his hair. Slow. Soothing.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s nothing that needs to be said right now.

Just the weight of him against her. The warmth. The stillness.

Eventually, he mumbles something into her skin. Almost too low to hear.

“What?” she asks, brushing hair away from his forehead.

He pulls back just a little, enough to look her in the eyes.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s been sitting at the base of his throat since lights out. “I don’t know if I said that. I should’ve. I do.”

She blinks. Breath catches. But she doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you,” she says back, and he closes his eyes like that alone could carry him through the next race, and the one after that, and every hard thing still to come.

He kisses her then. Slow. Steady. Nothing frantic now — just real.

They stay tucked into that corner of the world, wrapped around each other, until someone knocks gently on the door.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

The sun crept slowly into the room, soft golden light spilling across the tangled sheets and catching on the loose curls at the front of Lando’s hair. The window was cracked just enough to let in the quiet hum of Monaco waking, the distant birdsong, the gentle slap of waves, the city stretching into the morning.

Lando was still deep asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, the other half resting against her shoulder. His breathing was slow and steady, the bare skin of his arm brushing against hers beneath the duvet.

She was awake first but didn’t dare move. Instead, she watched him, memorising the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle twitch of his fingers, like he was still chasing the perfect lap even in sleep.

His hand shifted beneath the covers, fingers searching, until they found hers. They intertwined slowly, his skin warm and steady against hers.

His voice was thick with sleep as he shifted, nuzzling closer, the soft scrape of his cheek brushing hers.

“Are you awake?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

“No,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, but his thumb started tracing lazy circles over the back of her hand.

She smiled, heart catching in her throat. “I know you are.”

“I can’t feel my arm,” he murmured after a pause, voice low and heavy, “but I’m not moving.”

Her fingers slid gently up his forearm, light and teasing. “You’re ridiculous.”

Slowly, his eyes opened, glassy and soft, and he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, thumb brushing her cheekbone like he was trying to memorize the way the morning caught her skin.

“I was worried you wouldn’t be impressed,” he admitted, voice quiet and vulnerable. “After everything…the distance, the silence. I wasn’t sure you’d still see me.”

Her hand rose, resting against the side of his face, palm warm and steady. “Impressed? I’m in love with you. Not just the wins or the races, you. This moment. This us.”

He leaned in, noses brushing, breath mingling. His fingers curled around her waist, pulling her just a little closer, until there was no space left between them.

“Feels like a dream,” he said softly.

“It’s real,” she promised, sliding her hand down to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

He smiled against her lips. “Good. Because if it wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to stay.”

He held her close, fingers threading through the soft fabric of her shirt, tracing gentle patterns along her back. She sighed, a soft, contented sound that made his chest tighten with something warm and urgent.

“Do you ever think about what comes next?” he asked quietly, his lips barely brushing her temple.

She tilted her head up, eyes meeting his. “All the time. But right now, I just want this. Us. Here.”

He smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I used to think I needed to have it all figured out. But with you, it’s different. It’s enough just to be here.”

Her fingers curled around his hand, squeezing softly. “That’s how it should be.”

He leaned back just enough to look at her properly, tracing her jawline with the pad of his thumb. “I’m scared sometimes.”

She softened, resting her forehead against his. “Me too. But we don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be honest.”

His lips twitched into a small smile. “Honest sounds good.”

They stayed like that for a moment, just breathing each other in.

Then she whispered, “Promise me you won’t run away again.”

He tightened his hold around her. “I promise. Not now. Not ever.”

Her smile was sleepy but sure. “Good.”

He leaned in slowly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation. There was none, only a quiet invitation, warm and steady. Their breaths mingled softly in the still morning air, uneven and hopeful.

When their lips met, the kiss started gentle, like a tentative brush of a feather against skin. But almost immediately, it deepened, his lips pressing more firmly, lips parting slightly as if seeking hers. The softness gave way to a tender urgency, slow and deliberate, as if they were both discovering something they hadn’t dared to admit before.

His hand rose to cup the side of her face, fingers curling lightly along her jaw, thumb tracing a slow, intimate path over her cheekbone. The warmth of his touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She tightened her grip on his wrist, needing the grounding connection.

She leaned in closer, her body pressing fully against his, the heat of him seeping into her skin. The world around them, the golden sunlight, the distant sounds of Monaco waking, faded away until there was nothing but the softness of their lips, the mingling of breaths, and the steady, urgent beating of their hearts.

When they finally broke apart, it was slow, reluctant, as if neither wanted to be the first to leave that closeness. His forehead rested gently against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. His eyes closed briefly, savouring the moment.

When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers. “Stay with me?”

“All day,” she said again, voice full of quiet certainty.

And in that warm morning light, wrapped in each other’s arms, they both knew some things were worth holding onto forever.

Liked by ynusername, oscarpiastri and others lando my forever home

user35 i am SICKENED. where is my lando norris?

user36 this has become a y/n fanpage atp

user37 if you had shown this post to me six months ago, i would not have believed you

Well, my lovelies, all good things, unfortunately must come to an end. Hopefully, I can spawn something new out of my brain soon! In the meantime, don't be shy to let me know what you want to see from me! I love you all, and I appreciate you so much!! taglist

@sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege, @angeltroian, @ceekokocee15, @esw1012, @charlottes-ngvot, @janonymus0, @gigigreens, @hymntostars, @imagine-it-was-us, @meahel13, @milkiane, @hi26loveie, @freyathehuntress, @stylesmoonlight12, @drewlover43, @martygraciesversion381, @leclercdream, @leviathan0000

[erwinsvow]

you have a phantom neighbor. 

you’ve lived in this apartment complex for four months and you’ve met every other person on the floor already, if not the entire building.

the sweet old lady with the long last name across from you (and the phantom), who told you just call me mrs. p when you knocked on her door to introduce yourself. the married couple three doors down—they’re looking to move out soon, find somewhere bigger since they’re trying to have a baby. you had nodded and smile politely, a little uncomfortable with the openness, but hey, maybe that’s just what people here are like. 

there’s others that you haven’t seen as much, so they don’t come to mind as quickly. you have a strict routine, you always have. out the door by seven-fifteen, at school at by seven-thirty, and you come back around four usually. even then, you have a routine you stick to after work. cleaning up, getting started on dinner, an episode of love island while you eat. you try to go on a walk afterwards, especially in the summer when it’s still warm and sunny around seven or seven-thirty.

and in all that time, you have never seen your next door neighbor.

it doesn’t make sense—how can that possibly be? you know he exists. there’s a label that says 309 — j. abbot in the building directory, right above yours, 311. you’ve seen packages left at his door before. one time the mailman accidentally slipped his electric bill into your slot—and you had left it on the floor by his door, and the next day it wasn’t there anymore

so j. abbot did exist, just maybe on a different operating schedule than yours. you don’t know why you even care so much—it’s not really that important. in other cities people go years without meeting their neighbors, and sometimes they’re better off. the last thing you need is for other people on the floor to learn that you’re nosy, or something terrible like that. 

you think maybe you’re just curious. the better answer is that all the cheesy romance novels you read have passed through your skull and infiltrated like a virus, giving your self-diagnosed brain rot a whole new meaning. 

you’re not nosy, you decide, but you still ask mrs. p about him one day, when you’re helping the older woman get her groceries up the stairs. they’re servicing the elevators, and she tells you how they must have started after she’d already left that morning. to thank you for hauling in the reusable bags filled with something inordinately heavy, she invites you in for tea. 

you’ve never really been a girl who drinks tea, but you accept her invitation with a smile. she makes a pot of earl grey and you two chat about things that come up—what you’re doing this weekend (nothing, if you can help it), how your students are (wonderful, but june can’t get here soon enough), and then you sneak it in.

“do you know the man who lives next to me? in 309? mister abbot?” 

“oh! that’s doctor abbot, honey,” she says, and you feel yourself flush, as if you’re embarrassed for getting his title wrong when he isn’t even there. you’ve never even seen the man. “he’s very nice. a widower, you know, so sad.” she whispers the last part as if it’s some sort of secret she shouldn’t be sharing. 

“oh. that’s very sad. is he young?” 

nosy, nosy nosy, a voice in the back of your head sings to reminds you. 

“everyone’s young when you get to be my age,” she says with a smile, piling on more cookies to your plate while you try to resist. 

you leave about an hour and a half later, after mrs. p has gotten a chance to fill you in on everything she deemed necessary for you to know. now that it’s warm, there’s a farmer’s market in the early afternoon she thinks has the best produce—get there early before they run out, though. a couple upstairs is getting divorced, and she’s keeping the apartment—he cheated. can you believe it? well, you haven’t seen the man, but trust me, you wouldn’t believe it. him? 

and right before you were about to excuse yourself to go finish lesson plans and treat yourself to a eight dollar latte, she fills you in on 309, dr. abbot, the very nice, allegedly young, widower. 

“well he served, just like my husband did. always stops by on veteran’s day for tea. i think he works nights at the hospital.”

but then she changes the topic again, and you don’t want to keep pushing just to satiate your own stupid curiosity. by all accounts, though, he does seem really nice. maybe you’re just not old enough to know many nice men, but stopping to have tea with his elderly neighbor on veteran’s day doesn’t seem like something just any man would do. you bid mrs. p goodbye and buy your latte and finish your work.

your schedule seems a little thrown off today—courtesy of all the cookies you ate with tea. you’re not hungry at all come six pm, so you keep reading whatever romance book is rotting your brain today, and then at six-thirty, with the notable absence of clanging pots and pans and your overstimulating kitchen hood, you hear it for the first time.

the door next to you close. there’s the sound of jangling keys. and as quickly as your tip-toes can take you to your peephole, you miss him almost entirely, just seeing his back—broad and covered with a black scrub top—and the back of his head—salt and pepper. 

you wanted to see what he looked like and deduce for yourself just how young he really is, since mrs. p told you to basically not trust her judgment. you’re a little dejected but you’ll take what you can get—before today he was a complete phantom. now he’s a blend, somewhere between phantom and person, with a very nice personality and gray hair.

you suppose that’ll have to be enough for today.

[codfxrn-blog]

MIDNIGHT DRAFT; CALVIN EVANS

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy it. I’m sorry if there’s anything wrong with the story—English is not my first language, so I apologize for that.

The first time they saw each other, he didn’t even lift his head from the microscope.

She’d been waiting at the lab door for twenty minutes, holding a wrinkled folder and biting the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t leave.

When she finally cleared her throat, Calvin Evans barely turned his gaze slightly.

“And who are you?” he asked, curtly.

“They assigned me to you. For the research. I’m your temporary assistant.” She tried to sound firm, but the word *assistant* caught in her tongue.

Calvin turned all the way around, just to look her up and down as if he were examining a sample he had no interest in keeping.

“Do you have any experience?” he asked, bluntly.

“Some,” she replied, clenching her jaw.

“Some?” he repeated, letting out a dry laugh. He turned back toward the workbench and pointed at a pile of tubes and bottles. “Sort that. And don’t mix them, please. I don’t need another problem today.”

She opened her mouth to protest but held back. She took a deep breath. Stepped closer to the bench, flipped through the labels, picked up one of the tubes, and accidentally brushed against a flask that wobbled dangerously near the edge

.“Careful,” he snapped, without turning around. “If you’re going to be here, try not to break anything.”

“Relax,” she said, swallowing her anger. “I didn’t come to wreck the lab.”

He let out a low snort, like he doubted that. Like he was sure she’d do exactly that at any moment.

“Do you at least know the difference between a reagent and a solvent?” he asked, not joking in the slightest.

She glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. Not a blink. He looked made of stone, with an endless patience he saved only for bottles, never for people.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Evans,” she spat his last name out like it burned her tongue. “I won’t touch anything without your permission.”

Calvin simply returned to the microscope, as if she had ceased to exist.

As she arranged the bottles with tense hands, she felt the heat in her body mixing with anger.

And she knew, without a doubt, that she wouldn’t stand him. Not a minute longer than necessary.

The third night working together began like all the others: awkward silence, steps bumping into each other, words that felt like darts. She arrived with a cup of cold coffee because she didn’t dare use the lab’s coffeemaker, which according to Calvin, had its own ecosystem.

“That again?” he asked, pointing at her cup. His brow furrowed, as it always did whenever he spoke to her.

“Yes, problem?” she shot back, not lifting her eyes from the bottles she was labeling.

“Besides tasting like poison, yes.” Calvin dropped a folder on the table, too close to her arm. The thud startled her. “I need you to review these transcripts. By hand. I don’t trust the machine.”

“What machine?” She raised an eyebrow, exasperated. “You know there’s a faster way to do this?”

“I prefer to check everything myself,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He looked at her with those cold blue eyes, like she was part of the furniture. “If you don’t want to, I can do it myself. But you’ll have to wait twice as long for my corrections.”

She grabbed the folder, fighting the urge to throw it back at him.

“Don’t worry. I love wasting hours correcting numbers that are already fine.”

Calvin stepped away, started weighing samples without saying another word. The silence stretched so long it made her neck ache. To top it off, he was humming under his breath, as if he didn’t even notice she was there.

But after a while, she noticed something strange: her cup of coffee had gone empty. And when she looked again, there was another one. Warm. Steaming. Much better.

She turned to look at Calvin. He was still checking formulas, pretending to be absorbed. As if that cup hadn’t appeared next to her notebook like magic.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding it cautiously.

“Had some left over,” he replied, without lifting his gaze.

“Left over?”

“Drink it or toss it,” he said, a bit softer this time. And for the first time, it didn’t sound like an order, but like permission clumsily disguised.

She stood still, feeling the warmth of the cup in her hands. She sat on her stool, opened the folder, and as she corrected the numbers Calvin insisted on checking by hand, she took a sip. Tastes good, she thought.

Too good to be from the machine.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him. Still pretending not to care, though his shoulders seemed less tense. And for a moment—just one—she felt that maybe behind all that wall of perfection there was someone not so impossible to endure.

It was past midnight when she realized she couldn’t feel her fingers. She’d spent hours typing notes, papers spread all over the workbench. Calvin was across the lab, writing something on a whiteboard, absorbed, as always.

They’d argued a couple of hours earlier over a wrongly transcribed formula. Sharp words, glances that hurt more than yelling. And then silence. Each in their own corner.

Suddenly, a dull thud snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned and saw Calvin sitting on the floor by an open shelf, surrounded by neatly lined-up bottles. He had a notebook on his knees and a pencil tucked behind his ear. When he noticed her looking, he snorted.

“What?” he asked, without lifting his head.

“Nothing,” she replied, rubbing her eyes. “Thought you’d fallen asleep down there.”

Calvin looked at her for a second, weighing whether it was worth answering. Finally, he sighed.

“You could come help me.” He said it like it cost him something. Like it hurt to say.She arched an eyebrow.

“Help you? I thought I was only in the way.”

Calvin pressed his lips together, uncomfortable. He tapped the notebook with the pencil.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it plenty of times.”

He let out a laugh so brief it almost sounded like a sneeze. Then moved aside a bit, patting the floor next to him.

She hesitated but slid over until she sat beside him. Touched the cold floor, looked at the row of bottles lined up like little soldiers. Calvin handed her one.

“Here. Just pass me the ones with blue labels.” She obeyed silently. “And please, stop calling me Mr. Evans. Just Calvin.”

She nodded slightly, giving him a subtle smile, but every time her fingers brushed his, she felt a ridiculous tingle. She ignored it. Or tried to.

A few minutes later, their knees were barely touching, like they’d silently agreed to a contact neither dared to break. Calvin spoke in a low voice, explaining why each bottle had to be in an exact order. She didn’t understand half of it, but nodded anyway. And found herself wishing he wouldn’t stop talking.

“Why do you always do this alone?” she asked suddenly. “Don’t you ever think you could trust someone?”

Calvin blinked. Lowered his gaze to his hands.

“It’s not about trust,” he said, after a long silence. “It’s just… if something goes wrong, I’d rather it be my fault.”

She looked at him, feeling the initial anger melting into something warm, confusing.

“Not everything goes wrong,” she whispered. “And it’s not always someone’s fault.”

Calvin lifted his gaze. And for the first time since they’d met, there was no judgment in his eyes. Just a tiredness that seemed to be asking for permission to let go.

“You’re wrong,” he said, barely audible. But it didn’t sound like a reproach.

She felt the urge to brush his hand but didn’t dare. Instead, she moved a bit closer, until their arms touched. Calvin didn’t move away.

“You could stop doing it alone,” she insisted. “You could let me stay.”

For a second, the whole lab seemed to hold its breath. Calvin swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, but only let out a sigh.

“Alright,” he finally said, so softly she almost didn’t hear. “Stay.”

Two more weeks had passed since they sat on the floor, lining up bottles that no longer mattered as much as before. Since then, something had changed. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t name it. But it was there. In every brush of shoulders, in every cup of coffee he left near her notebook, in every glance that lingered a second too long.

That night it was raining. The lab looked like a lit-up fish tank, with raindrops beating against the windows. She was alone for a moment, checking some samples. Calvin was in the other room, looking for a reagent that always disappeared when they needed it most.

When he came back, she was sitting on the stool, holding a flask dripping onto her fingers.

“I told you not to open it without gloves,” Calvin said, setting the flask on the table. His voice was softer than usual, almost worried. “Did you burn yourself?”

She shook her head, but he was already coming closer, holding her hand as if it were made of glass. He examined it under the dim light. Her fingertips were damp, a little red.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured, her voice catching when she noticed how close his face was.

“It’s nothing…” Calvin repeated, but without letting go. He was looking at her like he’d forgotten everything else existed. “You always say that.”

She felt a slight tremor in her jaw. She’d gone from hating him to understanding him, from understanding to glancing at him, from glancing to lying awake thinking of his voice murmuring impossible theories.

“Because I don’t want you to worry about me,” she whispered.

Calvin raised his eyes. He had a furrowed brow, but now it wasn’t out of anger. It was something more fragile. Something that seemed painful to accept.

“Too late,” he said. His thumb brushed the base of her fingers slowly, as if he didn’t know where to stop. “I already do.”

She laughed softly, more out of nerves than amusement. She felt a slight tug in her throat.

“Don’t start,” she murmured. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, his voice barely breaking.

“Like you want to…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Heat rose in her chest, flushing her cheeks. “Like you want something you shouldn’t.”

Calvin swallowed hard. His hands trembled a little as he held hers. And then he did it. He took a step. He erased the little space left between them. His breath mingled with hers.

“I don’t want to want it,” he said, his voice so hoarse it was barely a whisper. “But I want it anyway.”

She closed her eyes when she felt his forehead touch hers. The whole lab seemed to shrink, to quiet down. There was no rain outside anymore, no unsolved formulas, no grudging insults between clenched teeth. Just that: the certainty that they had reached this point fighting the inevitable.

When Calvin kissed her — clumsy, almost afraid she’d break in his arms — she clung to his white lab coat, feeling the trembling running down her back. It tasted like hot coffee and everything she didn’t understand about chemistry. Like everything she did understand about him.

There was no rush. No anger. No distance. Just the sound of the rain, the table behind banging her hip when Calvin lifted her just enough to bring her closer. A kiss that started slow, uncertain, and ended breaking them in two.

When they pulled apart, just for a second, he looked at her as if seeing her up close hurt a little.

“Tell me you don’t regret this,” he asked, his voice shattered.She let out a laugh that trembled on her lips.

“Shut up,” she murmured before kissing him again. “And keep going.”

And that night, when there was nothing left to say, she accepted that hating him cost her more than giving up. That losing was easier than continuing to fight. And that he, with his eyes lowered, had already surrendered first.

[cupidstrace]

Some Assembly Required

Summary; You call your best friend to help you build IKEA furniture. Chaos ensues. He confesses mid-argument. Pairing; Sukuna x Reader

You open the door and sigh.

Sukuna’s already leaning against the frame like he’s lived here for years, with a lazy smile, too much confidence, and the kind of presence that takes up air and doesn’t apologize for it.

“You called?”

You step aside. “Don’t make me regret it.”

He slips past you and into your house like he belongs.

The living room is a disaster. Flattened cardboard boxes and screws in plastic bags and planks of wood you’ve already decided to hate. He takes one look and lets out a low whistle.

“You weren’t kidding. This is like a sadistic swedish jigsaw puzzle.”

“It’s a bed frame,” you grumble, tossing him a screwdriver.

He catches it with one hand, still grinning. “That’s what they want you to think.”

Time passes. You’re not sure how long.

You’re cross-legged on the floor, knee-deep in wooden planks and confusion. The instructions are a mess of ominous diagrams, none of which resemble the boards you have. Sukuna’s lying on the floor, half under the frame, cursing under his breath as he fits the wrong piece into the wrong place with the confidence of someone who wholeheartedly believes he’s right.

“Did you even read the manual?” you mutter.

“I skimmed.”

“You skimmed?”

“Relax. I’ve got a system.”

A bolt comes loose and rolls across the floor. You both watch it disappear beneath the couch.

You exhale. Slowly. “Your system just unscrewed the one piece of progress we had.”

“Well, maybe if your vibe wasn’t so hostile–”

“Oh my god–”

You fall back on the floor, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an insightful answer. “This is how we die. Buried beneath a poorly constructed IKEA bed frame.”

He stretches an arm above his head, fingers splayed. “There are worse ways to go.”

“Like what?”

“Like watching you alphabetize the screws again.”

You sit up, grab a throw pillow from the couch, and launch it at his head.

He catches it, eyes glinting, and lunges before you can even think of running.

It stops being about the furniture. Becomes something else. The pillow fight quickly devolves into a poorly refereed wrestling match. A laughter-choked tangle of limbs on the floor.

