#Floating Notes Records

[armenelols]

Yeah I've just realised it's been months since I posted or reblogged or replied to anything on here, so. Yeah. Obligatory announcement that I am still alive and well. My mind got wiped midway through exam season at the end of january and since they then I've been vibing in a stress free world where I am not worried about anything or doing anything

[gucci-endorsed-trash]

hi i'm not sure why my awful 2016-era meme blog is suddenly receiving attention. there is nothing of value for you here, no god roams these forgotten lands. leave while you still can

[nn-ee-zz]

Hiii, I was just wandering if you wouldn’t mind blabbing about the symbolism and stuff behind some of your design choices with the horse men that you might not have mentioned. Like with pestilence and death specifically I feel like there’s a lot of symbolism I’m picking up on without fully understanding. Like with Death’s sickle, both a homage to the classic scythe and a nod to the “reaping/harvesting” of souls. And with pestilence I feel like there’s something that I’m skirting around without grasping. The multiple legs strike me as a deliberate similarity to insects, and if I’m right I think that the rider is bound in a body bag type deal, similar to how disease and pestilence is so often both spread through the improper disposal of body’s, and how wide spread pestilence leads to mass graves filled with disease and the horrible anonymity that comes with being just one face in a pit of hundreds etc? All of this is, ofc, to say that I’ve adored your series of the horsemen so far and would go absolutely rabid for some insight on some of your design choices<3

My horsemen of the apocalypse! I will add the original commentary and some extras, less about the symbolism and more about what brought me to design them the way I did.

The symbolism is for you to chose, there is no wrong answer.

WAR

I can't bring myself to represent war with a cool knight. It's horror. War is a bound child crowned with shrapnel, tied to a wounded horse that is being pulled forward by unseen people.

I've read a handful of books regarding war. A lost quote said that it should be shown as horror, it should make generals vomit, it should make you sick. I haven't seen war but my family has.

It was the first horseman I've designed, and it was in my sketchbook for months (maybe over a year, maybe even more) before I had the courage to draw it. I was really scared about how people would react to a mutilated child.

Recommended reading: The Red Crown - Mikhail Bulgakov, a short story about a man coping with the loss of his brother in the war

FAMINE

Someone who lived thro a famine shared that their head was only occupied with thoughts of food. Famine consumes your mind. All animals were eaten. Neighbors gave their pets away cuz they couldn't do it themselves. People walked around town as if in a dazed dream, slowly

Recommended reading: The Last Witnesses - Svetlana Alexievitch, a collection of testimonials of people who were children when WW2 began. Some quotes below;

'''A cat! A cat!' Other children saw it and started chasing it. The educators were local habitants, looked at us as if we were insane. In Leningrad there were no living cats left...A living cat was a dream. Food for one month...We talked about it, but they didn't believe us.''

''During the first year of evacuation, we didn't notice nature, everything that was nature provoked in us only one desire - taste to see if it's edible. Only a year later I noticed the beauty of the Urals''

''I dreamt of catching a sparrow and eating it...''

''A candle burns and the shopgirl cuts the bread pieces. People follow her with their gaze. Her every movement...with burning eyes...crazed...and all that in silence.''

''People walked slowly through the city like shadows. Like in a dream...a deep dream...As in, you see it, but you think you're seeing a dream. Those sluggish movements...floating...As if a person walked on water and not on land.''

''In Leningrad there are a lot of monuments, but one is missing that should exist. They forgot about it. The monument to the dogs of the seige. Dear doggy, forgive me...''

I don't like talking about it. It made no sense to draw Famine with a horse.

PESTILENCE

Based on the notes of a doctor who said the most frightening thing about viral disease was how it didn’t frighten. People didn’t know or didn't care. They lived and spread until it was too late and they became another name on the record

The clothing being made out of shredding plastic is no coincidence; pollution is a form of pestilence too

Recommended reading: Notes from a Countryside Doctor - Mikhail Bulgakov. Roughly translated quote below;

''Ah, I verified that here syphilis was frightening precisely because it did not frighten. That was why I evoked that woman.* I remembered her with a kind of affectionate respect: because she had been afraid. But she was the only one!''

*Early in the chapter, doctor mentions a woman that appeared in the clinic with a letter from her soldier husband, where he wrote that he had syphilis and told her she should go to the doctor too.

DEATH

Recommended reading: Voices of Chernobyl - Svetlana Alexievitch. The Death of Ivan Ilitch - Lev Tolstoi

“Death is the fairest thing in the world. No one's ever gotten out of it. The earth takes everyone - the kind, the cruel, the sinners. Aside from that, there's no fairness on earth.”

Death is the only horseman that doesn’t need to mount their horse; they will reach everyone eventually. Who is the saddle for then? Open ended question because this one you have to figure out personally

Many people pointed out how the horse is a Clydesdale. Good eyes! I purposefully asked a friend to guide me towards what type of horses are the sturdiest and most-friendly looking. I drew the horse grazing. It's not injured, it doesn't gallop. It's grazing peacefully because life moves on.

This is the only design that had a painting serve as a base - The Reaper, by Alexey Venetsianov. Not much or nothing at all is written about, I saw it in a book. It is a literal reaper but it haunted me, as if it's portraying more than a person.

The choice to make it a woman was due to a book about a crematory (Smoke Gets in Your Eyes - Caitlin Doughty) that connected women to death because everyone born is bound to die.

Ahhh, I don't want to give it all away. It's fun to figure things out. About them all. From the enviroment, to the movement, to the horses themselves. Many people even mentioned details that I did not notice and didn't add purposefully that were so inspired and amazing. I truly mean that the interpretations of the public enrich the works even more than my own words. And it's an honor to share that work with everyone.

Thank you anon!

[mw00nie]

when you first met producer!suguru, he didn’t even say hi.

he just nodded from behind his massive desk, a lit cigarette resting between his fingers, smoke curling around his cheekbone as he tapped something into the beat sequencer. his black hair was messy in an admirable way, his eyes barely flicked in your direction. if shoko hadn’t walked in behind you and gone ��suguru, this is her,” you would’ve thought he hadn’t noticed you walked into the studio at all.

“you sing?” he asked, voice low, dry. you nodded. he gestured to the mic booth. “go.”

that was it. no warm-up, no icebreaker, no compliments about your viral video that landed you in this basement studio in the first place. he played a loop, some scratchy vinyl sample over a gritty bassline, and let you figure out what to do with it.

you didn’t impress him right away. he didn’t say anything after your first run. or your second. but after the third take, he reached over and stopped the track.

“try again,” he said. “don’t think so hard this time.”

and for some reason, you listened.

***

three months passed like weather. fast. quiet. unpredictable.

you showed up to that studio almost every day. some days you’d write for hours and only get one clean take. other days you’d record nothing at all. he didn’t force anything. if the energy was off, he’d light up, lean back, and scroll through sounds for hours without even looking at you. but you didn’t leave. you stayed. the silence between you started to feel like music too.

he wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either. he was still. unreadable. a little strange. he didn’t say much unless it mattered. didn’t have any other artists coming in. no flashy equipment, no plaques on the walls. just you, him, and whatever beat he built for the day. his instagram had no posts. no stories. just a profile picture of his recording booth with dimmed lights.

you started calling him “ghostface.” he didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch once.

you’d talk more in the later sessions. after midnight. when the windows steamed up and your voice was a little rough from singing too long. he’d ask about your old band, your hometown, the first song you ever wrote. you’d ask him why he didn’t work with anyone else, and he’d shrug and say, “don’t like most people.” he never really answered questions. he just let them float.

you started leaving stuff there. your hoodie, your lip gloss, your charger. he didn’t mention it, but you noticed he moved your things to the little side table by the mic booth. like it was your spot.

he smelled like vetiver and incense. clean but earthy. his hands were always cold. he rarely looked you in the eye unless he was adjusting your mic. and when he did, it felt too loud in your chest to breathe right.

you didn’t know when it started. the tension. maybe it was always there. maybe it was the way he listened when you sang. not just to the notes, but to you. or how sometimes you’d glance at him through the booth glass and find him already watching you.

the first time he touched you, it was an accident. you reached for the same knob. your fingers brushed. and you didn’t move yours away.

neither did he.

***

the night it happened, the track wasn’t even finished.

you were in the booth laying harmonies over a hook he’d built that morning. just a scratch loop, moody keys and that signature dusty drum pattern he always defaulted to when he wasn’t trying too hard. you’d run through the same few lines a dozen times, but it wasn’t clicking. you felt off. exposed. raw.

you pushed open the booth door and leaned against the frame. your tank top clung to your skin, sweat cooling on your lower back. no bra. cotton shorts. the kind of outfit you only wore around him now, like it was your shared little secret.

he was in his usual spot. sockless, cross-legged, his bun loose and falling apart, smoke trailing from the joint between his fingers. he glanced at you over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“something’s off,” you said softly.