And then he’s on top of you.

Literally.

He’s above you, one arm braced beside your head, hair falling in his eyes, mouth a little parted.

The room stills.

“Sukuna.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re–”

“I know.”

He doesn’t move.

The silence stretches, heavy in the ribs. Your heart hammers against the quiet like it’s trying to break free. Of this moment, or of you, or maybe even of him.

“..are you planning to get up?”

He hesitates, glancing down at your lips. “No.”

“Sukuna–”

“I like you.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He grimaces like it physically hurts. “Don’t make me say it again, woman.”

You don’t.

You just lie there, stunned. Some part of you waits for a joke, or some sort of punchline. But it never comes.

“..are you seriously confessing to me while we’re in the middle of building a bed frame?”

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I know. It’s awful timing. I just.. you looked at me earlier like you trusted me with something, and that messed me up, because you’re here, and I’m in your house, and it felt like we were building more than a bed, so I figured it was thematically appropriate for me to.. whatever. I don’t know. I panicked.”

You laugh softly. “You panicked and confessed to me?”

“I panicked and confessed to you.”

You’re quiet for a while.

Then, gently, you reach for the front of his shirt, and pull him down. “Okay.”

His mouth finds yours like it’s been trying to for a long time. Like the years of arguments and half-assed insults were just placeholders. It’s clumsy and raw and real.

When he pulls back, he looks at you like he’s still trying to catch up. Like he didn’t think you’d let him get this far.

You run your thumb over the edge of his jaw, breath uneven. “You really like me?”

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. Kind of. A lot.”

“Okay,” you whisper again.

The room is quiet. The sun has started to dip, painting the edges of the cardboard and half-built bed frame in a saffron warmth. Time feels suspended.

He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“You realize we still have to finish this thing,” you murmur.

“Eventually.”

But neither of you move. Not yet.

And for the first time all day, it feels like something is finally taking shape.

Not the bed frame, though. That still needs some work.

[angelsuecult]

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: some language, sex jokes

summary: you and Sidney finally get time to yourselves, the aftermath isn’t pretty.

request: Maybe they go to one of Sid’s games and spotted by paparazzi or for one of his games he has on like pink laces or pink tape on his stick.

word count: 16.9k

a/n: okay so I feel like I strayed kind of far from the request on this one. i think I was just trying to sort of like do some build up/make a nice story for the two of them? I was also listening to you are in love by taylor swift basically on repeat while writing this one so that might explain it. It’s also super long so forgive me on that guys. forgive me original asker, i may have gotten carried away with this one pls don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it/love it/want more, anything really!

previous part | part two

—

Wednesday 

It has been close to 5 weeks now. 

The house smells like garlic and something just shy of burning butter. You’d stepped away from the pan for maybe—maybe—forty-five seconds to grab your daughter’s water cup from the other room, and now the sautéed onions were skating a little too close to the line between golden and scorched. You turned the burner down and stirred them quickly, murmuring a soft, “C’mon, work with me here,” under your breath like the onions could hear you.

Your daughter is in the living room, perched cross-legged on the carpet, narrating a story as her dolls enacted it all. Something about a hockey princess and her dragon friend who lived under the rink. It was cute—adorable, really—and it made the house feel full in a way that distracted from the low fatigue behind your ribs.

And then your phone buzzed on the counter.

You glanced over. Probably a reminder or maybe Owen’s mom finalizing drop-off times. You wiped your hands on a towel and tapped the screen.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. 

Sidney Crosby: How’s your week been? Hope you and the little one are doing great.

You blinked. For a second, the message didn’t quite register. You had to reread it once, twice. Then again, slower.

You hadn’t actually expected to hear from him.

Not really. It wasn’t that you thought he was rude or full of shit—Sidney didn’t come off that way. It was more that well, life was busy. His life especially. The man was a walking headline. With training, press, games, travel, probably a calendar booked for months out. You figured the meet-cute at the gear store and then at the rink had been nice but nothing more. Something to smile about and then file away under “fun moments that don’t go anywhere.”

But there it was. His name on your screen. His words, low-key and friendly. You smiled before you meant to. You: Hi :) we’re good. Someone’s got mystery sauce on her shirt and is telling a story about dragons under hockey rinks. 

You: So you know. Just a regular Wednesday.

He replied fast. Sidney Crosby: That sounds like a solid plot. Does the dragon know how to skate?

You laughed quietly. You: Apparently he was trained by the hockey princess herself.

Sidney Crosby: Smart dragon. Good mentor.A pause. Sidney Crosby: You doing good? How’s everything been since Little Penguins?

You leaned against the counter, phone still in hand, onions now perfectly golden. You stirred them absentmindedly while texting back, your thumb hovering as you paused to find the right words.

You: We’re great. She’s still buzzing from it. Talks about it like she’s been drafted by the Pens. You?

His reply made your stomach do a little flip. Sidney Crosby: Glad to hear it. I’ve been good. Busy, but not bad busy. 

Sidney Crosby: I’ve been meaning to text you, just didn’t want to bother you while things were hectic.

You bit your lip, smile twitching again.

You: You wouldn’t have bothered me. Promise.

He replied right away.

Sidney Crosby: Good to know. I’ve been thinking about you.

Your chest fluttered, breath catching in your throat just a little. You tried to keep it cool.

You: Oh yeah? Hope it was all good thoughts.

Sidney Crosby: Only the good kind.

Sidney Crosby: Wanted to see if maybe you’d want to grab dinner Friday? Just us. I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Your heart skipped. No—actually flipped. You stared at the screen, rereading the message at least three times before you even registered your daughter was at your side talking to you again.

“Mommy? I drew you a dragon,” she said, holding up her notebook proudly.

You blinked and turned around, clearing your throat. “Oh, baby, it’s beautiful.” You kissed the top of her head, smiling softly. “I love the wings.”

“They’re sparkly,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even though I didn’t have glitter. Can I have a snack?”

“In a minute. Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, distracted now. Because your brain was still chewing on one thing:

I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Dinner. With him. This Friday.

You hesitated.

You’d already promised your daughter she could go over to Owen’s that afternoon. She’d been talking about it all week. And you were supposed to stay for a little while—chat with Owen’s mom, hang around until they were fully settled and playing nice. She’d been talking about it all week, literally had a countdown going. Two more sleeps till Owen’s!

You didn’t want to back out. Your girl counted on you to be steady. And maybe it was silly, but single mom guilt was just this constant shadow at your heels. It crept in during quiet moments and whispered things like don’t be selfish and she should always come first and is one night out really worth missing something for her?

So you didn’t reply to Sid right away.

Your thumb hovered over the reply box, and then you locked your phone instead.

Goddammit.

You wiped your hands again and grabbed your phone again, unlocking it, swiping out of the conversation and scrolling to the contact labeled Michelle—your best friend’s name.

You hit call.

“Hey,” Michelle answered on the second ring, over the sound of her dog barking in the background.

“I need advice,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And maybe permission to be a selfish bitch.”

Michelle immediately sighed. “Oh no. What did sweet girl do now?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “She’s perfect. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“That’s not news.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Okay so, remember Sidney? Hockey guy? Kid whisperer? Weirdly charming for someone who probably owns like eight matching suits and drinks protein shakes for fun?”

“You mean Sidney Crosby. The one you swore was just flirting for fun? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well. He texted me.”

Michelle went silent for a second, then: “Okay. Start from the top. Slowly. With details.”

You explained everything, from the text while you were making dinner to the sudden dinner Friday invite. You didn’t leave anything out. Not even the part where you felt like a giant jackass for even thinking about ditching your kid for a date, even a one-off, even with someone who maybe made you laugh more than you had in months.

“So say yes,” Michelle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But the playdate—”

“She’ll be at Owen’s. She’s not gonna notice if you’re gone for like, two hours.”

“She might—”

“She won’t,” Michelle cut you off. “You’re allowed to have a goddamn life. You know that, right? Like you’re not chained to the hockey mom bleachers 24/7.”

You sighed. “It’s just… the guilt, you know?”

“I get it,” Michelle said, voice softening. “But she’s got you like, ninety-nine percent of the time. She knows she’s loved. She knows you’re her person. And hell, she’s five. If anything, she’s gonna forget you’re gone the second Owen pulls out a Barbie with a missing leg and calls it a zombie.”

You laughed, despite yourself.

“And let’s be honest,” Michelle added, “you’ve been talking about this man like he hung the moon since you met him at the gear store. You literally called me to say his forearms should be illegal.”

“His forearms should be illegal.”

“Exactly. So go let them ruin your life for a night. Worst case, you eat good food and get a story. Best case—your daughter gets a hockey stepdad and we get free tickets.”

You groaned. “I hate how reasonable you sound right now.”

“You deserve this, hon. It’s okay to want someone to look at you like you’re not just the snack-bag handler and the bedtime enforcer. Let him take you to dinner. Plus it’s not like he’s some random guy.”

Because yeah. It wasn’t just anyone asking.

It was the guy who’d helped you pick out shin guards and made you take phone notes like you were eighty. The guy who remembered your kid’s face—and yours. The guy who made it easy to laugh.

Your thumb hovered over the message thread again.

You were nervous. But you were excited, too.

So finally, you tapped back into your messages with Sidney. Read his last text again. Felt that flutter return.

You: I promised my kiddo a playdate Friday so I might be dropping her off late afternoon, but… if you’re still willing, I think I could be convinced.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

You held your breath.

Sidney Crosby: That sounds a lot like a yes.

You smiled.

You: That sounds a lot like cockiness.

Sidney Crosby: You’d know. 

You warmed all the way to your ears.

Sidney Crosby: Can’t wait to see you.

Michelle was still on the line.

“Well?” she asked.

You grinned. “I think I have a date Friday.”

“Hell yeah, you do.”

You stare at your phone for a second longer than necessary, dinner still sitting on the stove.

Then you tap out a quick message to Lauren, Owen’s mom. Your dinner plans with Sidney are suddenly very real, and you're kinda spiraling. Your kid’s singing a slightly off-key version of “Let It Go” from the bathroom, and you’re trying not to chicken out. So instead of overthinking it, you finally just type.

You: Hey! Super random, but is it still okay if I drop her off Friday afternoon for that playdate with Owen?

No context. You don’t mention why. You toss your phone on the counter like it burned you, turn the heat down on the stove, and grab a dishrag to clean up the mess like a functioning adult.

Your phone dings about a minute later.

Lauren: Um yes, of course!! Don’t worry, we’re all set. She can stay as long as you need.

You exhale. Relief. You’re about to text her back a quick thank you when your phone dings again.

Lauren: …Wait.

Lauren: Are you going on a date?

Shit.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. If you lie, she’ll probably find out anyway—either from your daughter telling Owen, or you just cracking because you’re terrible at lying. You’ve gotten close over the last few weeks; you text almost every day. She’s been there. And you trust her.

You: maybe?

You add a grimacing emoji. Then a shrug. Then delete both and just send the word.

You: Yes.

Another ding.

Lauren: OMG STOP.

Lauren: This is so exciting. Who is he??

Lauren: Wait wait. Is he a hot hockey dad?? Tell me he is.

You groan.

You: I’m not telling.

Lauren: Oh my goddddd it is one?? I knew something was going on at the Little Pens.

You cover your face.

You: I hate you.

Lauren: You do not. I’m so happy for you. You deserve this!! You never go out. You’ve earned this. Moms deserve sex too, babe.

You: WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT SEX

Lauren: Oh please. If you don’t at least consider it, I might be more disappointed than Owen when he found out goalie goals are rare.

You: Okay well if I do end up in his bed, I will let you know.

Lauren: You better. Full report. Details. DICK. STATS.

You: You’re going to hell.

Lauren: I’ll see you there, but you’ll be walking bowlegged so I’ll win.

You toss your phone face-down on the counter like that might help cool the blush creeping into your face.

Not that that’s what the night is about. You’re not even sure what the night is about. It’s just dinner. Just dinner with a guy you maybe haven’t stopped thinking about since he taught your daughter all about hockey and then turned around and asked you out.

No big deal.

Right?

You make it through dinner with your little one without your head exploding. She's in a chattery, giddy mood—spilling juice and telling you about how Owen says he’s gonna teach her how to “slide into the net like a penguin on his belly,” which frankly sounds like an ER trip waiting to happen.

Right before bedtime, sweet girl gets an idea, "Can we pick out my outfit for Owen’s house on Friday?"

"Sure, lovebug."

You try not to think about Sidney. You really do. But as you help your kid rifle through her drawers, all you can see in your head is his smile at the rink, that voice telling you he’d see you around, the text that surprised the hell out of you, and your dumbass grin when you said yes.

Your daughter picks out a shirt with glittery hearts on it and her favorite striped overalls.

“He’s gonna think I look cool,” she says.

You laugh. “He’s gonna be blown away.”

And you? You’re kinda feeling the same way. About someone else.

Thursday

The morning started like most of them did—too early, too chaotic, and way too dependent on the second cup of coffee you hadn’t even made yet. Just you and your girl, sleep still heavy in both your eyes, the kitchen too quiet aside from the soft clinking of breakfast and lunch prep. 

You stood at the kitchen counter in an old t-shirt—oversized, a little frayed, and soft from a hundred washes—and stared blankly at your daughter’s lunchbox like it had personally offended you. Her Disney princess thermos was already packed, and a granola bar was poking out of the side pocket like a tongue sticking out in mockery.

"Mommy," your daughter called from down the hall, “I can’t find the other sock with the kitty on it!”

“Check under your bed, baby!” you called back, sealing a sandwich into a ziplock. "Or the couch! Or maybe it's hiding with my last ounce of sanity!"

“Don’t know where sanity is,” she yelled, the word sounding all kinds of wrong coming from her tiny voice. “But the sock’s not under the bed!”

You chuckled under your breath and finally gave in, abandoning the last grape you were cutting in half to go join the hunt. Sock retrieved from the crack between the bed and the wall. Victory achieved.

Together, you walked back into the kitchen for a quick breakfast. Your daughter sat cross-legged at the counter in her school clothes while she demolished a bowl of Cheerios and raspberries.

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes skimming the sticky note you’d slapped on the fridge the night before—a running list of things to pack for tomorrow, playdate logistics, your dinner plans, pick-up arrangements with Michelle. You’d been up late texting her and Lauren after finally responding to Sidney, your stomach tangled in a mix of nerves and disbelief. And now it was Thursday morning, which meant tomorrow was The Day.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice still a little scratchy as you leaned on the counter across from her. “You remember how I told you about Owen’s tomorrow?”

She looked up, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “Mhm?”

“I was thinking,” you continued, kneeling down in front of her to put her feet into her shoes, “after school tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at his house for a little playdate, like we talked about. And then later, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come pick you up around seven-thirty, and she’ll bring you back to her place for a little while. Just for an hour or two. Then I’ll come get you when I’m done with dinner, okay?”

“Dinner?” she repeated, blinking. “Are you having dinner with Owen too?”

You smiled. “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna meet a friend for dinner tomorrow.”

Her little brow furrowed. “So… you’re not takin’ me to Owen’s?”

Your heart did a little flip. “No, no—baby, I am. I’m picking you up from school like always. I’m taking you to Owen’s. And then after you play for a bit, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come get you.”

She tilted her head, clearly trying to piece the sequence together in that curious way she always did, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “But… why?”

You stifled a grin, because of course she’d ask. You leaned forward, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m gonna go meet a friend for dinner. Just for a little while.”

“Ohhhh,” she nodded slowly, chewing on the corner of her lip like she was mulling it all over in her head. “Okay.”

You watched her face carefully. “You cool with that, bug?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then after a second, “Wait… who are you having dinner with?”

You hesitated, then just gave her a warm little smile and said, “A friend.”

That didn’t satisfy her. Not even a little.

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes like a tiny detective. “Like a grown-up friend?”

“Yes,” you answered carefully.

“Like… a boy friend?”

“Sweetheart,” you said with a little laugh, turning to grab your coffee off the counter as you prepped for the next round of kid questions. “Why are you interrogating me like you’re the FBI?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Is it Auntie Michelle?”

“No, babe.”

“Uncle Danny?” (Michelle’s brother).

You laughed, shaking your head. “Definitely not. Uncle Danny would make me split fries and then not eat his half.”

“Uncle Alex?” (Michelle’s Boyfriend).

“Worse,” you said dramatically, “he’d make me go to that taco place that gives me stomach aches.”

She giggled, hand clapped over her mouth. “Then who?!”

You could feel it coming before she even said it. The question that always felt like a little paper cut.

“Are you gonna see my daddy?”

It landed in the space between you, just quiet enough to take the air out of your lungs for a second. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just curious. Just hopeful.

You exhaled through your nose, gently brushing your thumb over the back of her little hand.

“No, baby,” you said softly. “I’m not.”

She didn’t get upset. She rarely did anymore. Her disappointment was always gentle, quiet, like the way a balloon slowly deflates. You saw it cross her face—a tiny flicker of something—but then she perked up again, the way five-year-olds do when the gravity of things slips just slightly out of reach.

“Oh.” She stared down at her cereal for a second, then looked back up with big eyes. “Will you bring me ice cream?”

You barked out a laugh, louder than expected. “Absolutely I will.”

“Pink kind.”

“You got it. Pink as pink can be, the way you like it.”

“And a spoon.”

“Of course a spoon,” You said, pulling her into a tight hug, “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

She snuggled in, grinning against your neck. “A grown-up one.”

You tickled her under the arm, she giggled for a second before squirming away and bouncing off of her seat and toward the front door like the weight of the world had been lifted from her tiny shoulders.

You watched her go, your chest twisting with something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe relief. Maybe both tangled up in that knot you’d been carrying for the past five years.

You didn’t talk about her father often. He wasn’t in the picture. Never really had been. And your daughter never asked about him until she did, and when she did, it always hit you like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You shook it off, grabbed your keys and coffee, and followed her out the door. Because life didn’t slow down just because your heart felt a little bruised.

“And I get to stay longer than last time!” she cheered, kicking her feet excitedly.

“Yup,” you smiled as she climbed into the car. “You get a whole afternoon.”

“And you’re gonna go eat dinner?”

“Mmhm.”

She kicked again. “With your friend?”

“Yup.”

She paused. “Is he nice?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said it was a he?”

She gasped dramatically. “It is!”

You groaned. “You little sneak.”

She burst into laughter, her tiny voice ringing like a bell. “I hope he brings you flowers.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause if he doesn’t I’m gonna be mad at him.”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes misting just a little. “Okay, tough girl. I’ll let him know he better come correct.”

“Yeah,” she said, her little voice so serious. “Or I won’t share my ice cream.”

The drive to school is a blur of her singing to the radio, asking if zebras wear pajamas, and reminding you to pack her purple leggings for tomorrow “in case Owen wants to see her do her spin.”

You drop her off with a hug that lasts a little longer than usual.

And then you're alone in your car, the reality of tomorrow settling somewhere in your chest like a weight and a spark all at once. 

You don’t even make it out of the school parking lot before your phone starts buzzing in the cup holder, Michelle’s name lighting up your screen. She’s lucky you love her.

You answer with a dry, “What?”

“Oh, don’t start with me,” she fires back instantly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

You snort, backing out of your parking space as sunlight spills through the windshield. “Jesus, I don’t know. I was gonna try and dig around in my closet and see if I could make magic happen.”

Michelle makes a disgusted sound on the other end. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. You are not pulling some six-year-old clearance dress from the back of your closet for your first date with Sidney fucking Crosby.”

You sigh. “Do you hear how crazy that sentence sounds?”

“Yes,” she says without pause. “And I stand by it. You’re dating a national treasure, babe. You need to look like one. Get your ass to the mall. I’m already here.”

“You’re already—? Michelle.”

“Too late. I’m holding a coffee hostage for you. I will drink it out of pure spite if you make me wait.”

You groan but it’s hopeless. Of course you’re going. Of course she’s already there. She always is.

“Fine. But I’m not buying anything,” you grumble.

“We’ll see.”

You meet up in the parking lot half an hour later, both of you armed with reusable coffee cups and a sense of purpose—hers for fashion, yours to defend your closet’s honor.

“So what’s the vibe? Hot mom on the prowl? Shy suburban MILF? Undercover bombshell?”

“Jesus, Michelle.” You laugh, adjusting the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m just trying to make it through the day without stress-sweating.”

“Sexy and casual it is.”

You wander the center together, weaving in and out of shops, but before either of you so much as touch a grown-up blouse, you’re already lugging three shopping bags. All full of stuff for your kid.

Michelle squints at you over her cup. “You realize we’re supposed to be shopping for you, right?”

You shrug, holding up a tiny glitter-covered hoodie. “But look at this! She’d lose her mind. And these leggings? The little stars on the knees?”

Michelle narrows her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“She’s five. This is peak adorable clothing age. I’m just trying to seize the moment.”

She grabs your elbow and yanks you into a store that has nothing even remotely glittery or pint-sized. The mannequins are wearing things with underwire and lace and heeled boots that could end a grown man.

“Now,” Michelle says, eyes scanning a rack of silky tops. “We’re not leaving until you find something that makes you feel confident.”

You toe the edge of the plush fitting room rug and sigh. “Okay, but I need to tell you something first.”

Michelle side-eyes you. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Because if you are, I am not helping you baby-proof your house again. I will, you know I will but that’s besides the point.”

“No,” you laugh. “Not unless immaculate conception is real.”

Michelle grins. “Knew that man gave off holy dick energy.”

You groan and lean your head against the dressing room mirror. “Okay, seriously though. This morning, when I was getting her ready for school, she asked if I was going to see her dad.”

Michelle’s face hardens instantly. “Really?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I told her no, obviously. She was just curious. Said it kind of casually. But I just—I don’t know.”

Michelle’s silent for a moment, arms crossed as she leans against the mirror next to you. “He always shows up again, you know. When you’re finally doing okay. Especially if he thinks you’re seeing someone.”

“I know.” You sigh. “It’s like he’s got radar. He’ll go quiet for months, maybe longer, and then boom—he texts or calls or leaves a voicemail about ‘wanting to see her.’ Like clockwork.”

“Because he doesn’t actually want to see her. He wants access to you.”

The way she says it makes your stomach churn. Because she’s right. Every single time.

“He’s not gonna know,” you say, more to yourself than her. “I’m just grabbing dinner. It’s not serious.”

Michelle arches a brow. “With Sidney Crosby. Yeah, no one’s gonna catch wind of that.”

You rub your temples. “God. I hate this. I hate feeling like I have to ask permission to move on. Like every time I do something for me, I feel like I’m betraying her somehow.”

Michelle softens. “Babe, she’s not gonna suffer because you have a life. You’re not ditching her for a week in Cabo. You’re going to dinner. And you’ve made sure she’s safe and happy and with people who love her. That’s all she needs.”

You nod, eyes hot but holding back tears. “She asked for ice cream. After asking about her dad.”

Michelle lets out a laugh, loud and sharp. “See? She’s fine. She just wanted sprinkles and emotional security.”

You laugh too, the sound breaking through the heavy feeling in your chest.

“She’s lucky,” Michelle says, plucking a silky wine-colored wrap top off the hanger and handing it to you. “She’s got a mom who does everything for her, who puts her first, even when it costs her. And now she’s got a chance to see that her mom is also a person. With a life. And a beautiful man who wants to take her out.”

You roll your eyes but smile, holding the top up to your chest in the mirror. “Think he’ll like it?”

Michelle grins. “Bitch, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay. Dinner. I can do dinner.”

“Damn right you can,” Michelle says, already fishing around for matching heels. “Now let’s go find a bra that’ll make your boobs look expensive.”

You groan but follow her deeper into the store, your heart a little lighter. You still don’t know what’s going to happen. 

Twenty minutes later there's a zipper halfway up the back of a slate-blue blouse when your phone buzzes from the little cushioned bench in the corner of the dressing room. You pause, arms lifted awkwardly, blouse hitched halfway up your ribs like you’re in some kind of amateur striptease—glamorous, really—and squint toward the screen lighting up.

Sidney Crosby

You freeze.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware that one boob is definitely just out in the wild. You fix it fast, shimmy the shirt down properly, and fumble to grab your phone with one hand while smoothing the blouse over your stomach with the other.

It’s a simple message.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Just checking if we’re still on for tomorrow? :)

That fucking smiley face. Why is it cute? You hate yourself a little.

You type back quickly, before you can overthink it.

You: Yeah, definitely. Looking forward to it :)

Another smiley. You’re so goddamn embarrassing.

You toss the phone aside on the bench and try to focus on the skirt. It’s a midi thing, stretchy waistband—comfortable enough you don’t feel like you’re being punished but still cute. Michelle had waved it in your face. “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re not suffocating in shapewear.”

You’re just smoothing the skirt over your hips when your phone buzzes again.

Sidney Crosby: Nice. I’ll come get you around 7? Or do you want to meet somewhere?

You chew on your lip, thinking. It’d probably be easier to meet, but a bigger part of you—one that you’re trying really hard not to name or psychoanalyze—wants him to come pick you up. There’s something kind of… old-school about it.

You: Come get me? If that’s okay?

Sidney Crosby: Yeah, I’d like that. Send me your address later?

You smile. God, you hate how much you’re smiling. Your cheeks are already warm and your phone’s not even done buzzing.

Sidney Crosby: Also—is this a fancy thing? Should I not show up in jeans like an asshole?

You giggle. Actually giggle. Alone. In a dressing room. Like a teenage idiot.

You: Jeans are perfect. If you show up in a suit I might vomit.

Sidney: Noted. No suits. No vomiting. Sounds like a solid plan.

You're still smiling when the curtain jerks halfway open and Michelle pokes her head in.

“Oh my God, you’re blushing.”

“Jesus, Michelle!” you yelp, yanking the curtain closed again and trying to hide the visible glow of your screen.

“Oh my God,” she repeats, muffled now. “Is that him? Is it Sidney? Are you sexting? Are you telling him what kind of panties you’re wearing?”

“I will smother you with a blouse,” you hiss, trying to hold back laughter.

“You’re totally flustered right now. Like, your voice got all high. It’s like when I texted that hot Pilates instructor and spelled core like an apple core.”

You groan and push the curtain aside, stepping out in the outfit. Michelle immediately gasps like she’s just seen her favorite artist on stage.

“That. That right there. You’re wearing that.”

You glance down. “It’s just a blouse and a skirt.”

“It’s hot without looking like you’re trying to be hot. Which is, ironically, the hottest thing you could do. You just need tights, and new heels.”

You roll your eyes, tugging slightly at the waistband. “I dunno. It feels… almost too good.”

“Exactly. You deserve too good. Especially after dealing with your walking oil spill of an ex.”

“Michelle.”

“What? Am I wrong?”

You sigh, and sit down on the little bench again, grabbing your phone and reading through the texts again like a teenage girl re-reading a crush’s Snap streak.

“He said he’s picking me up at 7. No suits. No vomiting.”

Michelle tilts her head and clutches her chest. “He’s cute and considerate. God, you’re screwed.”

“I know.”

“Hey—listen to me.” She squats down to your level, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re not just someone’s mom. You’re still you. You get to have this. You get to be nervous and flirty and maybe even get laid by someone who actually cares about what gets you off.”

Your face goes hot. “Michelle.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. Sidney Crosby’s forearms alone could probably handle things you haven’t experienced since college.”

“Can we not talk about his forearms while I’m in a blouse this thin?”

Michelle cackles and claps her hands together. “This is so fucking fun.”

You shake your head, but you’re laughing now, too.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Sidney Crosby: Should I bring anything?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Michelle peers over your shoulder. “Say, only if it’s wine and strong arms.”

“I will kill you.”

You: Just yourself. And maybe an appetite.

Michelle groans dramatically. “You’re adorable. God help us all.”

You hit send, still smiling like an idiot.

You don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna look like yet. You don’t know how many times you’ll panic or second-guess or feel that sick twist of guilt when you leave your daughter at Owen’s and then Michelle’s. But right now, sitting in a dressing room with the world's most chaotic best friend and a phone full of texts that make your stomach do that stupid fluttery thing, you feel a tiny little flicker of something you haven’t had in a while.

Hope.

And maybe a little horniness. But mostly hope.

For now.

Friday 

It’s a mess of crayons, backpacks, and snack wrappers in the backseat, and somehow your daughter is still talking, even though you’re less than two minutes from Owen’s house. She’s in the middle of a long-winded explanation about how Owen told her yesterday that his big sister has a phone, and he might have seen a video, but he didn’t really watch it, not all of it anyway, because he weren’t supposed to be in her room but he was just getting a book and then it came on and it was only a little bit scary, like not bad scary, just—

“Okay, baby, pause,” you interrupt gently as you put the car in park in front of Owen’s house. “Deep breath.”

She gasps dramatically, inhaling like she’s trying to suck all the air out of the car.

You reach back and brush a stray curl out of her eyes. “Are you excited for tonight?”

She nods so hard her whole body wiggles. “I love Owen’s house. They have a trampoline and a dog and snacks with cheese sauce and—”

“I know, I know,” you laugh, unbuckling her car seat straps. “You’re gonna have the best time. Just try not to start a war in the living room, okay?”

“I never start the war,” she says as you help her out of the car. “It’s Owen. He throws first.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, grabbing her backpack and her water bottle. “That sounds completely believable.”

You walk her up to the front porch, holding her little hand in yours while she bounces at your side like a pinball with legs. You can already hear voices and something crashing—probably a toy, hopefully not glass—on the other side of the door.

Before you even ring the bell, the door swings open, and Owen barrels out in socks like a kid on fire, skidding a little.

“You’re heeeere!” he squeals, launching himself at your daughter.

She shrieks back, drops your hand, and immediately wraps her arms around his neck like she’s reenacting the final scene of a romcom.

“Okay, that’s enough romance,” you mutter, laughing as Owen drags her inside. You follow close behind.

“Owen, shoes!” comes a voice from the kitchen. “I swear to God—”

Lauren appears a second later, holding a juice box in one hand and a half-eaten cheese stick in the other. Her hair’s in a messy bun and she’s wearing a sweatshirt that says Mom of 3, Pray for Me.

“Hey!” she grins, tossing the cheese stick to her own mouth before you even get a word out. “You ready for your hot momnight out?”

You groan. “Don’t call it that.”

“Oh no, we’re calling it exactly that,” she says, grinning wickedly. “Come on, tell me—who is it? Do I know him? Is he a hockey dad? It’s a hockey dad, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“You suck,” she whines. “I let you dump your child into my chaos house and you won’t even give me one crumb of gossip?”

You smile and shake your head, watching the two five-year-olds disappear into the den like gremlins. You hear a thud, then maniacal laughter.

“Do I need to send you a waiv—”

“Just send me the bill when they inevitably break a lamp,” you say.

Lauren laughs and sets the juice box on the counter. “But for real, you look cute, Y/N. Like, date cute. Like, panty-worthy cute.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not even dressed for it yet,” you mutter, tugging your jacket closed even though it’s not even cold.

“Oh, come on! I saw you at the rink the other day. I saw that look you gave one of the coaches.”

You blink. “What look?”

“That one! The ‘I’m trying not to be horny in front of children’ look.”

“I’m gonna scream,” you mumble.

She gasps like she just cracked the code. “It is one of the coaches!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

You point a warning finger at her. “Lauren. I’m serious. You don’t get to know anything yet. You’ll be the first to know if I end up married or murdered, I promise.”

She dramatically gasps again, one hand flying to her chest. “You promise-promise?”

“Swear on my bra drawer.”

“Oh, wow,” she grins. “That is serious.”

You both laugh. It’s loud and real, the kind that feels good in your chest. It’s nice.

She leans on the doorframe. “Well. I’m proud of you, babe. For real. It’s hard, you know? Letting yourself be a person again.”

You nod quietly. You do know. Maybe a little too well.

She nudges your elbow. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if he hurts you, I will castrate him with a butter knife.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

She glances toward the playroom and lowers her voice. “Now go. Before you lose your nerve and end up back here with a tub of Goldfish and a kid in your lap.”

You smile. It’s small, but it feels solid. “Thanks, Laur.”

“Anytime. Now go get laid or fall in love or both. I expect a full debrief tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and head back toward the car, heart hammering a little harder with every step.

You ended up driving home slowly, as if that would somehow slow down time. You probably ended up wasting like thirty minutes.

And your house still smells like the strawberry bubble bath your kid used the night before—faint but sweet. You’d barely made it through the door before you were stripping out of your jeans and sweater, heading straight for the shower. Hot water, eucalyptus body wash, and the slight panic of holy shit, this is happening, it’s really happening. Sidney Crosby is picking you up in a few hours for an actual date, and you are not okay.

You wrap yourself in your robe, hair towel still piled on your head, skin warm from the heat. You should be resting. Maybe sitting down, putting on an audiobook, eating something small. But your nerves don’t care. They don’t want calm. They want chaos.

So, naturally, you start cleaning the house.

You’re halfway through wiping down your already clean kitchen counters—again—when the front door opens.

“Are you—oh my god. Y/N.” Michelle’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re scrubbing the counter? In a robe? Towel in your hair?”

You glance over your shoulder. “I’m being productive.” 

“You’re being insane,” she says, dropping her purse onto the entry table and kicking her shoes off. “I’ve never seen someone try to clean anxiety off their kitchen island before, but you’re setting a new bar.”

“I just needed to do something.”

“Yeah, like relax?” She pads over to you and plucks the sponge out of your hand. “Sidney is not going to care if your counters are spotless.”

“I know that.” You throw your towel on the couch and exhale. “It’s not about him. I’m just—I don’t know. My brain is going a million miles a minute. I’m excited. But also nervous. And a little nauseous.”

Michelle grins and flops onto your couch. “You’re adorable when you panic. So where’s Lover Boy taking you?”

You grab a glass of water and your phone. “Here, he sent me this last night.”

She sits up eagerly, snatching your phone and reading it out loud. “‘Nice little private spot, they’ve got great food, super lowkey, so we’re not splashed all over the front page of dumb hockey blogs. Are we still on for 7?’” She looks up at you. “Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.”

You groan and snatch your phone back, clutching it to your chest. “Why does that message make me feel like I’m seventeen and going to prom?”

“Because he’s Sidney fucking Crosby and he’s into you.” Michelle wiggles her eyebrows. “God, I still can’t believe it. You met him buying pink skates for your kid. That’s a rom-com origin story.”

“Yeah, well, I hope it’s not a rom-com ending where I get stood up and end up crying in a diner.”

Michelle snorts. “Please. He’s obsessed with you. You’re golden.”

You nod, then glance at the clock. “I packed her overnight bag, by the way, in case she gets too tired after your ‘niece bonding time.’”

“Oh we’re going hard tonight,” Michelle says with a wink. “Movies, nail polish, a dance party, maybe a pillow fort. She’s gonna be too busy living her best life to miss you.”

You smile at that, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course. She’s my favorite tiny human.” Michelle eyes you for a second. “Speaking of being ready for all scenarios... please tell me you shaved.”

You choke on your water. “Michelle!”

“What? Just in case! You never know where the night will go.”

“It’s a first date!”

“Yeah, with Sidney Crosby. If you don’t think that man is capable of smooth-talking his way into your panties by dessert, you’re in denial.”

You roll your eyes and head toward your closet. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you don’t want to be caught with a winter forest situation down there.”

You groan again but laugh anyway, following Michelle into your bedroom and to the closet where she immediately starts rifling through your clothes.

“This is date night. No mom jeans. No oversized sweaters. No ‘I gave up on life at Target’ shirts. We agreed.”

You cross your arms, still in your robe. “I want to be comfortable.”

“Sexy and comfortable can coexist, Y/N. That’s why God invented wrap blouses and stretch fabric. And why we bought you that outfit.”

She starts pulling hangers out one by one—rejected looks piling on the bed. You shoot down at least five of her suggestions for being too revealing, one for being too sheer, and one because, in your words, “my tits are spilling out like an avalanche, Michelle.”

“That’s the point!” she argues.

“Not tonight it isn’t!”

Eventually, you both settle on a wine-colored blouse, soft and silky, with just enough of a dip in the neckline to feel scandalous without being too much. You pair it with your new black skirt that reaches mid-thigh, tights, and a simple gold necklace. 

Michelle gives you a once-over and sighs. “You look fucking stunning.”

“I look like I’m about to pass out from nerves.”

“You look like someone who’s about to have a night she’s gonna replay in her head for months. Maybe years.”

You give her a pointed look. “Please don’t jinx it.”

“I’m not. I’m manifesting,” she says, walking over to fix a stray piece of your hair. “Now go do your makeup and try not to second guess everything.”

You nod, your stomach tight, heart pounding—but you’re smiling. You can't help it.

You check your phone. 6:28 p.m. You slowly make your way to the bathroom.

Sidney’s going to be here in thirty minutes.

Oh God.

You're barely starting to put on mascara when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. You freeze, wand mid-air, one eye closed like you're halfway into a stroke that'll definitely leave a smudge if you're not careful.

Your brain jumps to the worst immediately. Maybe your daughter’s sick. Maybe she’s sad and wants to come home. Maybe Owen bit her—he did that once during a disagreement over who got the last orange Popsicle.

You lean down and squint at the screen.

Lauren: Hey! Just passing on a message from a certain bossy little lady—she says, and I quote: “Tell Mommy to make sure he doesn’t forget the flowers. And my pink ice cream. Not white. Not purple. Pink.”

You blink.

Then laugh.

A surprised, full-body kind of laugh, the kind that bubbles up out of nowhere and makes your chest warm.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, still smiling as you pick up the phone to type back.

You: She’s too much 

You: I’ll do my best but I make no promises about the flowers. The ice cream though—non-negotiable.

Lauren: Good luck. She’s keeping track like it’s her business. You’re gonna get grilled the second she sees you. I’d prepare a PowerPoint.

You: Oh I’m already mentally preparing my closing statements. She’s a tiny attorney with pigtails and pink rain boots.

You pause a second, glancing at yourself in the mirror—one eye made up, one still bare. Your reflection looks like some chaotic mid-makeover movie montage. Hair pinned up with an emergency claw clip, your phone in hand and your cheeks still a little warm from laughing.

Lauren: So... hockey dad, huh?

You groan under your breath.

You: Lauren. No.

Lauren: PLEASE TELL ME. Is it one from the rink? The one with the jawline that could cut glass?

You drag a hand down your face, abandoning your mascara wand entirely.

You: Not confirming or denying anything. Just let a girl live.

Lauren: Live your life, babe! But you owe me details next time I see you. I’m talking who, what, where, if he smells good, and what his handshake says about his soul.

You snort, toss the phone down, and mutter, “She’s worse than Michelle.”

From the other room, Michelle calls out, “What’d I do?”

You grin, shaking your head as you go back to your makeup. “Nothing. Just getting bullied from multiple angles now.”

Michelle appears in the doorway with a bottle of sparkling water and a bag of gummy bears. “Ooh, was that Lauren?”

“Yup.”

“She know?”

“She knows something,” you say, adjusting the angle of the mirror as you finally finish your lashes. “Apparently sweet girl passed along a note.”

Michelle plops down on the bed. “Oh god. What’d she say?”

You spin around with a smile. “To make sure he brings flowers. And doesn’t forget her pink ice cream.”

Michelle wheezes, practically choking on a gummy bear. “That’s your child. Right there. A tiny romantic with a superiority complex.”

“She’s insane. Like, how does she even know to ask for flowers? I swear I didn’t teach her that.”

“Duh,” Michelle says, tossing a gummy into her mouth. “Disney. The princesses always get flowers and rides in magical vehicles.”

“Well shit,” you mutter. “Now I do have to marry him or she’s gonna think I got rejected by Prince Charming.”

Michelle laughs so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Don’t worry, babe. He’s way hotter than Prince Charming. You’re like... the hot queen who seduces him and then inherits the kingdom.”

You make a face. “Why do your compliments always feel slightly illegal?”

“I specialize in morally grey hype,” she says, then lifts her chin. “Anyway, did you text him about the flowers?”

“Oh my god, no. I’m not gonna text Sidney Crosby and be like, ‘Hey, bring flowers or my five-year-old will fight you.’”

“I don’t know,” Michelle grins. “Sounds like peak parenting to me.”

You just shake your head and go back to finishing your makeup, still smiling.

The next ten minutes pass with a weird sort of anxious energy—too much time to sit and think, not enough to nap or relax or even get anything productive done. You double check your bag twice. Reapply lip balm four times. Spray perfume, then wonder if you overdid it and spend ten minutes debating if you need to shower again.

Michelle eventually chases you out of the bathroom with a hairbrush like she’s wrangling a feral cat. “For the love of god, sit the hell down and breathe. You look perfect. You smell like a grown woman who knows what she’s doing. Stop sabotaging yourself.”

You sink into the couch, heart rattling like it's stuck in your throat.

Michelle hands you a small pouch. “Here. Lip gloss, blotting paper, mints. And an emergency condom.”

You nearly choke. “Michelle—”

“Just in case!” she sings. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Liar.”

You laugh, too nervous to argue. “I really haven’t. I mean, yeah, he’s... I mean look at him. But like. Not tonight.”

Michelle nods slowly. “Totally get it. You just wanna see if the vibe matches the look. Respect. Chemistry check first, horizontal tango later.”

You toss a throw pillow at her as she heads out of your front door, laughing despite yourself.

And then your house is quiet for the first time in what feels like weeks. No squeaky shoes darting down the hallway. No Disney songs humming through your phone speaker. No tiny voice asking how long it takes for ice cream to melt or how many dogs is too many dogs.

You kind of hate how still it feels.

Your fingers play with the edge of the couch, your heels dangling from your toes, heart climbing steadily up your throat while the digital clock on the oven ticks toward 6:50. 

The mirror in the hallway doesn’t lie. You feel good. You look good. 

And he’s not late. But you check your phone for the hundredth time anyway. Nothing.

And then there’s a knock. A soft, measured three-tap knock that somehow manages to startle the absolute hell out of you.

You freeze. “Jesus Christ.”

Your heart kicks up again.

You smooth your blouse, exhale once, then twice, and open the door.

Sidney’s standing there.

It takes less than a second for your chest to tighten, for all the nerves to snap into something fizzy and warm, crawling straight up your spine. He’s wearing a button-up and dark jeans, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair just a little tousled like he kept running his hand through it in the car. And in his hand—a bouquet.

Your mouth parts slightly. “You brought me flowers?”

His mouth quirks. “I did.”

You take them, stunned into smiling. Soft pinks and cream-colored blooms, wrapped with a small ribbon. You can’t even speak for a second because the smell hits you all at once—fresh and summery and kind of perfect.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says quickly, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. “But they looked nice.”

“They are,” you say, glancing down at them again. “They’re really beautiful. Thank you. Come in—I want to put them in water before we go.”

“Sure.”

He steps inside, slow and careful like he’s taking the space in respectfully. You can feel him behind you as you head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet above the sink for your one real vase—the tall clear one with the subtle twist in the glass. You fill it with water, trim the stems like your mom taught you, and set it on the counter.

“They match your place,” he says behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He nods at the flowers. “You. Them. All of it. It goes together.”

You laugh a little, not quite believing he just said that out loud. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins, unapologetic.