“your timing’s behind the snare.”

“that’s not what i mean.”

this time, he turned.

for a few seconds, neither of you moved. the beat kept looping on his screen, the faint hum of it bleeding through the room. he just stared at you, like he’d already heard what you were about to say and was waiting for you to admit it.

so you walked up to him. close. he didn’t lean back, didn’t shift away, just tracked your movements, eyes darker than the room.

you took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out. his fingers twitched when yours brushed them. still, he didn’t say a word.

“what are we doing?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

his voice was lower than yours, almost a rasp. “you tell me.”

you kissed him like you needed to. his hand caught your waist instantly, grounding you. the other slid up the back of your neck, slow, steady, holding you still like he couldn’t risk you leaving.

his mouth was warm. soft, but patient. deliberate. not frantic, not greedy, just present. every movement slow, like he wanted to drag this out. like he’d been imagining it for a while and didn’t want to get it wrong.

you climbed into his lap without even thinking about it. straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. his palms found your thighs, dragging up under your shorts. you felt the heat bloom in your stomach when he gripped your ass through the fabric, pulled you tighter against him.

your tank was pushed up before you even noticed his hands move. he kissed your collarbone first. then the curve of your chest. then your breast, tongue slow, eyes half-lidded, like he was worshipping it. your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your nipple.

“fuck, sugu–”

he exhaled through his nose, like he felt that. his name in your mouth.

you pulled his shirt off, then reached for his jeans. he stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

“booth,” he murmured.

“what?”

“i want you in the booth.” which made sense because it was soundproofed.

he stood and lifted you with him in one motion. didn’t give you a chance to protest. just walked you straight into the recording space and pressed you back into the padded wall. the door clicked shut behind you.

you gasped when he dropped to his knees.

“oh–wait–”

but he’d already hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down, slow, mouth dragging along your thigh as he kissed his way up. your legs trembled a little. he looked up at you, one brow lifted, like he was asking if you’d tell him to stop.

you didn’t.

he licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center.

your hand hit the wall.

“fuck–”

his tongue was slow, purposeful, tracing around your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. two fingers pushed into you without warning. the angle was perfect. his rhythm was maddening. steady, unhurried, like he enjoyed how much it wrecked you.

you came fast. embarrassingly fast. legs twitching, breath catching in your throat, hips grinding against his mouth like you couldn’t help it.

he stood up again, mouth slick, eyes so dark they barely looked brown anymore.

“you okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“yes,” you breathed. “please–”

you tugged at his belt and he let you, but he didn’t rush. undid his fly slow, dragged his boxers down just enough. when he lined himself up, he waited. forehead to yours, hands on your hips.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. and he slid into you in one long, aching push.

your lips parted, breath stuttering. he was thick. deep. your back arched as he bottomed out, the stretch perfect, almost too much. he groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched tight.

“so fucking wet,” he whispered.

you couldn’t respond. just nodded, legs wrapped around his waist, arms hooked around his neck. he started to move. slow at first. then harder. deeper.

your moans filled the space. quiet at first, then louder. helpless.

he kissed you through it. your lips, your jaw, your throat. said your name under his breath like it was something sacred. and when he hit that spot that made you cry out, he kept hitting it. over and over. precise. focused. until you came again, nails dragging down his back.

“oh my god– fuck– don’t stop–”

he didn’t.

he fucked you through it, grunting softly in your ear. you heard him mutter, “good girl,” and you clenched around him so hard he stilled.

“you keep doing that and i’m not gonna last,” he said, breath ragged.

“then come,” you whispered, teeth grazing his shoulder.

he whimpered. actually whimpered.  and drove into you once, twice more before pulling you down hard onto his cock and burying himself with a broken moan. you felt him twitch inside you, his arms tight around your back, his mouth open against your neck.

you stayed like that. tangled, panting, your heartbeat stuttering in your ears.

then he blinked. tilted his head toward the mic. 

“shit.”

you froze. “what?”

he exhaled.

“…still recording.”

you looked up at the red light blinking on the mic. blinking. still on.

your stomach dropped.

“suguru..how long–”

he leaned out, pressed the stop key on the monitor.

00:49:53

“fifty minutes..”

you smacked his arm. “are you serious?!”

he winced, then smirked, lazy and smug. “fifty minutes of pure soul.”

“delete it.”

“nope.”

“i swear–”

he kissed your temple. then your cheek. then your lips.

“we’ll sample it,” he murmured. “cut around the names.”

“you’re insane.”

***

A/N: i almost went insane while writing this and i have absolutely no motivation so idk if this good :<

[babycharmander]

(THE BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS!!)

Thinking about Bill’s appearance at the end of the book…

[ID: BIll when confronting the Axolotl. He is shown in white silhouette, hovering in space, hovering neutrally. Notably, he has a massive crack running through his body, splitting him into multiple pieces, some of which are coming apart. /end ID]

When confronting the Axolotl, Bill is broken. The Axolotl even notes this: "Shattered, broken, not yet dead."

(Which, side note, makes me think Bill might have been lying about having been "kicked out of Hell," if he didn't actually die in Stan's head.)

[ID: Three pictures of Bill in the Theraprism. The first one shows him holding his hand against the side of his head in a dazed expression, sitting in a chair in a white padded room between a wizard with a clock for a face and Saturn (taken directly from the painting Saturn Devouring His Son). The second is a camera recording of him wearing an orange jumpsuit and kneeling in a cell, surrounded by arts and crafts tools, holding a pair of scissors, and beaming his thoughts frantically into a book. The third shows a mugshot of him staring blankly into the camera, his own name written on coded text below him. In all three images, he has a glowing scar where the cracks were, and is in one piece. /end ID]

When he's shown in the Theraprism, we see a glowing, static-y scar where the cracks were. The scar crosses his entire body (and even crosses to the other side of his eye without affecting it!), but he's actually whole, keeping himself together.

But then...

[ID: Two pictures of Bill from the last pages of the book. In the first one he is facing forward and holding up one finger, his eye reddened, his entire form glitching, and his crack is notably worse than prior, cracking through his eye, multiple smaller pieces drifting away. In the second one he is staring blankly at the viewer, his arms hanging limply, his eye wide and blank, the crack worse than the previous image, with more pieces floating away. /end ID]

In the last few pages, we see the scar is gone and the cracks are back, and even more of him is breaking away, including parts of his eye. It's especially bad in the last image, with even more pieces of him breaking away.

Also noteworthy is that the static texture behind him seems to be the same as the blood sample the US government took from him in the 1940s. He's bleeding.

We know from context that these images are meant to be taken somewhat chronologically. After dying (or nearly dying), Bill seeks out the Axolotl, who sends him to the Theraprism. While there, he writes the journal that he's beaming to us. The staff at the Theraprism catch onto this, and allow him to write out the last few pages, meaning those last few pages are chronologically the last of Bill we see.

This means that, after the events of the show, Bill was shattered... and then, upon entering the Theraprism, started to heal, his body coming together and scars forming... but at some point afterward, he started breaking apart again.

I'd made a post previously about Bill's development, how he views himself as a monster after the Euclidian Disaster, and how he continues to act monstrous afterward (and winds up agonizingly lonely as a result). I didn't really touch on this in the post, but I feel like after inadvertently destroying his home dimension...

Bill never left the denial phase of grief.

I could be wrong on this, but I get the feeling that part of his reason for acting monstrous toward just about everybody is because he sees himself as a monster, because "this is just how I am" is easier to accept than "I really really screwed up."

Bringing this back to his shattering... It's interesting to me that after entering the Theraprism, his body is scarring, which means it is healing. But then, at the end, as he's signing off the book, he's shattered again, and looking even worse than he did when talking to the Axolotl. When talking this over with a friend, they pointed out something that struck me:

Bill does not want to heal.

Healing means having to actually think through what happened. It means having to confront his past, confront destroying his home dimension, confront the harm he caused to others, confront the fact that he did not have to be this way.

And he refuses to do that.

He refuses to heal.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: BOSTON'S ENGAGEMENT PROPOSAL * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where, at the Boston show of the Surprise Party Tour, Matt finally reveals his first solo surprise of the tour: proposing to Y/N.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Matt felt like a complete idiot.

Which was honestly fine.

Normal, even.