You watch him look around while you fuss with the vase just a little more than you need to. He’s not nosy—he doesn’t touch anything—but you can tell he’s paying attention. His eyes pause on the living room shelf with your daughter’s framed art project, the throw blanket crumpled on the corner of the couch, the light blue soccer ball tucked halfway under the TV stand.

And then he reaches the fridge.

“You guys got a lot going on here.”

You walk over, following his gaze. There are photos—her at Halloween as a tiny Elsa, her as a newborn, her beaming at a playground slide, the two of you with whipped cream mustaches. Scribbled drawings in crayon and marker and stickers shaped like stars. And in the middle, stuck by a magnet shaped like a cat, is a small sticky note in bright pink with the messy handwriting of your 5 year old:

“pink ice cream!!pleas thank ulovumommy”

You laugh. “That’s been there since yesterday. She made me promise.”

Sidney leans in, smiling. “What flavor is pink ice cream?”

“She doesn’t know sometimes it’s strawberry, sometimes it bubblegum. If it’s pink, it counts.”

He chuckles. “Smart.” 

There’s a beat. A warm silence. You look up and he’s still looking around, but softer now. Thoughtfully.

“You got a nice place,” he says finally.

“Thanks. It’s home.”

He nods, and then—almost like he can feel you growing too aware of the moment—he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“You ready?”

You glance down. Your shoes are on. Bag in hand. Your kid’s safe. Michelle has her overnight bag. You double-checked everything before Sidney even got there.

“I think so.”

“Good.” He opens the door for you. “Let’s go have dinner, pretty girl.”

You blink. Try not to smile like an idiot. Hard fail.

Outside, the sun’s hanging low, there are warm shadows across the sidewalk. His car’s parked out front—black, clean, low profile. He walks you to the passenger side and opens the door for you, which feels so absurdly nice you don’t even try to make a joke.

You settle in, smoothing your hands down your thighs. He closes the door gently, then walks around to the driver’s side.

You watch him slide into the seat beside you, glance over with a small smile, and say—

“Just so you know, I was early. Not because I was trying to be cool or anything.”

You raise a brow. “Then why?”

He shrugs. “Was excited. Figured being early was better than pacing around in my kitchen like a dumbass.”

You laugh.

It’s easy. And steady. And not rushed at all.

Not even a little.

The car falls quiet in the way late summer evenings are quiet—soft and golden, windows cracked enough to let the breeze in, the hum of the road a backdrop instead of a barrier. You fidget with the case of your phone, not because you’re uncomfortable, but because your brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that this is real. That he showed up early. That he brought you flowers. That now you’re sitting in his passenger seat like some alternate universe version of yourself who does stuff like this.

It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t make your skin crawl or your palms sweat. It’s the kind that fills in naturally between soft bursts of conversation, where the world passes by out the window and you can just exist in it without feeling like you have to perform.

Sidney keeps one hand on the wheel, relaxed, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Occasionally, he glances your way—quick flicks of his eyes like he’s making sure you’re still good. Still with him. And you are. You definitely are.

The sky outside slowly turns to that deep, navy kind of blue, just before full dark as you move. Streetlights flicker on. Shops glow warm behind their windows. And every so often, you catch the scent of his cologne again—something clean and just the slightest bit woodsy—and it tugs something low and soft in your gut.

“You always this quiet?” he asks after a few minutes.

You glance over, smirking. “Only when I’m trying to decide if my date is a serial killer.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

“Do you always offer women rides in cars that look like they came off a spy movie set?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just saying—” you gesture vaguely at the sleek dashboard “—this feels like the kind of car where you press a button and it launches rockets or something.”

“Unfortunately, the rocket package was extra,” he says seriously. “I went with heated seats instead.”

You steal a glance out the window. “You always drive yourself?”

His eyes flick toward you. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Who I’m trying to impress.”

You smile. “So—me, huh?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh softly, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second. “Good to know I’m high on the priority list.”

“You’re at the top,” he says without hesitation, his voice low, sincere.

You glance at him again, heart tugging a little. That boyish grin he gives you in return nearly makes your chest cave in.

The rest of the drive is a mix of soft music and half-spoken jokes. He makes fun of your GPS voice (“Why is she British?”), and you threaten to reprogram it to a cartoon chipmunk just to mess with him. He tells you a story about one of the younger guys on his team showing up late to skate because he got locked inside his own apartment’s garage, and you laugh too hard, snorting once, which earns you an exaggerated look.

“Don’t judge me,” you say, covering your face with one hand.

He grins. “It’s a good laugh.”

You don’t reply to that. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to calm the heat blooming all across your chest.

By the time he pulls into the restaurant’s lot—a corner spot tucked behind a small row of trees—you’ve somehow convinced yourself that maybe you can do this. That maybe tonight doesn’t have to go wrong. It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—no flashy signs, just a small awning and warm amber lights glowing behind frosted windows. Quiet. Discreet.

He throws the car in park and turns to look at you, one hand already reaching for his seatbelt. “Ready?”

You nod. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

He actually leans in to check—eyes scanning your mouth carefully.

“Nope. Just lips.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite the rush of nerves twisting inside you. “Gross.”

He’s already out of the car by the time you’re unbuckling, moving around to your side before you can even reach for the handle. The passenger door swings open and he offers a hand—warm, callused, steady.

You take it and let him help you out. Your fingers linger a second longer than they need to. His thumb brushes the side of yours before he lets go.

Your heels click against the pavement, and his hand stays on the small of your back for just a second longer. It feels good. Secure. And you hate how much you notice it.

The restaurant is—just like the rest of this night—surprisingly you. Not fancy. Not too loud. Just nice. Dim lighting that makes everything a kind of soft gold, like candlelight even though most of the tables have tiny glass lanterns instead of actual flames. There’s a hum of conversation, laughter, the clink of forks on plates. It’s full, but not crowded. 

Friday night. Peak romance hour.

You glance around as you step inside, already cataloging the room like second nature—how many exits, who’s watching who, whether there’s a kid crying in the far corner or if it’s just the sound of silverware.

You’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. Comes with the territory. Mom mode never really switches off.

The host greets you both with a polite smile, but there’s a flicker of recognition behind his eyes when he looks at Sidney. His gaze lingers a beat too long—like he’s trying to figure out where he knows him from—before shaking it off and grabbing two menus.

“Hi there. Reservation?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Under Crosby.”

His eyebrows twitch. Confirmed. But he keeps it cool. “Right this way.”

Sidney walks beside you, close but not crowding. His shoulder brushes yours once, and it leaves your skin buzzing under your blouse. He notices it too. You can feel it.

You’re led to a small round table in the far corner, half-tucked behind a tall planter and shielded slightly from view. Cozy. Private.

Romance-y as hell.

You pull out your chair, about to sit down, but Sidney catches the back of it first and helps ease it out with a small, quiet gesture that feels old-fashioned in the best kind of way. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just does it.

The host sets down the menus and dips his head. “Your server will be right with you.”

Sidney thanks him quietly, and you swear you see the guy glance over his shoulder one more time as he walks off—probably trying to confirm whether or not that is the Sidney Crosby.

“You get that a lot, huh?”

He looks up from unfolding his napkin. “What?”

“The look. Like they’re trying to solve a riddle with your face.”

He tilts his head, then shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And it doesn’t drive you nuts?”

He leans back a little in his chair, glancing around casually. “Not really. I mean, yeah, it can get annoying. But it’s not personal, you know? It’s just part of it.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. But your fingers tug lightly at your napkin under the table.

But your body’s used to being on alert. It comes with motherhood—hyper-awareness, that constant half-readiness in your muscles. You don’t let your daughter wander. You don’t take your eyes off her in public. You know what it means when someone’s watching a little too long.

And now, it’s not your daughter they’re watching. It’s you.

You take a breath.

His smile is soft. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Watching. Being aware.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’ve got eyes like a hawk?”

“I’m saying you’ve got mom eyes. That’s way scarier.”

You laugh—because he’s not wrong—and tilt your head. 

He smirks. “I play in front of thousands of people every night. But you? Yeah, you’re intimidating.”

You scoff. “I’m literally one person.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Your cheeks burn. You look down at your menu, trying to hide the stupid grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But you can still feel his eyes on you—steady, warm, a little amused.

“I feel like you like flustering me,” you mutter.

“I think you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, flipping the menu up like a shield. “Jesus. You’re worse than Michelle.”

He laughs—low and genuine.

“You’re gonna have to tell me more about her,” he says, scanning his own menu. “She sounds like trouble.”

“Oh, she’s insane,” you agree. “She made me shave my legs just in case I was ‘getting lucky.’”

Sidney nearly chokes on air, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. “Did she actually say that?”

“Yep. Right before rifling through my closet and telling me my boobs were ‘wasting their prime.’”

He laughs again—louder this time, drawing a glance from a nearby table—and shakes his head. “I gotta meet this woman.”

“You don’t,” you say quickly. “She’ll make you sign a contract in blood if you so much as try to ghost me.”

He leans forward slightly. “What if I don’t want to ghost you?”

You look up.

He’s not smirking anymore. Just looking at you—really looking. Like he wants to know what’s behind your eyes and not just your makeup. Like he’s willing to wait for whatever it is.

Something tightens in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Then I guess we’re safe.”

You feel your foot nudge against his under the table. Neither of you moves it. Neither of you says a thing.

Then he smiles gently. “Wanna order wine so we can pretend we’re not being watched?”

You huff a laugh. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the tension breaks.

The waitress is sweet, mid-thirties, and noticeably unbothered by Sidney’s presence. She even calls him “hon” at one point and tells you your shoes are cute. You decide you love her.

He orders for both of you after you admit you’ll probably just end up getting whatever smells the best walking by. You let him pick a wine too, because—truthfully—you’re tired of making decisions and he seems to genuinely enjoy this whole “taking care of you” thing.

You lean in a little, nursing your glass of water between your hands, eyes focused on him over the soft candlelight flickering between you. “So,” you say slowly, “how’s the season going?”

Sidney shifts in his seat. Just a little. Barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you’ve always been sharp. Especially since becoming a mom. It’s practically instinct at this point—watching for tells, reading expressions, knowing when someone’s hiding something. And he is.

“It’s fine,” he says casually, grabbing his water like it’ll shield him.

You hum. “Fine?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you. Just a yeah.

You let the silence hang for a beat. Raise an eyebrow. And when his eyes flick up and meet yours again, the tiniest bit of guilt blooms behind them. You bite down on a smile.

“You’re a really bad liar,” you say softly, tilting your head.

He actually laughs at that. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yup.” You grin, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You're just like my kid. I ask her if she brushed her teeth and she swears up and down that she did, but her breath smells like a pancake.”

He breaks into a real laugh then, leaning back in his chair, eyes crinkling in that way you’ve only ever seen on TV or in magazine photos. “A pancake?”

“Blueberry. Always blueberry.”

“Well, shit,” he mutters, and you both laugh again. Then he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and drops the act. “It’s been rough.”

You nod slowly, giving him the space to fill.

“We’re adjusting,” he goes on, “some new systems, a couple guys out already. Typical early season stuff. But…” He hesitates, fingers tapping against the base of his glass. “You know how it is. When things are off, it gets in your head.”

You do know. You’re not playing professional hockey, but you’ve had your own fair share of spirals. Nights where everything feels out of step and wrong and too quiet once your kid’s asleep. Moments where the weight of responsibility feels like it might flatten you. So you nod again, more solemn this time.

“That’s a shitty place to be,” you say.

He looks at you like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Like he’s used to people giving advice instead of understanding.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You give him a small, crooked smile. “Well, for what it’s worth… I think your bad season still probably looks like magic to my five-year-old.”

That softens him. His whole face shifts.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. She’s obsessed. You’re basically her Elsa right now.”

He blinks. “I don’t—wait, like Frozen Elsa?”

“Yup.” You nod solemnly. “You have superpowers and everything. Do you not shoot ice from your hands? That’s disappointing.”

He snorts. “I can’t say I do.”

“Well,” you say, sighing dramatically, “there goes that illusion.”

Sidney grins, but you can see he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying to figure out how much he’s allowed to want to be a part of this life you’re talking about. You don’t blame him. You’re doing the exact same thing.

“So,” he says slowly, “have you brought her to any games yet?”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “No. Not yet. I mean, she’s watched a bunch of games on TV. More than me, honestly.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wait—you haven’t watched a full game?”

“Nope,” you admit, tugging at your napkin. “I… it’s not that I don’t want to. I just haven’t had the time. Or the patience. Or the attention span. Or—”

He chuckles. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“But she’s all in,” you add. “She’s got this idea in her head that she wants to visit every single hockey arena. I don’t even know where she got that from.”

He leans in, totally amused. “All of them?”

“All of them. She told me we need a map. I told her we need a trust fund.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s a moment where you both sit with that. The weight of it. Of what it means to be someone’s parent. Of what it means to bring someone into that.

“You guys should come to a game,” he says suddenly, softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles. “I’m serious. It could be fun for her. And maybe it’d help you get into it too. I’ll get you good seats. Quiet ones.”

You stare at him, heart doing something completely irrational in your chest. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t,” he says gently. “But I want to.”

You chew your lip. “She would freak.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Let her freak out.”

You laugh under your breath, but it’s shaky. There’s something creeping up your spine now, something warm and terrifying. Like you’re tiptoeing along the edge of something bigger than you.

“She’d want to bring a sign,” you warn him. “And scream every time she saw you on the ice.”

“Good,” he repeats. “That’d probably help my game.”

You look at him—really look at him. Past the headlines, the persona, the name. And he just looks back at you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile. You didn’t expect this. Not the ease. Not the sincerity. Not the way it all feels like something you’ve missed for a long, long time.

You’re terrified. But for the first time in forever… you’re also kind of hopeful.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We’ll come to a game.”

And you’re pretty sure that the grin he gives you after that could melt any rink in the league.

Dinner comes, wine is served, plates are warm and steaming. His hand brushes yours as he helps push your plate closer, a simple little thing that sends a rush up your spine that you pretend not to notice. You thank him with a quiet smile and pick up your fork, spearing a piece of whatever vegetable the place has made actually taste good.

For a while, it’s just the sounds of forks and clinking glasses and soft conversation around the room. You’re both chewing, glancing at each other now and then, and it’s comfortable. Weirdly. Like you've done this before. Like it’s not the first date but the third or the fifth.

You’re the one who speaks first.

“So,” you glance up at him through your lashes, playful but careful, “how’s it feel to be the most recognized person in a place designed to be lowkey as hell?”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “It’s part of the job,” he says, shrugging. “I’m used to the peepers.”

“Peepers,” you repeat, snorting into your wine glass. “God, what are you, seventy?”

Sidney laughs—a real one, warm and crackling with a low rumble. “I mean, people are peeping,” he says. “I’m just calling it what it is.”

“They’re definitely peeping,” you admit, nodding. “One lady almost broke her neck trying to see if it was really you.”

“She probably thinks I’m out with my wife,” he murmurs, a little quieter, more thoughtful.

You glance up at that. The weight of it hangs between you for a moment. “Or your mistress,” you offer dryly.

Sid chokes on his water and laughs. “Christ.”

“Too far?” you ask, biting back a grin.

“No, no,” he says, still laughing. “It’s perfect. I like that you’re not afraid to say shit.”

“I am,” you confess with a shrug, twirling your fork around the edge of your plate. “Afraid. A little.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t say anything. You should keep it light and flirty and nonchalant like Michelle told you to. But something about the way he’s looking at you—patient, waiting, like there’s nothing you could say that would scare him off—it makes it easier to tell the truth.

“You could’ve picked the place,” he says. “I would’ve taken you anywhere.”

“I don’t think Chick-fil-A screams first date, Sid.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, maybe not. But I meant what I said yesterday—I didn’t want this to be, like… this whole big public thing. I wanted it to be just us.”

You look at him again, and this time you don’t hide the way your gaze lingers. He’s watching you too, and there’s something that simmers low and steady beneath the table. A gentle but unmistakable tension. Not the awkward kind. The kind that says we get each other. Like your knees might touch and it would feel like gravity instead of coincidence.

He tilts his head a little, tone shifting. “So how did she get into hockey? Your daughter, I mean.”

You pick at your food, glancing down before answering. “Street hockey, actually. Some neighborhood kids had a little game going on and she wandered in like she owned the place. Skinned both knees but refused to cry.”

Sid smiles, resting his chin on his hand, genuinely invested.

“She came home a mess—blood, dirt, leaves in her hair—and all she could talk about was how she almost scored. That was it. She was in. Wanted a stick the next day.”

“That’s the most badass thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She is,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your throat catches a little, emotions rushing your chest like they always do when you talk about her. “She’s so… brave. Loud. Fierce. Nothing like me.”

Sidney’s expression softens.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Anyway. I panicked. Called everyone I know in case they knew anything about hockey. Ended up at that store.”

“And that’s where we met,” he finishes gently.

You nod, trying to keep your heart from thudding out of your chest. “Yup. That’s where I made a total ass of myself.”

“I don’t remember that part.” 

You pick up your fork again and say, “We’re a real pair, huh?”

He chuckles. “A skater mom and a washed-up hockey player.”

You laugh through your nose. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

He smirks. “You’re gonna keep me humble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I think you’re kind of amazing,” he finishes softly.

You sit back in your seat and stare at him. Words fail. You shift, trying to pull air back into your lungs. “So. Dessert?”

He smiles. “Absolutely. I have a sweet tooth.”

You nod slowly. “Let me guess… big cookie guy?”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying. You scream chocolate chip.”

“I’m deeply offended.”

You grin at him and for the first time tonight, you let your foot nudge his gently under the table.

“Fine. Surprise me then.”

He raises his hand to flag the waiter, and as he does, he leans toward you with that same glint in his eye.

“Just wait,” he murmurs. “I’m full of surprises.”

The check comes, and you barely reach for your wallet before Sid’s already handing over his card.

You try. Really, you do.

You give him your best raised-eyebrow Are you serious? look and mumble, “We should at least split it.”

“Nope.”

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

You groan, slumping back against your chair like he’s personally offended you. “You’re gonna make me feel spoiled.”

He grins. “Good.”

You narrow your eyes. “What if I wanted to pay?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Then I’d say, next time.”

The waiter walks off before you can argue further, and you mutter into your wine glass, “Smooth bastard.”

He just smirks and downs the rest of his water like he didn’t just win the round. Again.

The air is cool outside, the kind of crisp that brushes over your shoulders and pricks at your collarbone. You don’t even realize how close you’re standing to him until his arm brushes yours and he murmurs, “Wanna walk for a bit?”

You nod without thinking, and he tucks his hands into his coat pockets, guiding you down the sidewalk like he’s done this a thousand times.

The streets are soft with traffic, not too loud, not too busy. The occasional clink of silverware from outdoor patios and quiet hum of Friday night laughter follows you both, but it doesn’t feel invasive. It almost feels peaceful.

Sid talks about his sister for a little, how she’s doing great, smarter than him by far, how you’d probably love her. You talk about how your daughter’s started adding random silent letters to words when she writes just to be “fancy,” and how she refuses to sleep unless her stuffed flamingo “Mrs. Pickles” is tucked in beside her.

He laughs so hard he nearly trips on a sidewalk crack.

“Mrs. Pickles?”

You nod solemnly. “She takes her very seriously. It’s a high-ranking title.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide with amusement. “That’s elite naming. Like, all-time great.”

“She said she couldn’t trust a flamingo without a diploma,” you add.

He actually stops walking for a second to bend slightly and laugh. Full-bodied. Warm. He looks at you after, hand pressed to his chest. “I love her.”

You smile softly. “She’s a little maniac.”

“She’s your maniac.”

You don’t know why that makes your eyes burn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment—your footsteps lining up, your shoulders brushing every now and then—and then he suddenly veers right, gently grabbing your hand.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

“Famous last words,” you mutter, but you follow.

He leads you a block over, then slows near a little corner shop lit up with warm, yellow lights and a soft-pink neon sign.

You stare at it, then at him. “Ice cream?”

He nods.

“It’s like 60 degrees out.”

“So?”

You squint at him. “I’m not judging.”

He shrugs, pulling the door open. “Told you, I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

You follow him inside, letting the scent of waffle cones and cold sugar wash over you. It’s cute in here. Narrow space, hand-written chalkboard menu, a bunch of mismatched chairs crammed into one corner.

Sid walks right up to the counter like he’s been here before.

The teenager behind the counter immediately does a double take, mouth twitching like he recognizes him but isn’t totally sure.

You nudge his elbow. “You’ve been here before.”

He glances at you. “Yeah.”

“Is this like your post-game craving spot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. They’ve got good pink ice cream.”

You blink. Your heart does that annoying squeeze thing again. “Wait. The pink ice cream?”

He nods, voice casual. “The fridge note kind.”

You just stare at him. “You remembered that?”

“I notice stuff.”

You press your lips together and look away. Jesus. Of course he noticed. He probably remembers everything. And he’s out here hunting down pink ice cream like it’s a goddamn quest.

“You’re—” You shake your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Is that a thank-you?”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll tell you when I’ve tried it.”

You both lean over the counter to look at the options. There is pink ice cream. Bright pink, obnoxiously so. Cotton candy, the little sign says.

“Rocky road for me,” you say.

“Cookies and cream,” he says like it’s a sacred declaration.

You burst out laughing. “You are basic.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And proud.”

He insists on paying. Again. You half-heartedly argue, but the truth is—it’s kind of sweet. And his look dares you to stop him.

“I’m never paying for anything again, am I?” you mutter.

“Nope.”

You both walk back out into the cool air, cones in hand. He passes you the second one—a tiny pink scoop in a little cup with a plastic spoon.

“For your kid,” he says casually. “You can give it to her tomorrow. Just stick it in the freezer when you get home.”

You don’t respond right away because your throat’s tight. And you’re not exactly sure what to do with the feeling of someone being that thoughtful just because.

Finally, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Told you. Sweet tooth.”

You both stroll down the sidewalk again, slower this time. The night’s soft around you, quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

“This is nice,” you say finally.

“It is.”

“It’s like… weirdly easy.”

He nods. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. I figured first dates were supposed to be awkward.”

“This one kinda is,” you tease. “You’re just too charming for your own good.”

“Oh, I’m the charming one?”

You smirk. “You literally ordered pink ice cream for my daughter after a fancy dinner. Don’t act like you’re not laying it on thick.”

“I just wanted to see you smile again.”

Your breath catches.

You look over at him, your heart banging around your ribs like it doesn’t know where to go.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

You both fall into a long, quiet stretch. The kind that carries weight. The kind that makes you wonder if you should stop walking and turn to face him just to see what might happen if you did.

But you don’t.

Instead, you glance over and say softly, “She’s gonna love the ice cream.”

He nods. “I figured.”

You don’t want the night to end.

But the air’s turned sharp, a little too cold now, nipping at your skin every time a breeze kicks up and skates down your arms. And maybe it’s the ice cream, maybe it’s just late—but you both slow your walk back to the car, lingering without really trying to.

The last few blocks feel different. Softer. Your laughter’s quieter, closer to a whisper. He’s walking a little closer too, brushing against you every few steps like he doesn’t want to stop either.

Sid reaches for the car door before you can, his hand warm even through your sleeve when he gently takes the pink cup from your hand to open it for you.

“Don’t drop it,” you warn, voice teasing but quiet.

He smirks. “You think I’d ruin the sacred pink ice cream?”

You slip into the passenger seat he climbs in beside you. The second the doors shut, the car feels warmer—more contained. A different kind of atmosphere than the wide-open air you’d been walking through. You settle in slowly, careful with your daughter’s prize, balancing it on your lap.

Sid glances over with a grin as he starts the engine. “So. You got more plans tonight or what?”

You blink. “What?”

He glances at you again, playful. “You know. Another reservation? Another guy waiting outside the ice cream shop?”

You laugh. “You think I double-booked?”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

You scoff, mock offended. “Please. I barely had enough energy for this one.”

“Ouch,” he grins. “That your way of saying you’re sick of me already?”

“No,” you laugh softly. “It’s my way of saying Michelle has probably run my kid into the ground and I should go pick up the remains.”

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“She feeds her sugar and lets her wear the same pair of glittery socks for days straight. It’s like Lord of the Flies in that house.”

“That explains the glitter on your hoodie skirt.”

You snort. “There’s always glitter on me. It’s like a curse. I’ll be buried with glitter on my corpse.”

He laughs harder than you expect, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, so you don’t have another date. That’s good.”

You turn slightly toward him, raising a brow. “Why?”

He shrugs, pulling up to a red light. “I don’t know. It’d suck if I wasn’t your favorite guy you saw tonight.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He grins again. That same small, almost-shy but not shy smile he’s given you all night when he knows he’s being just a little cocky. “Yeah? You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

You don’t answer at first. You look out the window instead, watching the glow of the streetlamps smear across the glass, the city sliding by like some sleepy dream. Then you look down at the pink cup in your lap and say softly, “You remembered the ice cream.”

He glances over at you. His voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

That’s when the silence shifts.

It’s no longer just comfortable—it’s weighted. Full. Like a question neither of you is asking out loud yet, even though it’s there.

You tuck your hair behind your ear. “I really did have a good time.”

He exhales, nodding once, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. Me too.”

The drive the rest of the way to your place is quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that feels settled. Like something important already happened, and now neither of you wants to break the spell.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the cold’s settled back in your bones. You hold the ice cream cup a little tighter, not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Sid parks but doesn’t shut the car off. He looks over at you slowly, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something meaningful—something heavy.

Instead, he smiles.

“So,” he says softly, “are you gonna give me a glittery high five or what?”

You laugh. “I don’t think you’ve earned that yet.”

“No?”

“No. Maybe after a second date.”

He freezes, just for a second, before that same soft grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You asking me?”

You meet his eyes, heart pounding. “I’m just saying… you’ve set the bar really high. Next guy’s gotta buy ice cream for my kid, and for me, and walk me around the city.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says dryly.

You grin. “Right? Horrible.”

There’s another pause. One of those thick, almost-touching kinds.

He leans a little closer. Not enough to push, but enough that you feel it in your chest. His voice is low. “You should bring her to a game.”

You nod, a small breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“You too.”

You glance up at him. “You think I’d like hockey?”

“I think you’d like my hockey,” he murmurs.

God, he’s dangerous when he does that—quiet and careful and full of heat.

You open the door slowly, cold rushing in again. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming.”

You hesitate on the threshold of the car, the cup still in your hand, and then glance back at him. “Text me when you get home?”

He nods, just once. “I will.”

You step out, shut the door gently behind you, and walk toward the front steps, your pulse drumming loud in your ears. You don’t look back.

But you feel him watching the whole time.

You’re barely inside your place before you’re toeing off your shoes and fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Your fingers are stiff from the cold, and you fumble the lock screen once before getting it open. A few notifications wait for you—one from your mom checking in, a couple from that group text with the school moms that you still haven’t had the heart to mute—but one message stands out like it’s glowing.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Sorry to text so soon.

Sidney Crosby: I had a really great time tonight. Like really. Would love to do it again soon. Also—would love to see you and the little one at a game sometime. I think she’d love it. I think you would too. No pressure. Just… yeah. I had a great night. :)”

You exhale before you realize you’re even holding your breath, your shoulders sagging a little with it. There’s this weird ache in your chest—warm, fuzzy, deep. And unsteady. You tap out a response quickly but rewrite it twice before you finally send:

You: I had a really great time too. Thank you again for dinner (and the ice cream, you thief). We’d really like to go to a game. Just let us know when your schedule isn’t insane. No pressure either.”

And then you add, without thinking:

You: Pink ice cream is safely in the freezer. I think that automatically qualifies you for sainthood.”

His reply is nearly instant.

Sidney Crosby: Damn. I was going for ‘cool guy’ and accidentally landed on ‘saint.’ Rookie mistake.

You grin, your cheeks aching from it as you put your phone down just long enough to tuck the little pink cup into the freezer like it’s treasure.

Then you pad down the hallway, peeling off your coat, tossing your scarf over a chair, slipping into the bedroom to tug on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. You pause by the mirror, fingers grazing the corner of your mouth, like you’re still trying to feel if the smile’s actually yours.

You grab your keys again, double-check the ice cream, your phone, your charger, and then you head out. Michelle’s place isn’t far. You knock softly before letting yourself in, already knowing she told you to come straight up.

The lights are low and the apartment smells like lavender lotion and kettle corn, and you’re hit with that familiar wave of comfort—Michelle’s version of chaos is soft and familiar, a kind of organized mess that makes it easy to breathe.

You step into her bedroom and smile the second you see her—bare-faced, in her old college hoodie, hair piled on top of her head in a claw clip, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a bowl of pretzels.

“Oh my God,” she whispers dramatically when she sees you. “Tell me everything.”

But your eyes go first to the lump under the covers.

Your daughter is sound asleep, curled on her side in the center of the bed, cheeks flushed, her curls still slightly damp and sticking to her forehead. She’s in her favorite pajamas—the ones with the pastel dinosaurs—and the stuffed turtle you keep having to stitch back together is tucked under one arm.

Your throat tightens instantly. “She brushed her teeth?”

“Twice,” Michelle grins. “Because I told her that’s how she gets extra sugar out. You’re welcome.”

You shake your head, smiling as you quietly set your bag down and toe off your shoes. “You’re gonna make her a sugar addict.”

“She already is,” Michelle says proudly. “You just live in denial.”

You lean down, kiss the top of your daughter’s head gently, brush a curl off her cheek, and then slip into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

Michelle’s eyes are glued to you. “Okay. Spill. Now.”

You stifle a laugh, tugging the blanket up and settling back against the pillows. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. From the moment he knocked on your door to the exact second he dropped you off. Everything.”

You sigh. “He brought flowers.”

Michelle clutches her heart. “Stop.”

“No idea they were expected. Just… did it. Like it was normal.”

“That’s so hot I’m actually nauseous.”

You smile despite yourself. “He noticed her drawings on the fridge. That ‘pink ice cream’ note? He took me to get some after dinner.”

Michelle stares at you. “You’re lying.”

You shake your head. “He remembered it. On purpose.”

“I hate him. I love him. Tell me what you wore. Wait—no—tell me everything else first. Dinner. Talk. Details.”

So you do.

You tell her about the restaurant, the dim lighting, the round table, how he held the door for you and helped you out of the car like it was second nature. You tell her about the conversations, the way he made you laugh, how he asked about your daughter like he’d been thinking about her all week. How he admitted to being a bad liar. How he said he wanted to see you at a game too.

You tell her about the cookies and cream and the rocky road and the way he refused to let you pay for anything. You admit you didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Michelle’s beaming by the time you finish.

“So are you seeing him again or am I faking an emergency to force him to your door?”

You laugh. “I think we’ll see him again. He texted me as soon as I got in the door.”

“And?”

“And said he had a great time. That he wants to do it again. That he’d love for the two of us to come to a game.”

Michelle grabs a pillow and screams into it like a teenager, then flops dramatically back against the headboard. “I swear to God, if you don’t marry this man and let me give the most unhinged speech at your wedding—”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Stop it.”

“I won’t. You deserve someone good. Someone solid. Someone who buys your kid ice cream because he saw a note on your fridge and decided to make it a priority.”

Your chest aches again. “I know.”

Michelle looks at you more carefully then, her voice softening. “It’s okay to like him.”

“I do like him.”

“I mean really like him.”

You stare at the ceiling. “That’s what scares me.”

She doesn’t push. She never has to. She just slides further under the blankets and pats the space beside her. “C’mere. Stay. She’s out cold anyway.”

You nod, curling onto your side and gently lifting your daughter so she’s draped across your chest. She mumbles something in her sleep and goes right back to breathing evenly, face nestled against your collarbone.

Michelle flips the light off.

And in the dark, with the weight of your daughter curled over your heart and your best friend close enough to reach, you let yourself exhale all the way.

Not because the night is over. But because it feels like something else is starting.

Saturday

The first thing you hear is your daughter’s giggle. That kind of bright, unfiltered laugh she only does when she’s entirely unbothered by the world.

The second is Michelle, whisper-yelling something about eggshells and “oh my god, that is not how you whisk—okay, okay, yes it is if you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay, but he’s not here, is he?”

You roll over, squinting at the faint morning light bleeding through the blinds. The room smells like coffee and something sweet—vanilla or maybe pancakes. You blink a few times, gathering yourself. Your body is stiff from the way you fell asleep last night, half curled around your daughter, the other half pinned by Michelle’s absurd collection of throw pillows.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The apartment’s a little chilly this morning—enough to make you tug Michelle’s extra blanket tighter around your shoulders as you shuffle down the hallway toward the kitchen.

And the moment you step into view, Michelle spots you.

She freezes.

She looks guilty.

You squint at her. “What did you do?”

Your daughter turns toward you at the sound of your voice, face lighting up instantly. “Mommy!”

She’s standing on a kitchen chair, proudly whisking a bowl of batter with enough enthusiasm to splash it halfway up the side of the fridge. Her hands are covered in flour. She’s never looked happier.

Michelle gives you a smile that’s too big and way too fake. “Hey! Morning! You want coffee? We’ve got decaf, full-caf, oat milk, existential dread—dealer’s choice.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says way too fast. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

“Michelle.”

She pivots to put sausage on the skillet, overly focused. “I mean… not while there are tiny, curious ears in the room. So maybe just enjoy this fine meal and we’ll circle back.”

You glance down at your daughter, who’s now humming some nonsense song while shaking sprinkles into a small bowl like she’s making her own Michelin-star dessert.

You decide not to push it. For now

You step in beside your daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You cooking, Chef?”

“I’m making pancakes!” she says proudly, pointing at the griddle like she’s orchestrating a Michelin-star breakfast. “I cracked the eggs all by myself.”

You glance down. There’s eggshell in the batter.

You make a mental note not to mention it.

You pour coffee, help her pour the batter onto the pan in slightly more controlled circles, and quietly enjoy the morning. It’s simple. It’s warm. It’s normal.

Until it’s not.

Because as soon as breakfast is over and your daughter trots off into the living room to line up her toy horses on the coffee table, Michelle turns to you with that same weird expression from earlier.

She looks like she’s bracing for impact.

You set your mug down slowly. “Okay. What?”

Michelle winces, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask. “So… remember how I said I follow Sidney’s topic on Twitter?”

“Wait, you follow—?”

“I like knowing if he’s scratched or not! It helps with my fantasy team!” she defends. “I’m not stalking, okay? I just—look, you said he texted you after the date, and I wanted to see if he’d posted anything, maybe I wanted to see if the hockey girls noticed, I don’t know, I was curious, sue me.”

“What’d you find?”

She grabs her phone, opens it, and hesitates. “Okay. You promise not to freak out?”

“That’s literally the worst way to start this conversation.”

Michelle flips the phone around.

It’s a video.

Grainy, slightly zoomed-in, clearly filmed from another table. But it’s undeniably you and Sidney. At dinner last night. You recognize the way your hands move when you’re talking, the way he leans in when he listens. The angle’s tight enough that you can’t hear the conversation, but someone added subtitles anyway. And not just that—there’s a whole goddamn description in the tweet thread:

“Saw Sidney Crosby at dinner last night with a mystery woman. They later left together and got ice cream nearby. No idea on who she is yet but she seems nice enough??”

Michelle flips to the next tweet—screenshots from someone who’d apparently followed you both to the ice cream place. They circled your pink cup and captioned it “did she seriously get two ice creams? that’s adorable.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s—that’s creepy,” you whisper. “That’s so creepy.”

Michelle nods solemnly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not even on social media like that,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee again just so you can hold something. “I have like twelve people on my private account. How the hell did I end up on someone’s gossip thread?”

Michelle tries to lighten the mood. “To be fair you are dating one of the most famous hockey players in the world.”

“We’re not even—” You groan, sinking further into your chair “Michelle. That was our first date.”

“And it was a good one!” she chirps. “Apparently so good people decided to record it.”

You shoot her a look.

She sits down across from you. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. It’s fucked up. But this might be something you deal with now. If things go somewhere. You know?”

You nod slowly. The pit in your stomach grows.

You pick up your phone.

Nothing unusual at first. Just the usual: a couple texts from friends, a notification from the school reminding you about pajama day on Tuesday, and—

A few messages from Sidney.

Sidney: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really sorry about that video going around. I didn’t know someone was filming us. I don’t post about my personal life, ever, and I should’ve thought about that more. I hope you’re okay. 

Sidney: Text me if you want. 

Sidney: Or if you don’t. Just yeah. I’m sorry.

You stare at it.

And then, the one below it.

A number you know by heart.

Your daughter’s dad.

The text is a screenshot. The thumbnail of the video.

“Is this you? Really classy, Y/N.”

Jesus Christ.

You put your phone down like it burned you.

Michelle frowns. “What is it?”

You turn the phone so she can see both messages.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, slumping further in your chair. “This is too much.”

She eyes you carefully. “Have you texted Sidney back?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t know, Michelle.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. You wince and glance toward the living room, but your daughter’s still happily babbling to her horse figurines, completely unaware.

“I just,” You lower your voice. “I knew this could happen. I knew it. But I didn’t think it would be now. It’s been one night. And I already have some stranger subtitling my life and my ex texting me screenshots like I owe him a goddamn explanation.”

Michelle’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not him. Not the internet. Not even Sidney if you’re not ready. But don’t punish him for something he didn’t do.”

You sigh. “I know. I know.”

Michelle leans forward. “And maybe this is fucked up, but I kind of love that the pink ice cream made it in.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, even if it’s watery.

You close your eyes, press the heels of your hands to your face. The panic’s subsiding a little. But it’s still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs.

“I just wanted something normal,” you whisper.

Michelle nods. “So what do you want to do?”

You power your phone off slowly, set it down face-first.

“I want to not deal with it for a few hours.”

She doesn’t push.

Instead, she calls out, “Okay, who wants to help me fold laundry and definitely not build a blanket fort in the living room?”

“Me!” your daughter shouts.

You smile faintly, pushing up from the table.

Michelle’s already moving, yelling over her shoulder, “And I better not see any videos of you folding laundry either, you hear me? This is a private fort construction zone!”

And somehow, even though your stomach still turns and your chest still aches and your phone still holds two unread messages—one from the guy you like, the other from the man you used to love—you find yourself walking into the living room.

—

[spatialwave]

pairing: namgyu x fem!reader x myunggi word count: 2.2k tags: mdni, nsfw, smut, p w/o plot, oral (f/m receiving), rough s-x, unprotected s-x, sub!reader. notes: written for this post by @fleshrtten

Obsessed didn’t cut it. Namgyu was infatuated with you—all that you were: your smile, your voice, your body. The moment he laid eyes on you that first day, he knew that his heart was jumping headfirst into everything about you. You made his stomach swirl like a schoolgirl with a crush.

That’s why once he and Myunggi found you in a room, trying to hide away from the other players, he had you pressed to the wall with your legs spread wide and his head between your thighs, tasting you and savouring you like a starved man.

You were just as obsessed with him, but Myunggi? Well, it’s not like you were going to say no to the idea of having both of these men have their way with you. You were deranged and needy, but not as desperate as the man who whined as he ate you out. He was pathetic, so pathetic, and you loved it. 

Your knees dared to buckle as you held onto his black hair, hard enough that your knuckles began to turn white. You focused on only him, shuddering when he’d flutter his thick lashes and look up at you with those fox-like eyes with blown-out pupils. His tongue delved deep into your cunt, lapping at you as his nose bumped your swollen clit that had been begging to be touched.

“Namgyu,” you whined, toes curling in your white shoes. He responded by pulling your right leg over his left shoulder. The position made it so he was able to spread you further—smiling against your cunt as you nearly toppled over and it wasn’t until Myunggi caught you that you remembered he had been watching the door.

Your mind was so fuzzy with pleasure that you hadn’t been aware of the words they exchanged—some sort of bickering until Namgyu pulled away and went to the door to keep watch. 

It was then you found yourself on your knees, hands on the clothed thighs of Myunggi as he guided your mouth to the tip of his cock. Long, slender fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight as you took all of him in without a struggle.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, looking at you with parted lips. For once, he was glad he listened to Namgyu.

Your hands on his thighs tightened, fingernails scratching at the fabric as you buried your nose into the tuft of hair on his skin. Myunggi let you do the rest of the work, watching as you bobbed your head up and down slowly, savouring his taste. Your tongue swirled, saliva dripped out of the corners of your lips, and your mouth watered because of him.

“Isn’t she a pretty girl?” Namgyu’s voice cut through your daze, closer than you had anticipated. He’d forgotten about the door. “Be grateful I’m letting you share.”

He was kneeling behind you, greedy hands pushing under your shirt and blue vest. Bloody fingers pinched your nipples, and you gasped around Myunggi’s cock, and he cussed.

“Don’t stop,” he spat angrily.

Namgyu kept his touch on your tits, squeezing and fondling to his liking. He pushed past your hair, lips pressing kisses to your skin—growing harder with each passing second at the filthy sounds of you sucking off Myunggi. 

“If you didn’t let me make her cum, she doesn’t get to make you—” Namgyu snapped, looking up at Myunggi and wrapping a hand around your throat to pull you from him. Your lips parted from his cock with a soft pop and he growled deep in his throat, forced to stroke himself as his temporary partner indulged in you instead. “I like you more,” he whimpered in your ear, guiding your back to the floor, hand still on your throat.

You looked at him with heavy eyelids, and he eyed your puffy, swollen lips. 

Fingers hooked into your sweats, and he tugged them down until the fabric hung around one ankle, allowing him to spread you as freely as he wanted. You whimpered, exposed to both him and the eyes of Myunggi who stood with his back to the wall, a hand stroking as you watching beads of precum leak from the tip and god you were so fucked out because all you wanted was to crawl to your knees and get a taste.

“Pretty girl,” Namgyu whispered, hands on the backs of your thighs as he pushed your knees to your chest. Shifting, soon one hand held them in place together, blocking your view of everything except for the dark ceiling.

A sudden intrusion made you mewl, his middle finger pushing in until you felt the cool metal of his ring. His narrowed eyes fixated on your cunt, watching as you coated his fingers with a milky white fluid that he wanted to taste. Though, he was more pleased by the soft sounds you were making as he fucked you with his fingers. Adding a second, then a third until you were squirming at the stretch.

“S’too much,” you gasped, reaching around your thighs and trying to grab at his wrists, but they were soon pinned back above your head by Myunggi, who’d grown bored of watching.

By now, Namgyu had knelt closer to the floor. His voice muffled as he lapped at your clit, “You can take it, pretty girl. I know you can.” he whispered, continuing the slow motions of his three fingers pushing in and out of your wet pussy. It was so tight, and his cock was twitching in anticipation of being able to fuck you like he’d been dreaming for days. 

Myunggi knelt by your head, looking down at you with half-lidded, glossy eyes that made you shiver. He released your wrists, watching with a slight smirk as you reached for his exposed cock and stroked with your hands that felt a hundred times better than his. A rumble came from his throat, eyes fluttering closed as you arched your back up so you could tilt back further, enough that your outstretched tongue lapped up the precum that left a salty taste in your mouth.