Because what else are you supposed to feel when you walk into Tiffany & Co alone, camera in one hand, jacket half-zipped, and the literal knowledge in your brain that today’s the day you buy your engagement ring?

The second the glass doors swished shut behind him, he instantly felt underdressed. The place was too clean. Too bright. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet where even your footsteps sound loud, and you’re 90% sure the floor costs more than your car.

"Okay." He muttered, clicking on the small camera in his hand, flipping the screen so he could see himself, waving with his free hand. His messy strands were doing their own thing, and his voice cracked a little. "Hi, uh, so I guess this is happening."

The Tiffany logo glimmered in the reflection behind him, all silver and serious. He turned the lens toward the inside of the store, slowly panning across the display cases that sparkled so hard it hurt to look at them.

Everything was white and silver and pale blue. Velvet chairs. Smooth marble counters. Employees moving around like they were floating, all super polished and weirdly calm, which was the opposite of how he felt.

He found a small table in the center of the room with a modern glass vase on it and propped his camera there using the tiny tripod suction he’d brought.

"I sent an entire email explaining this to the brand and asking for permission to record it. They gave me it. I even brought it printed." He laughed breathlessly, angling the lens to frame the table and the chairs across from it.

Matt sat down and let out a quiet breath, tapping his fingers anxiously on the edge of the table.

He didn’t really know what he was expecting walking in here. Like maybe it would hit him differently, feel more real. But all he felt was this warm weight in his chest and the nonstop loop in his head.

Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up.

A woman appeared after a few moments, dressed in sleek black with a small Tiffany-blue badge on her chest. Her heels clicked quietly as she walked toward him, her smile calm and super professional but not cold.

"Hi there. Matthew, right?" She said warmly.

"Yeah, hey." He stood up awkwardly, then realized she didn’t expect that and just kind of hovered in a weird half-stand before sitting back down.

She smiled kindly.

"I’m Elena. Thank you for coming in today. I've been informed of your plans."

He nodded.

"That's great! Thank you."

Elena let out a soft laugh at how stiff he looked and pulled up a chair across from him.

"Don’t worry. You’re definitely not the first person to come in here with that look on your face. You’re shopping for an engagement ring, yes?"

The words still made his brain stutter. But he nodded.

"Okay, then let's start." She said, already opening a small black folder in front of her.

Matt sat back and rubbed his beard covered jaw. The room felt big. And small. And too real.

"Alright." Elena said, flipping open a tray of sample bands, all lined in rows with tiny cards that probably had words like platinum and cushion cut on them. "Let’s talk about her. What does she like?"

Matt blinked at the rings for a second, overwhelmed by sparkle. Then he focused.

"She actually wears a lot of jewelry." He started, voice calmer now that they were actually talking logistics. "She wears gold more than silver, but like both. And she hates anything super chunky or loud. She's more into the delicate, kinda simple stuff. Like she has these tiny gold hoops she wears almost every day and these little rings that look like... minimalist or whatever."

Elena nodded, already pulling a few bands from the tray and setting them aside.

"This gives us a lot to play with, actually."

"Good." Matt said, nodding. "She also... okay, I don’t know if this helps, but she likes stuff that’s classic but not boring, y’know? She’s not trendy. That sounds kinda corny, but..."

"No, that’s perfect." Elena said, already unlocking another small drawer in the case nearby.

Matt glanced down at all the million options, fingers drumming a quiet beat against the edge as his brain tried to concentrate.

Fuck, he wished his brothers were there.

Chris would’ve made him laugh to calm him down while Nick would’ve asked twenty questions about resale value and the clarity of the stone or whatever.

It was weird doing something this big without them next to him. Like losing your phone and realizing how much you depended on it. He was so used to them being right there in every step.

But not this time.

This was just him.

"Here." Elena said gently, breaking the spiral as she placed a new tray in front of him. "I think we’re getting close."

Matt leaned in, eyes scanning the rings. One stood out immediately.

It was delicate, so thin he almost missed the band entirely. A single oval-cut diamond sat in the middle with six claws holding it in place, no extra flash, no weird shapes, just clean and clear and... her.

He pointed to it, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"That one’s really nice."

Elena smiled like she’d been waiting for him to say that.

"That’s one of our most classic solitaire styles. Platinum band. Oval diamond."

He tilted his head.

"Yeah... she’d actually wear that. Like she’d live in that."

"Exactly." Elena said. "You want something she’ll love now and thirty years from now."

They added a curved matching band that hugged the engagement ring perfectly. It looked like the two rings were designed to never be apart.

Matt stared at them for a second too long.

"Can I- uh... get a second to record this?" He asked, already reaching for his camera and bringing it closer.

He lifted the box gently, showing the rings to the lens and whispering.

"This is the one. I hope you love it."

The big screen flicked for a millisecond before showing the banner with 'SURPRISE' written in big white letters.

The noise was immediate, and it only seemed to increase when the countdown appeared seconds after, huge and bold across the giant screen. The numbers started ticking down from 5, all in that signature grainy style.

The theater echoed with voices. People clutched their phones tighter. Someone behind Y/N whispered a breathless "Oh my god, it has to be Matt", but she didn’t even register it at first, her eyes glued to the screen.

And then, there he was.

Matt.

Standing in front of a camera, looking directly into it while adjusting his tie.

The crowd lost it.

They weren’t even at fault for their reaction. Six shows had passed through, and Matt wasn't the one bringing a solo surprise in none of them.

Matt smiled at the screams. He stood up from the orange couch on the left, where he’d been sitting shoulder to shoulder with Chris, and grabbed his mic.

The crowd didn’t calm down. If anything, they screamed harder, but there was something about his nervous little laugh that softened everything around it.

He walked to the side of the stage, shoes scuffing the dark wood, and turned toward one of the wooden shelves that were part of the set.

"Okay, okay." Matt said into the mic, voice shaking slightly but still him. "I’m gonna need you guys to chill a little, like, just enough for me to hear myself, alright?"

The crowd laughed but actually obeyed. Kind of.

"I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time." He admitted, glancing out at the audience like they were all his best friends and not strangers in a dark room. "And I’ve honestly never been this nervous before."

He paused.

Looked down.

And without needing to search, his eyes dropped straight to the middle seat in the front row.

Y/N.

There she was, sitting all cute and clueless, smiling so big it almost hurt him. She had that gentle sparkle in her eyes that only came out when she was happy in quiet ways.

She had no idea. Not even close. And God, she was going to freak out.

Matt felt his heart full-on trip over itself.

She was wearing the red and black Ralph Lauren jacket he had used on Philadelphia, and her hands were folded over her legs. She was watching him like she was proud just to see him standing there. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And that made it worse.

And better.

And way harder not to cry.

Chris and Nick were now on the left couch, explaining the dynamics of the live broadcast channel and the hint Matt was going to show to the public.

"Matt." Chris called, adjusting his mic. "We’re gonna be here all night if you don’t open that damn shelf."

The crowd cracked up.

Matt rolled his eyes dramatically to the audience, grinning as he turned back toward the cabinet door.

"Okay." He said, laughing through his nose. He reached out, fingers gripping the cool handle. "Let’s see what the hint is."

He pulled it open.

A ring.

Not the ring.

Just a ring.

It was chunky and bold and totally not bridal. Something from Paula, their stylist. Gold with a flat top, engraved with something random that didn’t matter.

Matt grabbed it and shut the cabinet again, turning around. He made his way back to the couch, but instead of sitting down, he stood in front of his brothers and held up the ring for them to see.

Nick leaned forward.

"What is that? A mafia ring?"

Chris squinted.

"Wait, wait- is your surprise a jewelry line? Are you releasing jewelry for Yesterday's Problem now?"

The mention of Matt's mystery brand made a crazy effect over the crowd, who screamed and begged for it to be about Yesterday's Problem.

Matt raised his eyebrows at the youngest.

"No, of course not." He pressed his lips together in a smug kind of way, then looked over his shoulder to the crowd. "Y’all are so off." He laughed under his breath.

Nick sat back with his arms crossed.

"This is too vague."

Matt ignored him. He tucked the fake ring in his jacket right pocket, feeling it clinking against the hidden velvet box, and finally walked over to the opposite couch.

He sat down slowly, smoothing his jeans and adjusting his mic. And for the first time, he looked up, not at the crowd, not at his brothers, but to the grandstand section near the side stage.

He found them instantly.

His parents. Nate. Mikayla. Sam.

All there. All watching.

Their expressions were... hard to read. Focused. Neutral, but expectant. His mom had her hands clasped near her chin, her brows slightly knit. His dad was still.

Matt swallowed. Looked back to the screen.

"Well, let's see what I did."

And then the video started.