“What happened to taking turns?” Namgyu grumbled, giving up on keeping your legs pressed to your chest. He sucked on your clit as your legs relaxed. The walls of your cunt still tight around his fingers, but loosening with each push of his bundled digits. “No fair—”

“Shut… up….” Myunggi groaned, stroking near the base of his cock as your perfect pink lips tried to wrap around it.

You were overstimulated—your nerves lit up at every end. With Namgyu fucking your pussy with his fingers, sucking on your clit, and Myunggi trying to push his cock further down your throat, you realized you’d never been so devoured in your life.

Namgyu curled his fingers as best as he could, finding that spot buried in your cunt that he knew would make you want more of him. You briefly gagged on Myunggi’s cock when he did, whining out as he took your opened mouth as a chance to bury himself in all the way. You let him, feeling the way he hit the back of your throat, his bloody hand feeling the expanse of your throat stretch as he pushed as far in as he could.

After a few more forwards thrusts, he pulled out and stroked himself, pathetic moans coming from him strings of hot white cum splattered over your face and blue vest.

Your throat was raw, and still, you stuck your tongue out and ignored the sting.

“My turn,” Namgyu hissed, and you had only realized then that your cunt was empty and aching for more. Over the rough flooring, Namgyu tugged you until you were pulled far enough from a recovering Myunggi that you couldn’t reach him even if you tried. Leaning forward, you whimpered when he licked off a string of cum over your chin. “You’re mine, right now, yeah? No looking at him, just me… okay? Tell me, pretty girl, please—”

You saw the desperation in his eyes as he looked down at you.

“Just yours,” you managed to say. 

“Again,” he begged, hands pushing up your shirt until until your perky tits were exposed and he licked up the rest of the cum from your cheeks and chin. “Please, one more time, pretty girl. One more time so I can fuck you better than Myunggi ever could—”

“Watch it,” he huffed from the door. He’d back sprawled back against it, his cock limp and twitching. Stroking the overstimulated erection in hopes that he could steal you from Namgyu before the timer went off.

Namgyu smiled against your neck, teeth sinking into the skin and sucking a deep-coloured bruise. 

“Yours, all yours,” you groaned, the pain of his sharp teeth making your cunt ache more at the emptiness. “Fuck me, Namgyu, please—”

You heard the sounds of shifting as he moved atop of you, hands pushing down his sweats and pulling out his cock that wasn’t much longer than Myunggi’s, but from what you could see, was thicker. Your toes curled, and you were right. 

Namgyu let out an egregiously vulgar sound as the head of his cock pushed in. He knelt back, sitting upright as he gave himself the best view to watch your tight pussy contract around him.

“Ah, fuck!” You let out a sharp gasp, the stretch unlike anything you’ve taken before. You didn’t notice the proud smile on his face from your reaction; he was now focused only on relaxing enough to make this more pleasurable and less painful. Namgyu liked you enough to make sure he wasn’t being completely selfish, his thumb finding it’s way to your clit and starting a rhythm of circled motions.

“Tell me,” he murmured, half-way inside, “tell me how badly you want me to fuck you.”

“So bad,” you whined, your legs wrapping lazily around his hips, hands grabbing at your tits as a distraction of the fiery pain of the stretch, “Don’t stop.”

Namgyu bottomed you out, breathing heavily as he got used to the tight feeling of your cunt squeezing impossibly hard around him. He rutted against you, grinding, milking out those sounds from your throat that were so sweet.

You felt like you were going to pass out when he started fucking you—a relentless pace as he pressed a hand flat to your stomach to keep himself balanced, the other hand still focused on rubbing quick circles on your clit. When you tried to close your eyes, he’d grab your face. Fingers pinching at your cheeks as he’d ask you so nicely to keep looking at him.

That was the difference between him and Myunggi. Namgyu liked you too much; you were the only person he had a soft spot for. He wanted to beg for you. To ask you nicely and make sure that everything he was doing was to please you. Myunggi didn’t care about you; he didn’t care if he was too rough or too selfish.

“Shit—” Namgyu choked, having been leaning forward against you, face buried into your neck where he left more hickeys. 

He had kept up the relentless pace, his cock stretching you so deep with his thrust. He was close—his whimpers in your ear were evident of it. After one hard thrust, and a tight squeeze of your walls, his cock twitched and he came inside you so much it leaked. He rutted into you with an erratic rhythm as you clawed at the back of his red vest, tearing the fabric slightly with your nails. You weren’t far behind, his circling thumb causing a fire to build so deep in your tummy that it snapped right as he pulled out—and you were left clenching around nothing, mewling like a cat in heat as your thighs twitched.

Myunggi wasn’t ashamed of how hard that made him. He’d crawled closer to you, grabbing your hips roughly and pulling you to him. As Namgyu’s cum leaked out of you, Myunggi used his cock to push it back inside with a rought thrust, fucking you as you came.

“Oh god,” you gasped, thighs squeezing tight together, but he forced one away. The other hand pressed to your clit, four of his fingers brushing over the nub wildly and just as your climax ended, another one snapped and you felt yourself coming undone by him. You released, your squirting juices wetting the sweats clinging to his thighs, and even up onto his red vest. “S-sorry—” is all you managed to sputter out as you arched your back, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Myunggi didn’t say anything, nor did he let up. His cock stretching you with each sharp snap of his hips.

That’s how you spent the next fifteen minutes—having either one of them tag team you every few minutes. You’d never come so much in your life, your pussy abused and raw. By the end, you were full of so much cum it hardly stayed and instead coated your thighs and the floor of wherever they fucked you. 

You were so goddamned glad that they were the ones to stumble into the room.

[muchlovebestie]

You live in a world where communes exist, where communities exist, on a social media platform where being social is part of being on the platform. You exist in a world where people save lives not for the sake of money but for the sake of helping people, you live in a world where people keep paying taxes even if we can't trust the government to allocate funds properly because they want to, deep inside, hope that the money will go to something that'll help someone else in some sort of way. I live in a world where people visit their neighbours with fresh fruits that they have in abundance after a harvest, I live in a world where a regular at my workplace invites me to her home to meet her family because she wants me to be part of her life solely from the joy of it, I have a friend I speak to rarely yet I know will always and forever be there for me if I call, a neighbourhood where the elderly tend to the community gardens just so that everyone gets to see something beautiful.

Either you live in a place where such a community has been shut off from you, and I'm sorry if that's the case. Or you have decided to wall yourself off by deciding that since you yourself have nothing to share to the people around you it also means that everyone around you is also just as closed off—and at that point you can't go around touting that no one cares about their neighbours. Like, objectively, factually incorrect. The world might suck but it sucks less than you think it does, you're just blind to it.

Do you want to be politically pure in theory or help your neighbor. Is it fruitless to help your neighbor because there's no Perfect Pure way to do it ?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wanderlust 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, kidnap, size difference/kink, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You go travelling to get some world experience but you don't get the one you're expecting.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Bucky Barnes (reader in 30s, short!)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You’re not afraid of flying, just not a fan of travel. It would be nice to go out and do more but the reality of getting there often deters you. Not this time. You finally bit the bullet and bought the ticket. 

Thirty isn’t old. You know that but it feels like a good time to start doing things. Your twenties went fast in hindsight, even if they felt like a slog. Miserable, emotional, and near disastrous. 

You have your first steady job, bills aren’t tight enough to strangle you, and it’s about time you did something just for you. Everyone is obsessed with ‘self-care’. Are you finally on trend? 

You shuffle along with the slow trawl of passengers. You look for your seat by the number on your ticket, holding up your phone awkwardly to compare. Your compact suitcase hangs from your vice grip as you haul it along, the wheels hitting your heel. 

You stop as you find your assigned seat. Hm. Middle seat. Headphones on and you’ll be fine, you’re sure. You reach up to open the overhead, just barely able to pop it open. 

Your carryon threatens to slide off your arm. You ignore it and bend to grab your suitcase. You watched a bunch of tutorials on how not to overpack. As you grip it, your bag slips down your arm and you lift the suitcase overhead. You hit the edge and it bounces back, nearly landing on your head. 

You brace for impact. The weight lightens in your grasp. A man grunts as you look up and see a large hand hooked on your bag. A pinky ring shines back at you. 

“Careful,” he warns. “Here, let me get it.” 

He uses his other hand to push it up and slides it out of your grip into the compartment. You watch, embarrassed. You can try to do things yourself but you still end up in the way. 

“Thanks, uh, sorry.” You eke out. 

You turn and sidle into the row of seat. You cradle your carryon as you do. You sit and hug it as you wait for the man to pass. He doesn’t. He follows. 

“I’m in the window.” He points casually. 

“Oh? Uh... my bad.” You flatten yourself as he turns and he brushes against the seat in front of you to get past. Unlike you, he’s too big for the cramped coach row. 

He sighs as he sits down. He shifts around as he gets comfortable. He flips up the window cover and rolls his head so his neck cracks. He pushes his feet out as far as they can go. 

He must be a frequent flyer. He seems perfectly at ease. Meanwhile, you’re twenty steps ahead in your mind.  

You need the flight to land, then you need to get your bag back. You don’t expect getting it down to be any easier. Then you have get through the airport, show your passport, and fine a taxi. Then the hotel, unpack, review itinerary for tomorrow. 

The more you think about it, it doesn’t seem so fun. Sure, you’ll get to see all sorts of cool things, but that’s only if you don’t get lost. You wiggle your foot nervously and put your elbow on the armrest, only to hit that of your seat neighbour. You apologise and let your arm hang at your side. 

“No problem,” his silty tone tickles your ears. “You scared of flying?” 

“Huh?” You look at him and follow his own gaze to your foot. You still it. “No, just... travelling is stressful. I’ll try not to bother too much.” 

You put your hands on your knees, as if holding yourself still. 

“Isn’t it?” He chuckles. “Can’t make anything easy these days.” 

“Mhmm,” you nod. You’re not the greatest with strangers either. Thirty years old and you’re still just as clueless as you were a decade ago. 

“Nick,” he says.  

You flinch as you see something at the edge of your vision. He offers his hand. You stare at it before you shake it. You’ve never been one for the outdated gesture but you’re too meek to refuse it. 

You shake his hand and give your own name. He grins and you turn your head straight. He’s not a bad looking guy but you shouldn’t think about it. He’s older. You can just tell. Not just the crinkles beside his eyes or the light lines in his forehead, it’s his confidence. Maybe this trip can help you find your own. 

“Pretty,” he says. “What’s in New York?” 

You hesitate before you understand his question. You sniff and fidget. “I’m a tourist. Just wanna see some historical stuff. Brooklyn Bridge, an old jazz bar... “ 

“Huh. All alone?” He wonders. 

You open your mouth to answer then pause. “Meeting friends,” you utter cautiously. 

“Girls’ trip. Fun,” he says. “Business. Again. Always got me back and forth.” 

He leans on the armrest and pushes his shoulders back into the seat. His knee breaks the boundary of your seats, pressing against your own. You try not to pull away too obviously. 

The overhead snaps shut and startles you. Another man drops into the seat on your other side. He huffs as he sits. He’s as big as your other neighbour, maybe a bit thicker. 

Where Nick has short tidy hair and subtle shadow of stubble coming through, this man has a thick beard and hair to his shoulders, there's some silver woven into both. He looks agitated as his cheek ticks and a woman’s bag nearly hits him. He swats the D&G luggage out of his face and growls. 

Your foot begins to go again. You only realise as the man sighs again. You cross your ankles and shrink down. 

Another bag comes close to the aisle passengers face and he grits, “watch it.” 

Nick snickers. The man slowly turns his head, eyes drifting over darkly. You glance between them, then to the back of the seat ahead of you. 

“Wanna switch?” Nick offers. 

The other man puffs through his nose, “don’t bother.” 

“Well, let me know.” Nick says coolly. “We were just sharing out gripes about travelling. Fun, isn’t it?” 

The man in the aisle seat curls his lip, “I guess.” He curls a finger and pushes down with his thumb until his knuckle cracks. “You too on a honeymoon or something?” 

Nick laughs, you look at him in shock. 

“Just met. Solo riders.” Nick answers. You’ll let him do the talking. 

The other man clucks. Nick reaches across you. “Nick.” 

His hand is ignored. He retracts it with a soft scoff. Nick introduces you next. The other man exhales loudly. 

“Bucky,” he says. “Keep the lights off and the noise down.” 

He leans back, his arm thick enough that it fills more than the armrest. He pushes his shoulders wide and leans his head back. He closes his eyes and you flick your thumbs nervously. 

You unzip your bag and search for your headphones. The aisles empty out and the attendants begin their pre-flight routine. As the plane thrums, the safety presentation begins. You keep your headphones around your neck. 

You buckle in, Nick does too. Bucky does it without opening his eyes. You shift and wait for takeoff. 

“Wanna look out the window as we lift off?” Nick offers. “You can lean over me.” 

“All good.” You assure him. “Thanks. 

“I don’t mind,” he says. 

“Really, it’s fine.” 

A low rumble comes from your other side. You seal your lips and push the button on your headphones. You go to lift them over your ears. 

“You listen to music or podcasts?” Nick asks before you can put them on. 

You lower them down, keeping your hands on them. “Music.” You answer quietly, mindful of the man on your other side. 

“Oh? Let me guess, Olivia Rodrigo?” He suggests. 

You shrug and shake your head, “never heard of them.” 

He snorts, “really? Hm. You look young, I thought...” 

“Just old stuff,” you answer. “Patsy Cline and whatever... boring.” 

“Boring? I don’t think so,” he muses. “All those pop stars come off the conveyor belt these days. Nothing wrong with taste.” 

You give a sheepish smile and lift your headphones again. You put them on then turn forward. You scroll your phone for your ‘most played’ playlist. You tap shuffle and sit back. 

Nick sits calm and still. He doesn’t take out his phone or try to play around with the screen in front of him. He just watches the clouds as you reach cruising height. 

Bucky is still. By the measure of the breath, you think he’s sleeping. You wonder how as you every now and then you can hear the squeal of a toddler through your music. 

The snack cart comes by. None of you get anything; Bucky doesn’t stir at all. 

Your leg sways back and forth as the flight stretches on. You check the time over and over. You knee hits Bucky’s leg as your nerves bubble. You push your legs together and peek over at him. He opens one eye; you mouth ‘sorry’. 

You chew your lip. You bite down until it hurts. The hours unfurl torturously. This is what you hate. Spending all that money to sit in a seat, overcrowded and impatient. 

The seatbelt sign flips on again. You take off your headphones as the Captain announces landing over the PA. You put them away in your carry-on and wrap your arms around the bag. 

The plane touches down with a jolt. You squeak and Nick wraps his warm hand around your wrist. You glance at him. He’s just being nice. 

“I’m okay,” you insist. 

Once the wheels stop, the restless passengers begin to disembark. Bucky is up and off, shoving past those struggling to get their bags. He’s at the front without obstacle. 

Patiently, you stand and watch your fellow travellers. Nick looms behind you. You crane around to see him. 

“I’m just waiting,” you say. 

“No problem. I’m patient.” He waves you off. “So,” he grips the seat by you. He’s close enough you can smell his cologne. “Where are you staying? East side? Uptown?” 

“Um... I’m not sure exactly. I don’t really know the city.” 

“Big place,” he comments. “Transits not too bad though. Just don’t make eye contact.” 

You nod. You’re already nervous enough. You heard all the horror stories from your mother and the headlines. 

As the aisle clears, you step out and turn to open the overhead. Nick gets it first. He takes down your bag for you. You thank him. 

You turn down the aisle as he shuts the compartment. He travels light. Or he checked his luggage. He has nothing but himself. 

You wait through the tedious disembarking and exhale deeply as you get to the ramp. Inside the airport, you follow the tides to the gates. The people disburse as you find a quiet place to order a taxi. 

“Hey,” Nick startles you as he struts across the terminal. “You looking for a cab?” 

“Oh, uh...” you lower your phone as your data won’t respond and you can’t sign into the airport WiFi. “I was just...” 

“Come on. I’ll help you flag one down the old-fashioned way. Gonna need one myself.” He insists. 

“Oh, you don’t have to--” 

“Hey, it’s no worries. You’re gonna wanna snag one before the next arrival,” he grabs your bag and extends the handle. “Come on.” 

He rolls your bag behind him as he marches away. He’s helpful if not a bit forward. You scurry after him. 

“Uh, thanks. I appreciate it.” 

“You kidding me? This place is like a city of its own. Can be overwhelming. You said you hate travelling. If I can make it easier, eh, why not?” 

You come out through the automatic doors and he slows to scan the long line of taxis and the clogged traffic of those trying to leave.  

“I got a trick, come on,” he beckons you behind him and you follow. 

“I can take my bag,” you offer. 

“Don’t worry, honey,” he carries on. “Let’s find...”  

He raises his hand to hail one of the cabs into an empty space along the curb. You look up as his fingers move but stop before you can make out the signal. Strange. 

“There we go,” he proclaims. 

A black car pulls in and the trunk pops. You frown. That doesn’t look like a cab. He puts your bag in the back and shuts the lid. You stay on the pavement. 

“Um, Nick, I think--” You stare at the tinted windows. 

He nears and puts his hand on your arm. “Stop doing that,” he pushes his jacket open with his other hand and grips the gun holstered on his belt. “Get in.” 

[arthursknight]

it's a word that inspires more boredom than fear when you're made out of its ingredients, merlin supposes. curse.

men, grown and brutal, tremble at the mention of it. women avert their eyes and murmur apologies to keep it tamed and away, somewhere far from their hearths and doorsteps. kids are taught that jokes are not to be made in its name, and everyone in camelot-- and, by extension, merlin supposes everywhere the sun can reach-- has been taught, from the first crying breath, that magic lurks somewhere behind a shadow ready to catch its claws around your throat and curse you.

arthur is one of those kids, merlin supposes, where the lesson didn't truly land. he's been known to wiggle his fingers at a young knight who lands a lucky blow during training, cock an eyebrow and say in a voice that echoes too much of uther, "you didn't curse me, did you?"

it's funny, merlin can admit, the way their cheeks always stain tomato red as they stammer to prove they're not, you know, ensorcelling the future king by managing to best his parry for once. half the time, merlin knows from the sidelines, arthur lets them, even if he won't admit to it.

but it's arthur's joke to him, too. "i must have gotten cursed," he'll say when merlin's a few minutes behind bringing him his morning bread, "to have been saddled with someone so incapable of being able to tell time. we do have clocks in this kingdom, still, do we not, merlin? or has my father passed ordinances while i've been out hunting again?"

or, when merlin stumbles and spills the last of the wine arthur's been nursing from the skein on his way to try and put it back where arthur can no longer reach it, arthur will moan into his furs, "you can't be serious. is this some d-- devil-- devil--"

"devillry?"

"yes. are you-- 's trying to curse me?"

"by preventing your royal grumpiness come morning?" merlin quips. "nothing gets past you."

it's funny.

arthur can't know the half of it. arthur doesn't know what it's like to live with a curse (and will never, so long as merlin lives and walks this earth beside him, and there's a part of merlin that knows, terrified and ancient in his core, that that will be longer than any man may ever know). arthur doesn't know what it's like to wake every day, live a life that can never be honest, fall asleep listening to the earth calling his name and begging him to embrace his power only to wake up and ignore it with all his might. and-- gods. sure, that's fine. he can mope about the magic all he wants, he'll pencil it in. but-- it's this curse, right. the one where merlin can nod off during an important meeting of some sort or another and look up, only to find arthur secretly laughing at him, smile uninhibited, and his heart will turn to ember. or the one where arthur will already be up and at 'em come morning, somehow wired on energy from a brilliant idea or a new training exercise or just a good night's sleep, for once, and when merlin comes in the door, he'll sling his arm around him and say, "right, so now that you're *here*--," and he'll smell like forest and mulling spice and merlin's skin will sting electric. this curse. the one of arthur's wink across a fire in some woods near the edge of their land, on the precipice of danger, some joke merlin must not get. the one of his smile, bright and wide in the summer sun, women swooning on the side as merlin grumbles about being with an arrogant sod to cover his racing heart. this one isn't very funny at all, is it. and it's one he is sure he'll live alone with, as his other one. pencil this one in, too, beside saving arthur's sorry behind one more extra time this week and the errands he needs to run for gaius. nightmare about magic destiny, then washing up before going to clean the stables, then watching practice, then pining over the crown prince in a way that is horrific, then probably some sort of nonsense beast from a neighbouring kingdom. he'll have time enough. but it's one night of the same-- same as it always is, arthur making some quips, when he presses on the bruise a little too hard. something about how he wishes he could lift himself of the curse merlin brings to him during one of their rare late night card games. "right, well," merlin says, tired and empty from it like he sometimes gets, "i'll take my leave." they haven't finished. "we haven't finished," arthur laughs, confused, looking suddenly boyish. fuck. "wouldn't want to bring you even more bad luck," merlin forces. "curse and all." he doesn't know why it's hitting him so hard tonight when he's normally able to stomach it. maybe it's the weather, the heat. maybe it's the exhaustion. "you-- merlin, i wasn't being serious." "yes, well, it's not-- not a very funny joke, is it." christ. merlin has to steady himself by fiddling with his tunic so he can get his head back on. arthur tilts his head, then. it has been a long day-- a long week-- a long month. this has been a rare moment of reprieve, just the two of them, and merlin's gone and blown it with his cursed emotions. "merlin," arthur says, stern, but when merlin looks at him, it is not the hardened gaze of a bloodhungry father. it's calculating, soft, steady. "do not make me admit to you how much of an honour it is to have you at my side." the air leaves the room, a sudden whoosh. merlin catches himself before he does something stupid and makes the cards explode by sheer force of emotion or something. "oh," he says, a half laugh. "well--" "sit down," arthur huffs, "before i curse you." he already has, merlin knows. and he will, again and again. and merlin, damn him-- merlin will let him.