It didn’t come with any fanfare or intro, which already made it so different from the slow builds Chris and Nick did for theirs.

"Okay."

Video-Matt’s voice crackled through the speakers, low and kind of nervous. On screen, the camera shook slightly as he clicked on it and flipped the screen to face him. He waved awkwardly with his free hand, his expression caught between a smile and full-on panic.

"Hi, uh, so I guess this is happening."

A wave of laughter rippled across the theater at how awkwardly he opened the video.

On stage, Chris squinted at the screen, tilting his head.

"Wait, where even is he?"

Matt hadn’t said it, but the massive, gleaming Tiffany & Co. logo was reflected behind him in the video - polished silver letters on a blue-tinted wall.

The moment the logo came into focus, Nick let out a confused noise beside Chris, practically leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Is that-"

"Bro, is he in Tiffany’s?" Chris finished, brows furrowed.

Even Y/N blinked in quiet surprise. Her head tilted slightly as she watched Matt on the screen set the camera down on a sleek little table inside the boutique. She’d never seen him even mention Tiffany jewelry. Vivienne Westwood was his thing, silver chains, edgy rings.

But she still smiled wide because he looked nervous as hell.

Matt, onscreen, muttered something about having emailed the brand beforehand to ask for permission to film, even flashing a crumpled printout of the email at the camera.

"I even brought it printed." He chuckled under his breath, clearly trying not to combust from stress as he fixed the frame.

Back on stage, Chris snorted.

"Why does he look like he’s about to commit a crime?"

Nick leaned toward the mic.

"Your surprise is that you stole some expensive jewelry, Matt?"

The crowd laughed again, some people clapping, some just wheezing into their hands.

Y/N was frowning now, eyes glued to the screen. Matt hadn’t looked that nervous since- well, since he asked her to move in with him from Boston to LA years ago.

On screen, Matt sat down at the table, his fingers tapping a beat on the edge like he couldn’t stop moving.

Moments later, a woman walked into frame - sleek black outfit, small Tiffany-blue name tag pinned to her chest.

"Hi there. Matthew, right?" She asked with a kind smile.

Matt stood up too fast and then kind of froze mid-stand like he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. He hovered awkwardly for a moment before sitting back down with a stiff, nervous nod.

Y/N laughed quietly, leaning forward in her seat.

"Oh, baby..." She mumbled, her heart just full.

"I’m Elena." The woman said, settling into the chair across from him. "Thanks for coming in today. I’ve been informed of your plans."

On the couch, Nick let out a quiet, "What plans?"

Chris nudged him but was just as confused.

"That’s great! Thank you." Matt said in the video, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Elena smiled, clearly used to this kind of energy.

"Don’t worry. You’re definitely not the first person to come in here with that look on your face. You’re shopping for an engagement ring, yes?"

The theater went silent.

Chris blinked.

Nick sat all the way back into the couch like the air had been punched out of him.

The crowd gasped.

And Y/N... Y/N froze entirely.

Her jaw went slack. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, twitched.

Did she hear that right?

Chris was the first to react.

"Wait- WHAT?" He half-shouted into his mic.

Nick was still staring at the screen, eyebrows drawn so hard together that they were practically touching.

"She just said- she said engagement- he- what?"

The audience exploded in a mix of laughter, shocked screams, and collective gasping.

Y/N covered her mouth, eyes glued to the screen, heart pounding in her chest so loud it drowned everything else out.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t breathe.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the boy on the screen, the boy she’d loved quietly, gently, patiently, for what felt like forever, who was sitting inside Tiffany & Co., looking like he was going to throw up from nerves, and apparently about to buy a ring.

For her.

Matt had been planning this.

He had planned this entire thing.

"Oh my god." She whispered behind her hand, her voice shaking with shock and joy and every emotion crashing together in her chest.

Chris turned slowly to look at her from the stage, his mouth slightly open like he was seeing the twist in a movie.

"You knew about this?" He asked, pointing to the screen.

Y/N shook her head so fast it almost made her dizzy.

"How could I know this, Chris?!" She squeaked, the words barely coming out.

Nick blinked rapidly, rubbing his forehead.

"Chris, a wedding propose is supposed to be a secret to the one being proposed."

But Chris still hadn’t recovered.

"A ring, dude. Like... for real. We’re on stage, and he’s proposing?"

Y/N sat back slowly, staring up at the screen like it was made of stars. Her lips trembled, not from sadness or fear or anything close to hesitation, but just from the way her entire soul felt like it was floating.

This wasn’t just a surprise.

This was Matt.

Her Matt.

And somehow, he’d managed to turn an ordinary night into the most extraordinary moment of her life.

The video continued playing, but no one really moved.

The entire theater was still.

Hearts pounding.

Eyes wide.

Waiting for the big moment.

The last frame of the surprise video froze on the big screen, the tiny velvet box open in Matt’s hand, his voice low and trembling, whispering like a private secret.

"This is the one. I hope you love it."

And then... nothing. The screen went black.

For a second - two, maybe three - the entire venue was suspended in absolute silence. No screams, no gasps, no whispers. Just air. Thick and vibrating with a kind of collective disbelief that made everything feel just a little unreal, like the world had glitched and was still buffering.

Then someone - probably a fan in the front row - gasped out loud.

And the silence cracked.

A mix of choked sobs, happy cries, shocked laughter, and chaotic squeals broke like a wave through the audience.

Mary Lou covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide and glossy. Mikayla had literal tears streaming down her cheeks, clutching the side of Nate's hoodie. Even the tour crew was caught off guard, one of the lighting guys had his jaw dropped like he was about to cry.

Nick blinked rapidly and turned toward Chris, totally stunned.

And then there was Y/N.

She was still seated, her mouth parted just slightly, her eyes wide and blinking slow, like she was trying to make sense of gravity again. Her entire body felt... floaty. Like she wasn’t quite in the room anymore. Like she was watching someone else live her life and was just now realizing that someone else was... her.

Her heart was pounding in her ears, and her hands felt cold and sweaty at the same time. She couldn’t move. She didn’t even breathe.

And then Matt stood up.

Still on stage, in front of the giant screen, with tears in his eyes and his heart practically written all over his face.

He looked at her.

Just her.

And the noise around them blurred into something distant and unimportant. He brought the mic up to his lips, eyes momentarily running from hers.

"Can- uh, can one of you help her up here?" He asked, nodding toward the security guard on the right side of the stage, voice trembling through the speakers.

The crowd seemed to become louder.

Screams. Cries. People clapping and jumping. Y/N could barely process the guard gently approaching her, a soft smile on his face, as he reached out a hand.

She blinked at him.

Then blinked again.

"Come on, sweetheart." Matt said into the mic, his voice cracking. His smile was soft and a little wobbly. "It’s okay."

That’s when her legs finally moved. Barely. But they moved.

The crowd cheered louder as she slowly stood up, holding her shaky hands to her chest, fingers scratching against the glitter of her shirt - the same one that Nick was using.

She followed the security guard to the edge of the stage, the warm lights making everything feel more surreal, more floaty. Like a fever dream she didn’t want to wake up from.

And then, she was there.

Up on stage.

Everything around her was blurry except for him.

Matt. Matt. Matt. Matt. Matt. Matt.

Standing there, eyes glassy, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. He looked like he was holding back a loud cry.

"Come here, angel." He said again, softer this time. Just for her.

She walked toward him slowly. Feet barely touching the stage, everything trembling. The lights, the crowd, the sound, it all disappeared as she reached him and stopped a foot away.

His voice was shaking. His hands were shaking. But when he looked at her, it was solid. Sure. Like there was nothing else he believed in more than her.

"Okay." Matt started, laughing nervously and brushing his fingers under his eye. "Uhm... wow. Okay. So... I had this whole thing in my head. Like, how I was gonna say it. But now I’m just... losing it."

She let out a teary laugh. So did the crowd.

Matt looked down for a second, then back up, voice steadier this time.

"I love you." He said first, like he had to just get that out before anything else. "I love you so much."

Y/N let out a shaky breath. Her hands came up to her mouth, eyes already overflowing.

"You’ve been with me through everything. Everything, Y/N. When I was nobody. When we were filming in our parents' kitchen and only getting a hundred views. When I had zero dollars to my name. When I moved to LA with my brothers and literally lived on hope. You were there."

He sniffled.

"You’ve always been there."

Her whole body was trembling now. She could barely stand straight.

Matt stepped a little closer, reaching out with one shaky hand to hold hers, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I’m not good with words. You know that." He said, voice wobbling but warm. "But you- you’re everything to me. You’re the reason I’m even here. Not just like, here here." He gestured around at the stage. "But like- here."

Her lips quivered as she sobbed softly, squeezing his hand.

"I wake up every day, and I can’t believe I get to love you. That you love me back. That I get to see you reading on the couch or ranting about your series or dancing while you brush your teeth. You’re the best part of my day, every day." Another laugh cracked in his throat, wet and breathless. "I brought your perfume with me to Vegas so my shirts smelled like you. That’s where I’m at. That’s how far gone I am."

Y/N let out a choked laugh through her tears, wiping at her eyes, her fingertips coming out black with mascara. Matt laughed too, even as a tear rolled down his cheek.

And then he reached into the right pocket of his jacket.

The room seemed to still again.

He pulled out the small velvet box. Hands trembling.

She bit her lip. A hand flew to her chest.

And then Matt was getting down.

On one knee.

His knee hit the stage softly. He opened the box again, showing two beautiful rings sparkling under the lights, and tried to hold it up while still holding the mic. But his hands were too full.

Chris was already moving before Matt could even think of asking for help. He ran up to them, gently taking Matt’s mic right out of his hand, and held it up close to Matt’s mouth for him.

Matt looked up at his brother, breathless and laughing softly through the emotion.

"Thanks." He whispered, voice cracking.

Chris just smiled his widest smile, his eyes shining with tears, and nodded.

Matt turned back to Y/N, holding up the box in his shaking hands.

"Y/N." He said. "Please, allow me to spend the rest of my life by your side. Will you marry me?"

And it was like the world held its breath.

All she could do was nod at first, crying and covering her face. Then she laughed through her tears and choked out.

"Yes. Yes. Oh my god- yes!"

The crowd exploded. Screams. Cries. Phones held high. Some people literally jumped. Nick tackled Chris in a hug. Their mom sobbed against Jimmy.

Matt stood up and pulled her into his arms so fast the empty box slipped, and they both stumbled a bit, laughing and crying and shaking.

And when he kissed her, right there in front of everyone, it wasn’t polished or pretty. It was messy. And emotional. And real.

"I love you so much." He whispered in her ear.

And she whispered back.

"I can’t believe you’re mine."

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other.

Two people on a stage. In front of thousands.

"The 'getting down on one knee' thing was successfully approved, Matt." Nick's voice echoed around the room from the speakers before two more bodies collapsed around them, holding them close.

They were the only ones in the world.

© vanteguccir

[kbwrites]

Found Family

synopsis: Yuji was so seamlessly integrated into your lives, a ball of sunshine in your normally quiet life. How will he react to the news that you're expecting?

⚝content: Nanami x f! reader, Yuji being your adopted son basically, a tiny bit of angst, mostly fluff, found family.

⚝wc: 1.5k

The Nanami household was usually quiet, and peaceful. Light jazz music filled the rooms, the soft notes from the record player gently floated through the air. Every detail in the house had been carefully considered, a home where Kento hoped they could build a life filled with love and serenity.

The serenity, however, was often interrupted by his pink-haired cohort.

“Seconds please (Y/N)!” Yuji beamed holding up a clean plate with a wide grin.

Kento, seated at the table with his usual composed expression, felt a warmth in his chest as we watched his dear wife and Yuji. He secretly cherished these moments, finding comfort in the young man’s lively presence. The way his laughter filled the room, the way his energy brought a spark of joy to the quiet corners—it all made Kento realize just how much he had come to love having Yuji around.

“Itadori, you’ll get sick if you eat so fast.” Kento scolds gently, earning a pout from the high schooler. You can only smile apologetically as your husband maintains his serious demeanor.

“Kento…” You chide. “Yuji’s a growing boy, he needs to eat~” You wink at Yuji as he digs into his second helping.

You were always so quick to defend the younger boy from your husband. And although it would earn a disapproving sigh, Kento couldn’t help but adore you more for it. The way you cared for Yuji as if he were you own. This was the life he had always hoped for—a beautiful home…you. It was an unspeakable joy that made every day worth living.

And the best part? The little family you had built was about to get a bit bigger.

You glance over at your husband, wondering if you should be the one to break the news to Yuji. He returns your gaze with a small smile before clearing his throat.

“Yuji,” Kento began, his voice steady. “We have… something to tell you.”

Yuji looked up from his plate, his mouth full but curiosity shining in his eyes. You reached for Kento’s hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze as you shared a tender smile. The moment felt perfect, filled with the quiet anticipation of the next chapter of your lives—one that would bring even more joy and love into your growing family.

You took a deep breath, stilling your nerves. Yuji would be the first one outside of yourselves to find out.

“Yuji… I’m… we’re–”

“Pregnant.” You finish, the proverbial weight being lifted off your shoulders. You take in a breath as you look at Yuji, waiting for him to process the information.

He swallows, gaze flicking between you and Kento. He uncharacteristically… quiet. You could see the wheels turning, his mouth slightly agape.

Kento’s brow furrowed slightly, unsure of how to interpret the silence. He had expected Yuji to be excited—overjoyed. Jumping up immediately and grabbing you into a tight hug, at which point Kento would scold him again, reiterating that he would need to “Be more gentle… (Y/N) is pregnant.” He exchanged a concerned glance with you, searching for some understanding.

Yuji cleared his throat, voice softer than usual. “That’s..” He takes a breath, flashing his signature smile, however it didn’t quite reach his eyes as it normally did. “Amazing. I’m…really happy for you guys!”

You reach out, offering a comforting smile. “We wanted you to be the first to know.” 

The dinner continued, but the lively atmosphere had dimmed. The excitement that had filled the room was now replaced by a more subdued mood. Yuji picked at his food, his usual quips and jokes conspicuously absent. The lively energy that normally accompanied his presence was replaced by a contemplative silence.

Kento cleared his throat after a few moments, trying to shift the focus and bring some warmth back to the table. “Do you have any plans for the weekend? Maybe we could all do something together.”

The pink-haired teen looked up, blinking as he found himself again in his lost thoughts. “I think I’ll be busy with training.” He replies, not quite making eye contact with either of you.

You spoke up, intent on breaking through the walls. “You’ll be staying over tonight though?” 

Kento had bought a house with four bedrooms, partially because he wanted to be prepared for any children you’d agree to give him. But also because he was tired of Yuji sleeping on the couch when he visited your old place. He was given a room, furnished with some of his essentials. Kento made it very clear that Yuji always had a place there.

But instead of the usual eagerness to sleepover—he hesitates.

“I’m not sure–”

“Yuji. It’s late. Just stay here.” His voice soft but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You leave the bathroom, rubbing the last bit of cream into your skin. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the room as you saw Kento sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thought.

“Something on your mind honey?” You question taking a seat next to him, already knowing the answer.

Kento looked up, his honey-brown eyes reflected in the gentle light of the lamp. “Yuji didn’t seem… happy about the news tonight.” 

You reached out to your husband, placing a hand on his knee “He was probably just caught off guard Ken. It’s a big change, give him some time.”

He sighed, fingers absentmindedly brushing against yours. “I thought he’d be excited. I thought—”

You leaned closer, resting your head on his broad shoulder. Kento wrapped an arm around you, pulling you to him. The warmth of his embrace filling you with a silent reassurance. He glances down at you.

“Dear… could you…” His voice trailed off, a subtle hint of hesitation in his words. You already knew what he was going to ask. After all, Kento’s bedside manner wasn’t exactly what made you fall for him. You just nod at him, before standing up and leaving the room.

Knock Knock.

You wait outside Yuji’s room before you hear him say “Come in.” 

You pushed the door open slowly, taking in the space. It was so uniquely Yuji, posters of his favorite actresses (that Kento would most definitely disapprove of). Beside them, a few shelves were crammed with manga volumes and action figures, the game console he loved to play with game discs littering the floor by the TV. And right by his bed, a picture of the three of you on vacation last year. Taken right after you both pushed Kento into the pool. It was his room. Without a doubt.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his posture slumped, gaze fixed on the floor. You approached him, sitting down on the bed. He looked up, his eyes reflecting unease and weariness.

“Hey, Yuji.” Your voice as soft as a feather. “Can we talk?”

“(Y/N). It’s not that I’m not happy for you and Nanamin. It's just—” He takes a shaky breath. Your gaze softens, waiting patiently as he tries to find the words to express his feelings.

“It’s just,” his voice breaking slightly. “I… love it here. You and Nanamin are like my family. And now you’ll have a kid. A real kid. I’m just worried I won’t have a place here anymore...”

The vulnerability in his words was palpable, the pink-haired teen looked down again, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of his blanket. He took a deep breath, you take one too. 