[dizzydaisychains]

Competitive Dad Sylus Takes on Family Sports Day: Part 1

˙✧˖°👟 ༘ ⋆｡˚ Warm up 

“Dad, you’re embarrassing me!” 

Sylus blatantly ignores his daughter (lovingly named Rosie due to the faint tinge of red that always colours her cheeks) as he locks in, adjusting his headband as he starts aggressively squatting. Ten reps at a time. He’s the only parent that’s wearing actual sportswear: a nylon tank top and shorts that go above the knee, complete with matching socks and a pair of high performance sneakers (it's making Rosie cringe).

And of course you’re there too, a cooler bag full of snacks that Sylus had prepared in advance, because apparently winning starts with nourishment.

You try to hold back your laughter at your daughter’s mortified expression as Sylus continues to squat like there's no tomorrow and Luke and Kieran start practicing their family fan chants, both of them waving red and black pom-poms in the air.

The other families are ogling at the Qin family’s eccentricities, but Sylus couldn't care less. This is war. He’s not walking away today with anything less than a gold (much to his daughter’s dismay) and he’s going to have to do it without his Evol (sports day rules apparently).

Not that it matters. He doesn’t even really need his Evol. His physical strength and sharp wits are enough. Plus, he has you and his little girl as teammates. A guaranteed victory is on the horizon.  

“What’s the first event? Javelin? Hammer throw? Perhaps some sort of sparring?” he asks, moving on to arm stretches now that his body is starting to feel a bit more warmed up.

“Errr…darling…I think it’s the sack race first,” you say, reaching out to pat your husband’s shoulder as Rosie continues to send Sylus the stink-eye.

“Seriously, Dad! This isn’t like an Onychinus thing…it’s supposed to be for fun!"

Tutting, Sylus crouches down and places his hands on his daughter's shoulders as he gives her a serious look.

“You’re a Qin, my little petal. And Qin’s don’t lose.”

Rosie groans as Sylus blows the whistle that’s hanging around his neck, calling for a family huddle so they can go over the game plan. 

It’s going to be a long day. 

˙✧˖°👟 ༘ ⋆｡˚ Event 1: Sack Race 

Cursing, Sylus clutches onto the handles of the old potato sack that’s much too small to support the weight of a six-foot-two man. The other parents wave to their family members on the sideline. Sylus, on the other hand, puts on his blue-tinted sports sunglasses and takes a deep breath as he zones in on the finish line 200 metres away. 

“Go Boss! Go! Destroyyyyyy them!”

“Luke! Kieran! Shut up!”

“Rosie! Don’t tell your uncles to shut up like that!”

Bang! The starter pistol fires, and Sylus starts hopping like his life depends on it, making sure to take advantage of his weak competition by using his elbows to knock them out of his path. They fall into the mud with a yelp as Sylus yells at them to eat his dust.

It only takes seconds for him to cross the finish line, his competition practically nonexistent.

Punching his arm into the air in victory, he smiles in satisfaction, until he sees an angry, goblin-like man marching up him, a yellow card in his hand. 

“Disqualified!” the man yells as he shoves the yellow card into Sylus’s chest. 

Sylus feels his eye twitch. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve got my eye on you, handsome silver-haired man,” the referee says, getting right up in Sylus’s face, except, he’s too small, so he has to settle for staring up into Sylus’s chin. 

The referee marches off without another word as Sylus’s jaw drops in disbelief.

From the sidelines, Luke and Kieran cup their hands and boo at the referee's decision while you laugh and Rosie hides her face in her hands. 

˙✧˖°👟 ༘ ⋆｡˚ Event 2: Dodgeball

Sylus fumes as the referee blows the whistle for the second time and holds up another yellow card. 

“I didn’t even throw it that hard this time!” he argues as Rosie aims a kick at his ankle, begging him to just tone it down a little.

"One more foul, handsome silver-haired man, and you're out!"

Grumbling, Sylus squeezes the ball in his fist as he cracks his neck, ready to knock out another poor unfortunate soul.

Meanwhile, the opposing team are fearing for their lives, trembling in terror as they hide behind each other, praying that Sylus doesn’t aim for them next.

“Please can I serve this time Dad?” Rosie asks, trying to spare her opponents from her dad's wicked aim.

“No need, my little flower. Leave it to me…just wait until they feel the full force of a ball from the leader of Onychinus…”

“I think they already have, Dad.”

“Nonsense. That was me just warming up…”

[cosmerelists]

Stormlight Characters Being Offered a Hug...From Hoid

Characters offered a hug requested by anon. :)

[Includes WAT spoilers in 2 entries--entries with spoilers are marked!]

Partway through writing this list, I realized that this anon specifically requested Stormlight characters, not characters in general. Whoops! I had already written 3 non-Stormlight scenarios. so I'll just leave 'em as a bonus and make the rest Stormlight. (This is also why I made it about Hoid, as I thought it had to be someone who could Hug across the Cosmere. But anyway, I'm just going with it.)

So if Hoid was offering hugs to (checks notes) Stormlight characters, how might they react?

1. Nightblood

Nightblood: Oms, oms, it's happening! Szeth: ...Oms? Nightblood: (Oh my Stormfather--Lift taught me that) Nightblood: I don't have arms, though! Nightblood: Szeth! You have to be my arms! Szeth: ...Can't this man simply hug you? Nightblood: IT HAS TO BE MUTUAL, SZETH

2. Kaladin [WAT Spoilers]

Kaladin (suspiciously): Is this some sort of necessary skill that I need, like when you told me to learn the flute? Hoid: It is a hug. Kaladin: But, like, a hug necessary to save the world, or...? Hoid: A hug because you look like you could use a hug. Kaladin: Well okay... [Kaladin & Hoid hug!] Kaladin: ... Kaladin: That was kind of...nice? Hoid: You are so welcome.

3. Dalinar

Dalinar: I must refuse. Dalinar: I only hug my wife. Hoid: But...Connection? Dalinar: I can offer a firm handshake. Perhaps a fist bump. Hoid: You are SO Alethi sometimes.

4. Navani

Navani: I must refuse. Navani: I only hug my husband and my toxic yuri science partner. Hoid: You and Dalinar sure are cut from the same-- Hoid: Wait, what was that last part?

5. Lopen

Lopen: Do you know, when I lost my arm, my mother said to me, "Lopen, it is because your hugs are too powerful, and the powers above feared you and had to take away at least one arm so that your hugs would be those of a mortal." Lopen: But now both my arms are back! So the mighty hugs can live again! Lopen: But are you sure you are up for a Lopen hug? Hoid: I'm immortal. I think I can risk it. Lopen: Very brave of you indeed!

6. Lift

Lift: Bear hug! Arms AND legs! Lift: Wow! You're so skinny! Lift: I could almost believe you're trustworthy! Lift: Almost. Hoid: ...Thank you?

7. Dieno

Dieno: Oh please. I've been escaping from hugs since before I could walk! Dieno: At least give me a challenge! Hoid: I was mostly just trying to give you a hug. Dieno: With just your arms??

8. Jasnah

Jasnah: [idly, not looking up] Oh, no thanks. I had a hug last month. Hoid: [The saddest, wettest eyes] Jasnah: What?

9. Shallan & Adolin [very mild WAT spoiler]

Shallan: Of course! I'll always hug the man who saved my childhood! Shallan: [hugs Hoid] Adolin: And to be honest...I'm just up for hugs generally. Adolin: [hugs Hoid...but for longer than Shallan does] Shallan (mildly): Always got to hug men longer than me, huh? Adolin: I haven't lost a hug duel yet, and I don't intend to start!

10. Renarin

Renarin: Oh, no thank you. Hoid: I respect that.

11. Eshonai

Eshonai: Wow! A human bonding ritual? Eshonai: So cool! Eshonai: Wow! You are so squishy with no shell! Hoid: Can't...breathe...hug...too...strong... Eshonai: Whoops! S-Sorry about that!

Bonus! The non-Stormlight Characters I accidentally wrote:

12. Vin

[Hoid is lying on the ground, huddled around himself] Elend: Right in the solar plexus, huh? Vin: H-He came at me with his arms stretched out! I thought it was an attack!

13. Tress

Tress: Awww, I'd love a hug, thank you! [Tress & Hoid are hugging!] Ulaam: What a sweet moment. Ulaam: Do you know what would make it better? Tress: ...I don't need any extra arms, Ulaam. Ulaam: So you've never head of hugmaxxing?

14. Kelsier

Kelsier: I love a good hug. Kelsier: A hug is like a smile--in a world like ours, it's a big "F you" to the powers to be to express small moments of happiness. Kelsier: That being said... Kelsier: I DON'T hug CORPSE SURFERS Hoid: What a strange personal rule. Kelsier: I'M NOT THE STRANGE ONE HERE

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 19

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.5k+

Note: Hello i gave YN a september birthday bc she gives virgo vibes.

also pls dont hate me for chapter 21 its coming and i fear people are going to be mad at me for it.

xxx

The week went by way too fast.

Maybe it's the fast pace of this city, or the fact that I’ve been distracted. Either way, since seeing Will at the station that day, he's sort of… drifted out of my head. Like smoke caught in the breeze. The ache that used to sit heavy in my chest has softened, faded into the background noise of everyday life. It’s barely noticeable now. I’m almost surprised.

George, though, has come back in like he never left—solid, steady, with that proper mate energy I always fall back on. It’s like he’s been here the entire time, even though it’s been a while.

I mean, just last week he showed up unannounced with a takeaway curry because I’d moaned about being too tired to cook. No big deal. No drama. Just food. And, as usual, his terrible jokes that make me laugh harder than I should. Even when I know they’re coming, I can’t help but laugh at them.

Or that one night last week, when I was stuck on a bug at work and sent him a frantic message at midnight. Without missing a beat, he stayed on the line for a full hour, alternating between half-teasing and half-moral-supporting me through it. It was as if he knew I needed both—someone to help me focus, but also someone to tell me I wasn’t as stupid as I felt in that moment. I think he made about seven different “cracked the code” jokes, all of them terrible. But still, every time, I felt a little lighter. Like I was a genius, even if I didn’t feel like one at all.

I’ve seen more of George this past week than I care to admit.

I won’t lie, a part of me loves it. He was appalled to hear my plans for my first birthday in London was to split a shitty bottle of wine with him and scroll through Netflix to find our favourite Brooklyn Nine-Nine episodes. That’s exactly what we did for my actual birthday, of course. But for the Friday after, George insisted I needed to do something real. Something different.

I ended up having a dinner out, with some of my friends from The Van plus a handful of Ruth’s mates who I could tolerate, you know, just to pad it out. George, Chris, and Arthur all solemnly declined the invite, pretending it was some big “brand event” they had to attend. And, to be fair, they did actually have one, but they spun it in such a way that it felt like they were doing me a favour by not coming. “We don’t want to steal your thunder,” they said, like I wasn’t capable of enjoying a night without their chaos.

It’s just so typical of them. But I’m not going to lie, it did make me feel a little warm inside. They care, in their own ridiculous way.

So, here I am—out on the town, dressed a little too nicely for a bar, surrounded by friends who make me feel like I actually belong. The music’s pounding, lights flashing, the crowd’s energy wrapping around me like a warm, electric current. I take a deep breath and, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about Will. Or the way I saw him that morning on the train platform, or how the ache had softened but still lingered in the background, like some ghost I couldn’t quite shake off.

It’s just me. Just this moment. Just my birthday celebration in this big, loud city. And for the first time in ages, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The buzz of the night swirls around me—laughter, music, the clink of glasses all blending together into a warm, fuzzy haze. I’m wine-drunk from the dinner, flushed, carefree, and surrounded by friends, all of whom are easy to talk to and full of stories. Their laughter is infectious, the kind that makes you feel like everything is good, even when you’re not quite sure how you got here.

In this moment, I’m just present, no overthinking, no wondering about past conversations or lost opportunities. It’s all just right now.

And of course, Ruth keeps nudging me, grinning mischievously. “Come on, just say hi to Liam. He’s a good bloke. Deep voice, really sweet.” Liam, of course, is the mate she was trying to set me up with when Will first ghosted.

I wave her off with a laugh, spinning a loose strand of hair between my fingers. “Ruth, I’m not here to meet anyone new. I’m having a bloody good time as it is.”

She smirks but lets it go, knowing she’s not winning this one tonight. I settle into the rhythm of the room, feeling light and happy in a way I haven’t for a while.

The bar is buzzing with that familiar, chaotic energy—laughter spilling into the dim lights, the low hum of music wrapping around the crowd like a warm blanket.

I’m caught in the middle of it all when someone’s hand suddenly slips into mine. My first instinct is to pull away, startled, but then I look up, and a grin that could light up the whole place is looking back at me.

It’s George.

He’s grinning wide, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, a little spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. Without saying a word, he yanks me back into the rhythm, spinning me around with a fluid ease that makes me laugh out loud.

For a moment, the chaos of the dancefloor blurs away. There’s no noise, no crowd. Just us—moving, smiling, perfectly in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“Had to make it,” he says, his grin never faltering as we twirl. “Can’t miss your birthday celebrations, can I?”

I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Skipped the afterparty did we?”

George shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, the event ended early anyway. It was boring.”

He takes a sip of his drink, leans back against the bar. The music shifts, bass-heavy now, just loud enough to blur the edges of the moment.

If George is here, I’m sure Chris isn’t far behind. They went to the event together—Arthur too, obviously. The Three Musketeers of mildly chaotic YouTube fame. Wherever one goes, the others tend to materialise not long after, usually holding pints and half-finished inside jokes.

I should probably find them. Go say hi. Give them shit for missing my birthday dinner.

“I was just about to text you,” George adds, glancing over with a crooked smile, “see where you ended up.”

He pauses, letting the grin settle.

“But then I heard your laugh—” His hand makes a vague gesture toward me, “—and figured it was the universe telling me to just show up and crash the party in person.”

“Just show up, huh?” I laugh, the moment settling between us like a worn-in coat—comfortable, familiar. I’m so glad he made it tonight.

“May I have this dance, birthday girl?” he asks, mock-formal, eyes twinkling with mischief. He sweeps into an overly dramatic bow, one hand extended like we’re at a royal ball instead of a sticky-floored bar.

I shake my head, smiling at his classic George antics. “Sure, why not?”

Before I can rethink it, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. The lights blur. The music pulses, loud and careless, the kind that gets into your bones whether you like it or not.

Our movements are terrible—chaotic, off-beat, probably embarrassing—but none of it matters. We’re laughing, bumping shoulders, spinning like idiots. It’s not about dancing well. It’s about this: messy, loud, completely unfiltered joy.

And somehow, it feels exactly right.

That’s when I spot him, of course.

Right when I’m feeling good. Music thrumming in my chest, wine warm in my limbs, laughter still clinging to the corners of my mouth.

Will.

He’s across the room, in a booth, half-lit by the lamp on the table and the sickly blue overhead bar light, talking to someone I vaguely recognise. He looks good. A little tired maybe, but still—him. Black tee. Rings catching the light. That same disarming way he holds his drink like it’s just another prop in his performance of not caring.

And without thinking, like muscle memory, I smile.

Big. Wide. Genuine.

It’s instinct, almost. Something automatic. Like how your body remembers the way home in the dark. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken him in weeks, or that the last time I did, he barely looked at me. My stupid, traitorous face still lights up.

He glances over. Meets my eyes for a second too long.

Then smiles back. Polite. Measured. The kind of smile you give someone you used to know.

And just like that, something in my chest contracts—tight and sharp and sudden.

I think I've convinced myself that I miss him more as a friend than a lover. Because what I’m feeling is nostalgia, not longing. I just want the version of us that used to make each other laugh until our ribs ached.

Not the nights. Not the kisses. Not the way he used to touch me like I was something rare.

I sip my drink. Swallow the smile. Try to focus on the music, on the friends I actually showed up with, on George’s voice somewhere behind me yelling about how he “absolutely crushed that spin move.” Because I’m okay. I am.

Mostly.

I spot Chris in the booth, laughing at something, a drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. Will’s next to him, naturally. He's leaning against the counter like he owns it, that casual slouch he always falls into when he’s had just enough to drink.

I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I square my shoulders and head over.

“Oi, look who it is!” Chris beams when he sees me. He stands up and pulls me into a proper hug—tight, warm, sincere in that disarming Chris way. “You look unreal, by the way. Seriously.”

I laugh, startled by the compliment, and mutter something like “you need new glasses,” but it still catches me off guard—the ease of it. The kindness.

When he lets go, I glance at Will.

His hand is still around his glass, knuckles gone white. He hasn’t said anything yet. Hasn’t really looked at me, not properly.

“Hi,” I say, soft but even. I’m not going to shrink.

He offers a smile—thin, polite, all surface. Then he gives me another one of those side hugs, the kind that barely counts. His arm brushes my shoulder, brief and stiff. Like we’re colleagues who once had a weird office Christmas party hookup.

I step back. The cold of his skin lingers.

The silence between us says more than either of us ever could.

Chris, oblivious to the tension, launches into a story about some chaotic shoot involving three smoke machines and a minor fire hazard, and I let him pull me in, let myself laugh at the right beats. But I don’t miss the way Will stays quiet. I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes when I smile too easily at someone else.

At some point, the noise of the bar fades into background chatter. Will's looking at his phone, scrolling through something with intent, and I feel a strange compulsion to fill the silence between us.

“So,” I start, forcing my voice to sound casual, “how have you been?”

His eyes flick up at the mention of the place, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced with that same cool, detached demeanour.

“Oh, uh...” He swigs from his glass, clearly not looking to dive deep. “I launched a coffee brand last month so I've been non-stop.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Right. Cool. I—uh, didn’t know that.” I totally know that. I stalked the shit out of it when it first dropped. Ruth had to stop me from going to a Sainsburys' to buy it. I don’t tell him that I recognised the logo from various papers around his flat.

I can feel the awkwardness hanging between us, thick as smoke. I don't know what I expected, but I would think he could maybe elaborate a bit more. The man can talk until the cows come home.

I glance over at Chris, who's still caught up in his own story, not paying attention to the fact that Will and I are barely engaging.

Will’s eyes flicker, just for a moment—a hint of something softer, like he’s about to say something. “You look—” His gaze shifts suddenly, moving past me, over my shoulder.

He cuts himself off mid-sentence.

I follow his line of sight, curiosity pulling me to see what has caught his attention.

And of course, it’s George.

George, grinning like a cat who’s just knocked something precious off the counter. “Oi!” He calls out, walking toward us with his trademark enthusiasm. “Why are you wasting your birthday time with these guys? Go have some fun with your mates!”

I can practically hear the relief in Will’s exhale as he shifts his attention away, the soft moment gone before it can take root.

George flashes me a grin, throwing a playful look over at Chris and Will. "You two need to stop being so serious, let her have a good night."

Chris throws up his hands, still smiling. “Fair enough, mate. Go on, buy the birthday girl a drink.”

I laugh, though it feels like a little too much, a little too forced. But George is already pulling me away, guiding me toward the my friends with a cheeky wink.

Will doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t even look back.

And for once, I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Not tonight.

I make my way back to our group, and George goes to the bar to get me another drink. I can feel how flushed my cheeks are from dancing and too much wine, and my hair is clinging to the back of my neck. Ruth’s still mid-rant about how her ex once cried because she beat him at Uno, and I let myself dissolve into the comfort of it—of noisy, lovely people who don’t know the Will of it all.

A few minutes later, George wanders over, two fresh drinks in hand and cheeks pink from the heat. One of Ruth’s friends clocks him immediately, eyes trailing over him like she’s assessing inventory. I don’t blame her. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough, curls a little messy, grin easy. He looks like the kind of guy you flirt with just to feel alive again.

And I feel it. That flutter. The smallest shift in my chest—something I don’t want to name. It passes quickly, but it still passes.

He grins at something Ruth says, then catches my eye. I turn to face him, his brow raising slightly, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s like we’re already mid-conversation, even though neither of us has said a word yet. I turn back to Ruth, who is still complaining.

I'm hyper-aware of his presence next to me, and I'm not sure why but it feels… forbidden. Like I've stumbled into a situation is shouldn't be in. Then, he turns toward the bar. I turn to watch him catching up with a few people from the other side of the room, his voice rising above the crowd. His attention shifts, and he's walking and now, he's standing next to some girl in a glittery top, laughing loudly enough that it cuts through the pulse of the music.

He’s leaning in just enough to hear her, grinning that lopsided grin—the one that always makes people feel like they’re in on something. I feel it before I even register it: a flicker, low in my stomach. A little flutter.

Not jealousy, exactly. Just… awareness. Like I’ve noticed something I wasn’t supposed to.

They’re talking.

No—more than talking.

Leaning in. Faces close. That kind of proximity you only allow when the rest of the room disappears. Eyes locked in a way that makes my stomach drop through the sticky floorboards. For a moment, I forget the beat of the song. Forget the warmth of Ruth’s hand around mine. Forget how to stand.

I shouldn’t stare.

But I do.

God, I do.

“Let’s dance!” someone says (probably Naomi) and suddenly I’m being pulled back into the blur of bodies and basslines. I let it happen. I smile. I raise my arms and pretend I’m still in it, like the music hasn’t warped around the crack forming in my chest.

We move. I dance. I laugh at something Arthur says in passing and shout-sing the chorus of a song I don’t really know. But every time the hook rolls around, I glance over.

He’s still talking to her.