You gently squeezed his shoulder and stood up, motioning for him to stay put. You left the room briefly, walking down the hallway to where Kento had left the bedroom to wait. He looked up as you approached, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. You took his hand, leading him to the room.

As you entered, you guided Kento to stand beside Yuji. Yuji looked up at him with a mixture of apprehension. The older male took a deep breath, his usual composed demeanor much softer.

“Yuji. You will Always have a place here.”

Yuji’s head snapped up, surprise evident in his eyes. 

“I know that and I—”

“No. You will always have a place here because you are family.”

The room seemed to exhale collectively, the tension lifting as Yuji’s eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and relief.

“(Y/N) is going to need all of our help, our baby will need all of our help. We need you Yuji. Our family wouldn't be complete without you.” Kento’s hand reaches out, resting on Yuji’s shoulder. 

Yuji’s eyes glistened as the reality of Kento’s words sank in. The years of feeling like an outsider, of worrying about his place in the world. Finally finding his family. Without a word, he stands up drawing you both into a tight embrace.

“Thank you… (Y/N). Nanamin. I’ll be the best big brother ever, or uncle? I’m not sure but I’m here. Whatever you need.”

In that embrace, the uncertainty began to melt away, replaced by a deep sense of belonging and love. The family you were building together, with all its changes and challenges, felt more united than ever.

[urstruly-ghst]

peek-a-boo ! - dorm leaders

in which you like hiding in the most random places and surprising them

authors note: like they're gonna be so mad but ykw they love u

ALSO OMG 1K FOLLOWERS ??!! ty everyoneee <3!

riddle rosehearts

you're lucky, riddle notes, he is used to these antics from che'nya. he was so blessed to know those tactics, because riddle wouldn't know what to do if he was unprepared of this situation: you were hanging upside down because you hid on top of his closet!

smiling and humming happily, you edge close to the very end of the closet door; as if you're taunting him.

"heyyy riddle!"

"you get down this instant and be careful!" riddle said mortified as he started pulling his pillows and duvets to the ground to cushion your fall. you jumped and riddle yelled and used his magic to make you float.

"my rose..." he said with a glare as his heart thumped hard against his chest. "never do that again."

leona kingscholar

herbivore is what he calls you, however he feels like that calling you "kitten" is now appropriate. you act like some juvenile kitten who just saw the world. though, leona isn't keen on that behaviour.

leona is on the verge of assigning ruggie to you now, with how your conquest to fright him with the many times you put yourself in places you shouldn't be in. for example, the dorm's tall trees.

"herbivore!" leona growled as his heart sank when he heard from ruggie you disappeared somewhere in the dorm. you whistle and shake a bit to signal to leona you were up on the tree.

"hey, kingscholar!" you said smugly as you lounged atop the tree. leona felt scared and irritated, why must you make things difficult before he has to nap or practice? he struck the tree and made into sand before catching you, his grunt and your wide eyed stare was enough to send the dorm into a frenzy.

"you are not leaving my side, understood?" leona said as he wrapped his tail around you.

azul ashengrotto

azul is still trying to get used to how legs work and being in high up places. so why must you torture him and hide in the most inconvenient of places? the most outrageous was his laundry basket, which mind you, now smells like you! (not that he minds, but still!)

he's trying to find you in the vast dorm room, azul curses his extensive dorm sometimes when it came to how you hide. azul thinks that floyd is also helping you, which is worse, now he has to deal with double the trouble.

"beryl...? come on out, we have plans remember?" azul calls out a bit wary and frustrated that it was dead silent and you may have been hiding for too long. oh, sevens, you may be hungry!

"boo." you say as you grab onto his ankles, azul shrieked and fell. his legs failing him, you giggle as you crawl out of the bottom of some floor board? azul glared as he recovered composure.

"we're making a new deal." azul says as he readies himself to make a contract with one new rule: stop sneaking up on him.

kalim al asim

it wasn't kalim's problem to find you, jamil or someone else does. it infuriates jamil that kalim joins in on your little escapades. sometimes you make it a contest to see if one can hide longer.

though, kalim does get scared sometimes. you learned some tricks from him too, and it is a disadvantage to him especially when you disappear for too long. for example, right now, you're nowhere to be seen and his spacious dorm makes the search even more difficult.

"sunshine? sunshineee?" kalim echoes in the hallway, jamil also on a search for you on the other end of the dorm. it was fun at first but it was concerning and record-breaking. kalim turned a corner and a plant grabbed onto him. kalim nearly flooded the plant until he realized it was you.

"easyy, baby!" you say as he almost sent a flood your way. kalim sighed in relief, and smiled brightly because you now were found!

"yeah, well... you know how i am with being alone!" kalim giggled nervously, as if to remind you of his status and what that entails. you nodded and said "oh" with the realization. lesson learned i guess?

vil schoenheit

you're lovable, vil would say, as his patience thin at the prospect of you disappearing. usually, it was easy to find you. predictable is what vil calls your hiding skills. also, rook hunt happily indulges in the request of finding you (unfair with his unique magic.)

today, however, vil was on his own trying to find you in the dorm. he was an expert at the little nooks and crannies of the dorm. however he was bested because you dropped by, literally, in front of him effectively startling him.

"kya!" vil said as he brought out his wand ready to attack. you smile as you brush yourself off, falling from the chandelier. he sputtered before glaring. vil checked your vitals and tried to see if any injury was there.

"hiya sweetie!" you chirped and vil clicks his tongue as he carefully inspected you. once he's done, he flicks your forehead with a glare.

"don't 'sweetie' me, potato. you could've been hurt. now, come. we are overdue for a good scolding and pampering" vil said with a glare as if he is making note of a new potion to stop your hiding tendency.

idia shroud

frankly, idia thinks you're insane. he even straight up considers bringing you to a facility to check up on your mental capacity. why? who hides in a room filled with computers with no jacket? do you know how cold those rooms are? idia and ortho found you smiling as you hid in some closet box where the power supply is.

and trust, idia keeps you under lock and key after that. but you had your ways, you'd hide under the desk, the bed. behind his clothes, anything. it came to the point idia made a software called, "find prefect."

"oh geez. ortho boot up find prefect" idia said as he saw how you're not in his room again. idia was jittery knowing that you'd bribe ortho into not revealing where you are for a prank, which ortho seems to love lately.

as ortho boots up, it takes a while, you surprise him by covering his eyes. a loud shriek occurred as the lights turned off too. idia burns up and ortho giggled as he finally finished booting up

"prefect is 4 centimeters away from your location!"

malleus draconia

how adorable, malleus says, as you try to hide from his careful eye. he's quite used to lilia and his hiding skills, so you can't hide no matter how hard you try. yet, malleus entertains this folly and pretends to be shocked whenever you try to spook him.

though, malleus gets concerned by how you take risks in hiding at the most obsecure of places. his personal fright was you hiding by the moat because it was the least expected. as malleus dries you up, he shakes his head and gently scolds you.

"you have to admit, the moat is a good place to hide" you chide as malleus uses his magic to lift you away from the moat. you drip from being sprung from the water and shiver at the wind.

"it is quite the unexpected turn. but i'd rather have my dear child of man safe and dry." malleus scolds as he dries you up and pinches your cheek to scold you.

"ahh fine" you surrender, knowing you really can't fight his logic, you were starting to cramp up from trying to stay afloat.

[flamingpudding]

Little Snippets #6

(A/N: Vote winner so I did my best to finish this)

"Screw it, i am done..." Danny grumbled as he stepped onto the watchtower through a portal, ignoring the startled heroes around him, or his own rather disheveled state. His green glowing eyes surveyed the room he was in for a brief moment before his eyes zeroed in on the one hero that caused to much work for him.

"YOU!" He pointed an accusing finger at the red clad hero before floating over and grabbing the hero by the front of his hero suit. "Do you have any idea how much work you cause me!"

Danny got one confused blink before he launched into a rather thorough explanation of what he just went through fixing 20 different timelines that got created because of one flashpoint while shaking the Flash like he was a ragdoll, ignoring the other heroes around him.

Clark, who arrived a little late to the meeting, looked around the meeting room confused. He glanced to the side to one of his hero colleagues. "Is there....?"

"A white haired floating teen boy giving Barry the lecture of a lifetime?" Oliver cut in arms crossed as he watched on. "Yes, there is."

Clark blinked, looking back at the scene and then back at Oliver. "And..."

"And Bruce is actually taking notes and enjoying Barry getting lectured to an inch of his speedster life while also getting information on time itself? Yes he is." Oliver added an, his tone slightly frustrated but also happy that he wasn't at the receiving end of the teen boy's rant. The kid had been going on about different time lines and the multiverse theory as well as how Barry apparently created several different timelines any time a new flashpoint happened or the past gets seemingly changed. Oliver wasn't even sure the kid was breathing with the way he had been talking non stop.

"And for the record! Changing the past does not automatically fix your present! You just created an entirely new timeline! Do you know how many times I had to fix these? You left so many unattended timelines! I would be rich now if I had gotten a dollar for every time I or my siblings had to fix the stuff you did! Did you ever hear about the multiverse theory?! Hell you are heroes! Didn't you deal with other universes already!?"

The kid rambled on and Clark was pretty sure he wasn't hearing the kid breath in once, which was worrying in so many different levels. But a little traitor part of his mind was actually finding the situation quiet funny.

"Oh and don't get me started on your spawns!" Clark winced a little as he heard the floating boy breath in for the first time in his entire rant before launching into another rant about how it wasn't just Barry but his entire family. Next to him Oliver chucked finding the moment simply funny end enjoying the show of Barry, aka the Flash getting lectured by a floating teen boy.

Though they partially wondered why Bruce wasn't stepping in but then again, the kids rant was... rather informative if he wasn't cursing at Barry's entire family.

A little earlier that day...

Danny groaned as a green note fluttered onto his desk in the middle of his English exam. His head hit the desk and he was sure he was creating some sort of misunderstanding and appearing like he didn't study enough for this exam. Which for once he did, he actually had managed to get time to study for this exam for once. And that despite all the work that had been piling up lately.

The fun fact was that work didn't pile up because of some ghost king title or something, or his rogues dogpiling on him. No it piled up because of a hero organisation outside of Amity. Now don't get him wrong, he admires these heroes. The ones from outer space are his favorites even. But unknown to them they caused im a lot of work ever since clockwork started to mentor him.

Danny glanced at his English exam and then at the note before his head hit the desk again.

Just one day... was one day to much to ask?

He blames whatever hero was at fault this time as he couldn't concentrate on is exam anymore. He barely remembers finishing it as he hurried out of the classroom, forgetting to give Sam and Tucker an explanation as he went ghost and hurried of to the ghost zone. Danny's eye twitch a little when he noticed Clockworks amused expression.

"What is it this time?" Danny groaned already knowing he wouldn't like what he was going to hear.

"Another flashpoint was created. You know what this means." Clockwork chucked handing him a time medallion and Danny groaned even more.

"Can't Dan or Dani..." He started but Clockwork cut him off with an amused headshake. "No, they are currently busy with another job I gave them."

Reluctantly Danny nodded and stepped through the time portal. While he knew, he would actually only be gone for a minute at most in the present, it still annoyed him that he had to constantly fix time. And most of the time it was because of one specific hero at that. He was not looking forward on how many different timelines he had to fix right now now. this was going to take a while too. Even if only maybe a minute will pass in his timeline.

He still had bruises from the last 20 timelines he fixed. And in all honesty he was getting tired of this kid of work, he was partially sure Clockwork was him now, so he wouldn't have to do this himself. Or the ancient of time was getting a kick out of watching Danny fumble while fixing other timelines.

He yelped as he dodged velocraptors right after coming out of the time portal. "SERIOUSLY?! THE MESOZOIC ERA THIS TIME TOO?! WHAT AM I EVEN SUPOSED TO FIX HERE?!" He yelled at nothing in particular. That was it, this time, this time he decided he would finally go and pay these heroes a visit and make them aware how much work they had been causing him...

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: ive been into love and deepspace recently, so here ya go hehe

wc: 4,870

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

You took the job because you needed a way out.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even particularly well-paid. But the offer came with minimal paperwork, restricted clearance, and one very clear instruction: ask no questions.

So you accepted.

The facility—remote, underground, heavily secured—was the kind of place not listed on maps. It didn’t exist according to the public record, and yet it buzzed with life: researchers, guards, engineers, medics. They all moved with the quiet, tense urgency of people doing work that couldn’t be acknowledged outside these walls.

Your first day was a blur of orientation. Non-disclosure clauses, retinal scans, and procedural briefings stacked with redacted pages. You caught glimpses of terms like “specimen,” “cognitive divergence,” “aquatic containment.”

No one told you what exactly was inside Lab C. Just that you’d be assisting with long-term observation. You assumed it would be another mutated marine species pulled up from some trench, something grotesque and territorial. Maybe even dangerous.

But the truth was stranger.

When they finally led you through the corridors and into the observation chamber, you expected cold steel and sharp smells.

Instead, the room was quiet. Dim. The tank was massive—more an aquarium than a cell—bathed in low light that shimmered across the walls like waves. The water inside was dark, cold, impossibly deep. You stepped forward, clutching your tablet, already preparing to log oxygen levels and salinity.

That was when you saw him.

Not a specimen.

Not a subject.

Something else.

Your breath caught before you even registered why.

And just like that, the job you took to escape your life became the one thing you couldn’t walk away from.

You didn’t know it then, but that first glance would mark the start of something irreversible. Something that would pull you under, inch by inch, breath by breath.

The moment you saw him, your surroundings blurred into static. The beeping monitors, murmuring technicians, even the weight of your data tablet—all of it fell away.

Inside the isolation tank, a living impossibility drifted in manufactured saltwater. Designed to emulate the hadal zone, the deepest part of the ocean, the containment system glowed softly under rows of harsh overhead lighting. The glass was nearly ten inches thick.

He floated at the bottom, not quite asleep but clearly subdued. His body was serpentine, a long and powerful tail coiled beneath him like an anchor. Its surface shimmered with deep cobalt and streaks of pearlescent silver, every movement creating subtle waves of reflected light. Even now, in apparent stillness, he seemed to shift with the current, his tail flicking faintly like a ribbon suspended in water.

The upper half of his body resembled a human form—broad shoulders, strong arms—but with a sleekness and symmetry that felt engineered rather than natural. It was hard not to stare. Harder still to assign him the term specimen, as though he were just another data point.

His face was unnerving in its beauty. Too elegant. Too calm. Dark purple hair floated around his head, surrounding him like a halo. Thin, branching scars ran near the gills along his neck—signs of struggle? Or surgery? You couldn’t tell. Around his wrists were red rings where restraints had dug in, proof that something here had gone very wrong before it got quiet.

You took one step closer to the glass.

His eyes opened.

Bright blue, slit-pupiled, and utterly alien, they fixed on yours with uncanny stillness. Not vague awareness—recognition. As if you were something known. Something expected.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Dr. Havers spoke behind you.

“Sedated but semi-lucid,” he muttered. “You’ll get used to it.”

You doubted that.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Your formal role changed within forty-eight hours. A sudden shift, approved without ceremony. You were now responsible for the nocturnal observation cycle—Lab C, 2300 to 0400. Solo rotation. Minimal contact. Maximum discretion.

It wasn’t framed as special. If anything, it felt procedural. But there was an unspoken reason behind it. He responded to you—consistently, uniquely, and visibly. While other personnel were met with either silence or aggression, your presence generated stability. Lowered agitation. Reduced biomarker volatility.

“You’re not a risk variable,” Havers said, handing you a new clearance badge. “He recognizes that. Use it.”

That first night on shift, you sat alone behind the curved monitor console, tank lights dimmed to deep ocean blue. The lab echoed with the soft churn of water filters and the occasional mechanical click of the oxygen injectors. You opened a new file. Began a log.

SESSION 01 2303 HRS — Subject floats near lower quadrant. Motion minimal. Eyes open, tracking. 2317 HRS — Approaches glass at station-facing side. Remains within one meter. 0010 HRS — Mimics observer posture. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Intentional or coincidental?

The entries became more granular with each passing hour. You logged pupil dilation, fin twitching, shoulder alignment. The angle of his fingers against the glass. The way he followed the rhythm of your breathing when you leaned forward. Occasionally, he'd trace your silhouette on the other side of the glass, following your hand movements with uncanny precision.

He blinked less often when watching you, and more when others entered the lab—a strange, deliberate contrast. He began to tap his claws rhythmically against the tank wall when you wrote, a pattern that shifted in tempo depending on your pace. When you stood up, he rose. When you sat, he settled. A mirror, distorted by water and light, but growing clearer by the day.

By your third shift, the notes had started to blur.

SESSION 03 2248 HRS — Subject at station wall prior to entry. Appears to anticipate schedule. 2350 HRS — Subject mirrors tablet tapping. When observer writes, subject responds with claw motions against tank interior. 0104 HRS — Sustained eye contact. Three full minutes. Observer initiated break. Subject remained locked in gaze.