They’ve shifted positions slightly. George now angled toward her like he’s shielding their conversation from the world.

His smile is lopsided, eyes crinkled. That laugh, his real one, the one that starts in his chest and ends in his shoulders—

rises up over the bar.

It’s so familiar. I know that laugh like a favourite song.

And yet I have no idea what’s making her laugh like that.

They talk for ages. Longer than I expect. Longer than I can excuse away.

I keep dancing. Keep pretending. But the longer it goes on, the less I can feel my limbs. I become mechanical, going through the motions, too aware of the prickling at the back of my neck. The small, tight burn behind my ribs.

It’s not jealousy.

(Not quite.)

It’s something messier than that.

Ruth and the others break away for a round of drinks, their laughter trailing off as they slip toward the bar, and I pause—one breath, two—still swaying, still looking.

That’s when George finally pulls back.

His hand lingers a second too long on the girl’s arm.

She says something that makes him smile.

He grins, pats her on the shoulder, and slips away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. No number exchanged, no flirty goodbyes. Just the kind of quiet exit that makes me think maybe it wasn’t even about anything at all.

He rejoins us a few minutes later, sliding next to me at the bar as I'm waiting for Ruth to hurry up and pay for my drink. His eyes find mine, so I turn to face him. He's close to me. Like girl at the bar close. He makes a face that suggests that did not go well and I stifle a laugh.

The flutter’s still there. But it softens into something warmer. Something familiar. And I shake it off. Just a little.

It’s George.

“So,” I say, nudging his elbow, “how’s your new soulmate? Planning the wedding yet?”

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“She touched your arm. That’s legally binding in some countries.”

“She also talked at me for twenty minutes about her birth chart,” he mutters. “Apparently my Mercury is in retrograde, which means I need to ‘unblock my throat chakra.’”

I snort. “She’s not wrong. You do talk like someone who’s never processed a single emotion out loud.”

George shoots me a look, then takes a long sip of his drink like he’s trying to drown the sass. “Honestly? I panicked and told her I was gay.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” he defends, eyes wide. “It was that or pretend I was into crystals. I chose the option with less homework.”

I laugh, I laugh so hard my belly hurts. I try to say that she's probably so confused as he approached her, but it gets lost in my giggles

I’m still laughing as he bumps my shoulder with his, alerting me to the fact that Ruth has finally purchased my drink, I wave for him to join our group. He tells me to wait a second,

George tilts his head toward me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “So… who’s your mate?”

I blink. “Huh?”

He nods subtly toward Ruth’s friend—the same one who gave him the full once-over when he walked over. She’s mid-laugh about something Ruth’s just said, holding her cocktail like it’s a prop in a rom-com. Cute. Confident. Exactly George’s type.

“I saw her eyeing me earlier,” he adds, all mock modesty. “What’s her deal?”

I short-circuit for a second. My brain scrambles like it’s looking for an escape hatch, and before I can think it through, I blurt out, “She has a boyfriend.”

George raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

I nod too quickly. “Yep. Long-term. Serious. Big beard.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Ruth did say she had a boyfriend… at one point. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe that was a different friend. Or maybe I just said so I didn’t have to watch George flirt with another girl tonight. Either way, it’s out there now. Floating between us, ridiculous and unnecessary.

I glance at her, then back at George. “Actually… I think they broke up.” I wince. “I think.”

His looks bewildered at my change of pace. “Well which is it?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not a relationship counsellor, I’m just trying to make sure you don't end up making a fool of yourself again.”

George raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fool of myself?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered I’ve gotten. His eyes flicker, something sharper flashing for a split second beneath the teasing. “I just… don’t want to make a scene, y’know?”

I nod, though I'm not sure if I fully understand his coolness about it. He can for sure tell I just lied through my teeth. I look down at my drink, stirring it mindlessly, then glance up. Somehow, despite everything, I’ve ended up talking to George and pretty much only George tonight. He looks good—when doesn't he?—like he’s barely even trying. His messy hair, the way his jacket fits him just right, the way he always seems comfortable in his own skin.

I feel something stir in me, but before I can think much more on it, a guy sidles up to the bar, leaning a little too close for comfort.

"Hey, wanna dance?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear, lingering a little too long for comfort.

I give him a polite but firm smile, leaning back just enough to create some space. “No, thanks.”

He doesn’t back off, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances at George. "Is this your bird, mate?" he sneers, eyes scanning George like he's just waiting for a response. There's a challenge in his voice, as if he's testing the waters.

Without missing a beat, George shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half something more protective. “Yeah,” he says, like it's a statement rather than a question, the kind of casual confidence that used to make me feel safe, back when we both knew the drill. He puts his arm around me, just enough to make it clear that the guy’s not going to push any further.

The man hesitates for a second, then mutters something like "Alright, mate," and slinks off, disappearing into the crowd.

"Ugh I hate being called bird. Like do you want me to chirp at you?" I look at George, half-exasperated. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George just shrugs, his expression completely unbothered. “It’s nothing. Just old habits.”

I can't help but smile at that. We used to do this all the time back in uni—keeping unwanted attention off each other. It’s one of those little perks of having an opposite-sex best friend. We always had each other’s backs, no questions asked.

I can see the guy, looking between us, clearly trying to figure out if there’s more to it, but George doesn’t give him anything else. Instead, he casually nudges me with his shoulder, as if to say, Let’s get out of here.

Before I can protest, he’s already setting his empty cup down and pulling me toward the dance floor, a grin spreading across his face.

“Come on, Birthday Girl,” he says, practically dragging me through the sea of people, “let’s actually have some fun tonight, yeah?”

I let him pull me along, a little too easily. Despite the chaos around us, the clamour of voices and thudding bass, I find myself laughing, shaking off whatever that thing was I felt earlier.

And for a moment, it’s just us again. Just the two of us, like it used to be.

“George, no—” I protest through a laugh, but it’s already happening. We’re weaving through bodies and basslines, and he’s grinning like a man on a mission.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” he says, dragging me into the beat. “You pretend to be my girlfriend. We dance. Everyone wins.”

“That is not how foolproof plans work,” I say, but I’m already moving with him.

He spins me dramatically. I nearly trip. He catches me by the waist, laughing into my hair.

For a moment, it’s just the two of us again. Dizzy. Stupid. Easy.

I still feel a little bad about lying to him about Ruth's friend, But George isn’t pressing, isn’t thinking about it. And maybe that’s the part I’m clinging to—that he doesn’t need anything from me right now except this.

Just music, and limbs, and the dumb safety of knowing you’re someone’s favourite dance partner, even if only for one song.

After a few more songs—some iconic, some unrecognisable—we slip off the floor, breathless and flushed. George grabs his drink from where he left it and downs the last of it in one go.

“I think the lads are heading to Lucky’s,” he says, nodding toward the door where Chris is already half-waving, half-coaxing the others out. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Ruth’s booked us a karaoke room at that grimy place on the corner. I’m morally obligated.”

He grins. “God help you.”

“She’s promised tequila and emotional support,” I say with a shrug.

George smiles, softer this time. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”

“Always.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where we linger in each other’s space like maybe there’s something more to say. But there’s no goodbye hug, no drama. Just an easy pat on my shoulder and a, “Don’t sing Mr. Brightside. Again.”

“I make no promises,” I call after him.

He heads off with Chris and the rest of the boys, swallowed by the dark edge of the bar crowd, and I turn toward Ruth and our chaos-bound karaoke mission.

There’s no ache. No longing. Just… fuck… a flutter. A stupid, persistent flutter that starts low in my chest and rises like it’s got something to prove. I tell it to shut up. To get a grip. It’s just George.

It’s always been just George.

And yet… my stupid heart won’t listen.

xxx

The night’s winding down, and I've just hit an absolutely phenomenal rendition of Everybody Talks. The buzz of laughter and chatter hums through our private room like a fading song. My head is warm, the tequila and the night mixing into a comfortable fuzz. My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump a little.

I fish it out, squinting at the screen. It's George.

Are you still out?

I smile, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m still out, technically, but the bar here called last drinks 10 minutes ago, Ruth is half asleep on the couch and I’m tired. So tired that my bed sounds way more appealing than going to another bar. I don’t even question when someone says that the uber is £70.

I type back.

Yeah. We’re about to head home though.

I pause. The Uber price pops back into my mind like a punchline I can’t unhear.

Fuck, Ubers are £70. Who’s pricing London like this?

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Crash at mine!

That was part of our deal.

I stare at the screen, breath catching for a moment. It’s simple, casual, but somehow exactly what I needed to hear. Like a lifeline thrown over a sea of overpriced rides and fading energy.

I glance around at my friends, then back at my phone. A slow smile spreads across my face.

Maybe tonight isn’t done yet.

xxx

I step Into George’s flat, the door clicking softly behind me. I expected the usual buzz—Chris and Arthur sprawled on the couch, music thumping, the familiar chaos of a late-night kick-on.

But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Only George is there, sitting on the worn sofa, looking a little too casual for this time of night. No Arthur teasing him about the playlist, no Chris talking a little too loudly about something I don’t care about. Just George, and that weird flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he sees me,

I drop my bag by the door and lean against the frame, suddenly aware of how still the room feels without the usual noise.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs, grinning that lopsided smile. “Figured I’d hold down the fort.”

I smirk, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Ghosted. Probably found a better party.”

I laugh softly, feeling this strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name. Just George. Just us.

We settle into the living room like it’s our own private island amid the quiet hum of the city outside. The faint clink of glasses from earlier still lingers in the air, but it’s just the two of us now. No crowds, no distractions—just George and me.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, and I’m perched opposite on the other side, both of us locked in that comfortable rhythm of teasing and banter.

“You owe me a rematch on FIFA,” he says, grinning like he’s already won before the game’s even started.

“Oh please,” I fire back, voice light but eyes sharp, “you’re just scared of losing again. You barely even know the controls.”

He throws his head back and laughs, that rich, easy sound that always catches me off guard—like a secret only I’m allowed to hear. “Scared? Never. I’m just letting you think you’ve got a chance. Gotta keep the game interesting, right?”

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Is that what you call it? I’d say it’s called ‘underestimating your opponent’.”

He leans forward, that mischievous glint in his eye making my heart do that stupid little skip it’s been refusing to quit all night. “Maybe I’m just playing the long game. You know, lull you into a false sense of security before I completely wipe the floor with you.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling too wide. “You keep dreaming, George. One of these days, I’m going to break your winning streak.”

His grin widens. “That day can’t come soon enough. Until then, I’ll be enjoying watching you try and fail.”

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Better watch out. When I win, I expect you to perform me victory dance, call it a birthday present.”

He raises his hands mock-defensively. “Deal. But be warned—I’m known for my killer dance moves.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I saw those earlier. Didn’t exactly strike me as ‘killer’.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He points a finger at me, feigning offense. “Maybe I’ll let you be my dance partner. Then you can judge my moves up close.”

I catch that look he throws—like he’s daring me to say yes, like he’s hoping I will.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to.

But I just grin and flick his forehead. “In your dreams, George.”

He catches my hand before I pull away, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “Dreams are where the best things happen, don’t you think?”

I glance down at our hands, then back up at him, breath catching for a second. “Maybe.”

I shift in my seat, my heart pounding louder in my ears. It’s ridiculous—I’m telling myself it’s just friendship. Nothing else. But then, almost without thinking, I lean forward and press a quick, impulsive kiss to his cheek.

Immediately, the world tilts.

George freezes, his eyes wide and unblinking, locked onto me like I’m suddenly some impossible riddle he can’t solve. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure he can hear it, and my breath catches, sharp and ragged in my chest. Panic crashes in like a tidal wave, dragging me under before I even have a chance to catch myself.

What the hell did I just do?

I’ve spent so long tiptoeing around this—around him—pretending like the last few months didn’t come with a price. Like I didn’t know exactly how fragile this all was. And now I’ve gone and thrown a grenade into the middle of it.

Did I not learn my lesson?

Every warning bell I told myself to listen to—every quiet voice in the back of my head screaming don’t do this—I ignored it. Because it felt good. Because it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was something worth risking.

But looking at him now, the way his whole body stiffens, the way his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing a storm—fuck, I’m terrified.

Because I know that look. That’s the look of someone who’s about to build a wall so high it’ll take years to climb back over.

And I’m the one who place the first brick.

I want to reach out, to explain, to tell him it didn’t mean what it always means. That I’m not trying to ruin everything. Again. But my throat tightens, words catching like stones.

I’ve broken us once before. Maybe I’m just stupid enough to do it again.

And the worst part? I don’t know how to fix it.

I swallow hard and try to steady my racing heart, but the damage feels already done—impossible to rewind.

I wanted this to be different. I wanted us to be different.

But maybe some things are just too broken to mend.

And I don’t think I'm strong enough to watch him walk away again.

I pull back even further, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, cheeks burning, “That was— I don’t know what that was.” I instinctually start to think about where my bag is, where my phone is, if I it worth just firming a £70 Uber after all.

My hands are shaking slightly as I lean back, instinctively searching the room for my bag. My phone. Somewhere safe, somewhere away from this mess. I’m already mentally mapping out a quick exit strategy, but grounded to the couch, trying to ignore the way my chest is still tight, still buzzing with that kiss that feels like it’s carved into my skin.

Maybe I can just throw myself into the £70 Uber, call it a night, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s always the easy out, right? Just pull the drunk card, laugh it off. Oh, I always kiss Ruth’s cheek, sorry, I’m just sooo wasted.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers brushing my arm, cautious. There’s a pause—barely a heartbeat—where his hand hovers, and I it's like he’s weighing every possible outcome behind his eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes my hand and gently pulls me off my place on the couch.

I stumble a little as I rise, and he guides me between his knees. One arm slips around my waist, the other steadies my hip, and then he's tugging me down into his lap. Our controllers drop to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

Now I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. My chest is almost flush with his, barely any space between us, and I can feel the rise and fall of his breath—shallow, nervous. His hands settle on my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing circles through the fabric of my shirt.

The heat of him seeps into me. Every point where we touch feels electric, like a current passing through skin and bone. The air around us grows heavy, charged, as if the room itself is holding its breath. I am too.

My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I’m terrified—but I don’t want to move.

Then his lips find mine.

It’s immediate, a shock of heat. The kiss starts slow, hesitant, like he’s feeling his way through the dark. But then, without warning, it deepens, his mouth pressing harder, demanding more, like he’s been holding back forever and can’t anymore.

There’s a desperation to it, but it’s not just hunger. It’s… something else. His lips move against mine with a kind of urgency that makes my whole body hum. Each touch, each breath, builds into something hotter, more dangerous, until I’m gasping for air, my chest burning with every shallow inhale.

My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of him. The world around us blurs, fades into the background—there’s nothing but this, nothing but the fire between us.

And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he pulls away.

I’m left there, dazed, my heart pounding in my chest, like I’ve been thrown into the ocean and can’t quite find the surface. My pulse is still racing, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

He’s looking at me, his eyes dark, impossibly intense. There’s no confusion in them, no second-guessing. Just something raw, like he knows exactly what this is and what it means. But neither of us is ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

I swallow hard, my voice shaky as I speak, barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d ruined it.”

His eyes flash—something sharp, fleeting, almost imperceptible. “Shut up.”

His voice is low, rough around the edges. Not cruel, but desperate—like he’s trying to strangle the doubt in its cradle, to silence that voice inside me that always wants to dismantle everything good before it can begin.

The space between us feels impossibly small now, strung tight like a wire. One wrong move and it could all snap. The kind of silence that teeters between breaking everything... or changing everything.

We’re frozen, breathless. Neither of us dares to move. Not yet. Not while the air is this thick with unspoken things and nearlys.

And then, before I can even fully exhale, he moves.

One hand slides up my back, firm and certain, and he pulls me in, swift and sure. His lips find mine in a kiss that doesn't ask—it claims. There’s nothing hesitant now, nothing careful. Just months, no years, of tension unravelling in a single heartbeat.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, rushed, mouths colliding more than meeting. But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as I kiss him back, everything else falling away. No fear. No doubt. Just this.

Finally.

xxx

TagList: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz @mellucyx @capnjosh

[unlikebee]

Murderbot's Physical Features ASR

This is organized by where it was referenced in the book for personal inspiration and if for anyone wanting specific descriptions without scouring the book! Sorry, some stuff went unquoted-- there was a lot of material to look through but I tried to for the more ambiguous descriptions. Feel free to reblog with any physical descriptions you have!

Built In

Small energy weapons in both arms. Described "Opened my gun ports and expanded the weapons in my arms, then folded them back in." Seems it can also fire them as is?

Resupply and repair ports

Power cells

All Systems Red

Big projectile gun, held in a harness

Worn armour, with retractable helmet that can go opaque

Protective armour skin for underneath

Arms have organic flesh underneath + inorganic material

Organic shoulder "Weird flashes of sensation, all from my organic parts. Air on my face, my arms, through rips in my suit. On the burning wound in my shoulder."

Mix of organic and inorganic head, organic face

Crew uniform of "grey knit pants, long sleeve t-shirt, and a jacket" exercise clothes style

Six drones, centimetre across, with camera functionality

Some sort of field camera (may or may not be same as drones)

Organic neck "Then something stabbed me in the back of the next. That's organic material--" to "It felt like they were sawing my head off"

Data port in neck. "I could feel something in the port now. My data port"

Armour has individual arm, shoulder, chest and back with logos, and leg pieces. Leg pieces have armour inventory codes.

Long sleeves and jacket cover all the in-organics minus the data port

Stole work boots, protective jacket, enviro-mask, and a knapsack

Injuries

Cilia and teeth embedded in chest in worm battle

Missing a hand and part of shoulder after deltfall encounter, and blown hip joint

Theories / Implications in Text

Stripped for parts I would imagine would be most... effective... if it was a whole limb, like interchangeable metal shins, fingers, ect, rather than singular metal pieces as much as possible. Cheap ass company isn't going to want to weld new pieces from scrap when they can take the whole leg with them!

I imagine the joints are mechanical potentially for its speed? Supported by secunit identifying hostile deltfall by joint noise

Does it have the equivalent of a windows recycling bin in its head for all the data it deletes...

As a security unit, I wonder if its armour is sort of like, bullet proof vest style.

Secunits are... ambidextrous? The Deltfall units swap weapon hands after its joint gets disabled.

Vision and hearing can go offline, potentially digital based on "I came back online with no vision, no hearing, no ability to move." and "Designed to work with both organic and machine parts, to balance that sensory input. Without the balance, I felt like a balloon floating in mid-air."

or not, since 5 pages later it says "Sound was breaking up. -- My organic parts were not used to processing that much information." Maybe a mix? Digital input and organic processing, or vice versa?

Joints seems to refer to contact points between organic and inorganic

Deltfall's secunit's comm channel is located on the side of its helmet (/maybe face?) It's energy weapons can also fold out of the armour, so there must be space for them to open or react to the opening of the guns.

Assuming its mainly organic parts are what it senses when its crashing, Arada holding its hand might mean organic hand?

Interesting note from the end of ASR that I hadn't noticed until now: Ratthi and Pin-Lee both take it by the arm. Perhaps MB starts asserting / setting boundaries around touch as it gains confidence in itself, so doesn't question or assert it much at the start of its narrative.

[wizardsfang]

Some stuff I do:

- Oral Stimulation in accordance to whatever my kintype is at the time (I eat chips if I wanna eat bugs or bones; I pull apart paper with my mouth n gnaw on shit thats non toxic like a creature)

- Water, Grass, or Soil stimulation; i go outside or take a shower and splash around to sort of ground and connect with nature. Touching tree bark, feeling it under my weight- that feels nice

- making or watching random niche shit for my kintype. Ill watch videos of prey animals or make moodboards/userboxes, ill randomly make posts & talk about my kin as if it’s the most common one in the world (even if never end up posting them, it’s fun)

- I doodle my kin types doing “human” shit specifically to give myself joy over “not acting like a real animal” 24/7. Smth smth seals can sit on the couch, eat chips, & watch TV too

- nature documentaries/docuseries or movies that centralize a kintype

- making playlists for kintypes/finding music that makes me feel more energetic or connected to a kintype at any given time

- tweaking the fuck out in bed. Like really just thrashing and yapping and making whatever fucking noise I want while sometimes completely fucking up the room. Idk- be a wild animal or something

- hiding “treats” behind wadded up paper balls/ paper treat boxes so I can rip it up. Better to pre Mak these

- acting like I’m stealing my own food. Like-I’ll “sneak up” and take it & run away like a tiny scavenging asshole animal

- I like looking at gear. Sometimes the gear is in more adult oriented communities so be careful- but sm would be sick in sfw settings (this is especially common for horse & dog kintypes)

- make paper dolls (actually haven’t done this yet but planning to)

- make a therian word searxh or smth with a generator for those & then do it

- make a zine about a specific part of your kintype (tons of tutorials online for how to fold a zine paper)

Really honestly- just get creative n weird n try shit. Try anything really

Turns out everything can be stuff for your kintype when ur in the right mindset

Edit: get into makeup or painting on yourself w/safe paints. This is super fun n euphoric for me. I especially like it for raccoon makeup

”✨things to do when your a therian🐾” type of videos/posts lowkey piss me off. It’s always “draw your theriotype! Make therian masks! Jump over things! Build a den!” Not that there’s anything wrong with doing these things obviously but they’re so annoying to me because they just say literally the exact same things every time, the exact same, basic, stereotypical “tiktok therian” activities. And I doubt that any alterhumans who are bored will see these posts and think “oh!! I’ve never thought of that! How fun and exciting, I’ll go do these activities now!”

Anyways, if you have any “things for therians to do” suggestions I’d love to see them in reblogs