You began categorizing his behaviors under new terms. Not hostile. Not adaptive. Instead: intentional. Self-directed. Curious.

And eventually: fixated.

There was a pattern now, undeniable and precise. Every time you entered the room, he was already waiting. Every time you left, he followed your departure with slow, measured turns around the glass, as though mapping your absence.

Your notes became less technical. More observational. And then, more personal.

You started writing things you didn’t submit to the shared logs. Quiet questions scrawled in the margins of your private notebook.

Why only me? How much does he understand? Is this intelligence, or attention? Or is it something else?

You didn’t know the answers. Not yet.

But you couldn’t stop asking.

You hadn’t planned to speak to him. You weren’t even sure he could comprehend language.

But on the sixth night, everything was too quiet. The hum of the facility, the subdued flicker of the monitors—it all pressed in like static. You were tired. Frustrated. Your head rested on your folded arms, your mind drifting.

“I hate this place,” you muttered.

The water stirred.

Your eyes shot up. He was near the glass. Closer than before. His hands hovered just beneath the surface, claws relaxed. He tilted his head, as if listening.

Then he repeated it.

“I… hate… this… place.”

His voice was strange—raspy, resonant, shaped by a throat unused to speech. But he’d matched your cadence. Your tone. Even the way you’d slurred the words.

You stood.

“You understood that?”

He moved his mouth again. Slower. Testing the rhythm of speech.

“You… are… different.”

The room felt suddenly warmer. Or maybe colder.

Maybe both.

From that night on, your interactions became more complex.

Every time you entered, he was already waiting. You’d sit. He’d drift toward the glass, his body weaving gently behind him, as if pulled by invisible threads.

He began to mimic you in increasingly specific ways. When you tapped on your tablet, he tapped the tank wall. When you shifted in your seat, he mirrored the motion, down to the tilt of your head.

Researchers noticed. They logged it as proof of successful imprinting.

But you knew the difference between mimicry and obsession.

There was an intensity in his gaze that couldn't be dismissed. It was full of purpose. Of attention. He was learning you—not just your behaviors, but your moods. Your microexpressions. He watched your fingers when they trembled. He watched your lips when you breathed.

You tried to maintain boundaries.

But then the dreams started.

The dreams began as fragments.

At first, they were flashes—flashes of cold, of water creeping into your lungs, of sound that wasn’t quite voice but still carried meaning. Pressure without pain. Depth without fear.

Then they became immersive.

You were no longer watching from behind glass. You were inside the tank—or somewhere like it. A vast ocean with no surface and no floor. Everything shimmered in gradients of blue and black, lit by pulses of distant light. You were floating, suspended, and something was circling you.

You felt it before you saw him.

His presence. Electric. Intentional. Like gravity made flesh.

In the dream, Rafayel didn’t speak with words. He moved closer with the slowness of a creature that knew time was irrelevant. His fingers brushed your shoulder, your wrist, your waist—not with heat but with a chill so profound it burned.

You were never afraid.

Sometimes he held you. Other times, he watched you from below, his eyes glowing brighter than the deep. Always silent. Always there.

And always, just before waking, he would place his hand against your chest and say:

You belong here.

You’d wake gasping. Covered in sweat. The room dry, your lungs aching with the ghost of imagined water. And you’d feel it: a residual pulse. As if part of you hadn’t returned.

It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when the emergency alarms shattered the stillness.

You were off-shift. Sleeping. Or trying to. The facility-issued cot in your quarters was thin, the recycled air too dry. But exhaustion didn’t matter—because when the klaxon blared and the lights above your bed pulsed red, your heart dropped into your stomach.

Containment breach — Lab C.

You didn’t stop to think. You didn’t change. You threw on your coat over your sleep shirt and sprinted barefoot through the corridors, barely registering the startled faces of guards and technicians scrambling toward lockdown protocols.

When you reached the lab, the glass was already webbed with cracks.

Inside, the tank churned like a storm-tossed sea. Rafayel was in full fury—no longer the silent, observant being from your shifts. He was something else now. Magnificent and terrifying. His tail whipped with bone-cracking force, slamming the reinforced walls, again and again. The steel supports groaned. Water frothed with foam and light. Machinery sparked along the edges. A lab tech screamed as a panel exploded.

Two guards aimed stun-rods at the tank. “We have to subdue him—!”

“No—!” You pushed past them, breathless. “Let me try first!”

They hesitated—just long enough.

You stepped into the observation chamber, doors sealing behind you. A protective barrier of glass separated you from the tank, but it felt far too thin. Rafayel turned—spun mid-air like a coil of silk and muscle—and slammed his claws into the tank wall right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch.

You raised your hand. Slowly. Palms open.

“Rafayel,” you said softly, almost whispering, “Stop.”

His body stilled, suspended in violent motion.

The roar of the alarms, the hum of the oxygen pumps, even the buzz of the failed lighting—all of it faded into the background.

His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts. His eyes glowed like deep-sea lanterns. He hovered there, inches from the glass, claws still pressed hard enough to screech against it. But he wasn’t attacking now. He was… watching.

You stepped closer, until you were nearly touching the tank wall. Your hand hovered where his claws had struck just moments before.

“It’s me,” you said.

He blinked.

Then, without a sound, he floated backward. A slow, deliberate motion. One hand slid down the tank’s interior, leaving a trail of pale bioluminescence behind it. His tail coiled gently beneath him. The water settled. Foam dissipated. The light in his eyes dimmed—not dulled, just… quieter.

And then, unbelievably, he pressed his forehead to the glass.

Directly across from yours.

The room held its breath.

He closed his eyes.

You mirrored him.

The silence stretched.

Behind you, through the speaker system, you barely caught Dr. Havers’ voice: “Subject de-escalated. Immediate threat withdrawn.”

The guards didn’t speak. They didn’t move. No one did.

Because they saw what you saw.

He hadn’t calmed because of sedatives. Or fear.

He had calmed because of you.

And something in your chest cracked—splintered under the weight of a realization you weren’t ready for.

Whatever Rafayel was…

He wasn’t just watching you.

He needed you.

After the incident, you were called in for multiple evaluations. The staff expressed concern. His reactions were too focused. Too specific.

“Forming a fixation,” they said. “You’re a variable he’s centering around. It might become dangerous.”

But you didn’t feel afraid.

Each night, he was waiting. Sometimes he pressed his hand to the glass, palm to palm. Sometimes he mirrored your face until it felt like looking into a distorted reflection.

You broke protocol.

“Why me?” you asked him softly.

He moved close.

“You… are mine.”

Your heart thudded. You stood frozen.

“You don’t know me.”

He smiled, faint but assured.

“I remember you.”

You shook your head.

“That’s impossible.”

He only repeated, quietly: “You were always coming here.”

You stopped sleeping.

Each night, your dreams blended into your shifts. You began bringing small things into the lab. A book. A ring. A scarf. He noticed all of them. Watched each object with careful interest.

One night, you left a pen on the console.

When you returned the next night, it was inside the tank—placed delicately in a shrine of coral, shells, and scavenged materials. A gift.

You didn’t say anything.

But your chest ached with something unnamed.

And he knew.

The lab was quiet when you arrived, as it always was during your late shifts. But tonight, something felt heavier in the air. As you keyed into the monitoring station, you sensed him waiting.

He was already pressed to the glass, body still, eyes glowing faintly in the dim blue light. His gaze locked on you the instant you stepped into the room. You hadn’t even set your tablet down before he moved—slowly, fluidly—closer, so close that his breath fogged the glass.

Your heart pounded.

You didn’t need to say anything. He already knew you were listening.

“Free me,” he said.

The words were clear. Measured. Spoken not as a plea, but as a promise.

You stared at him, your throat tightening. “I can’t.”

He didn’t move away. He simply watched you, eyes scanning your face like he could read what you didn’t say.

“You don’t belong here either,” he murmured, voice soft and steady. “Not with them.”

He pressed a hand to the glass, and instinctively, without thinking, you lifted yours. His fingers aligned with yours, claws brushing the barrier.

“They see a cage,” he whispered. “You see me.”

The words didn’t sound rehearsed. They sounded like something he’d been waiting to say for a long time.

You swallowed hard. “If I open that tank, they’ll—”

He tilted his head, interrupting gently. “They fear what they cannot hold.”

You felt the heat of your own breath fog the glass. Your hand stayed pressed to his.

“Take it away,” Rafayel whispered. “Let me show you what you already know.”

The glass vibrated faintly under your palm. Not from his strength. From something else. Something deeper. A resonance that pulsed in your bones.

Outside the tank, you were still an employee, a researcher, a name on a schedule.

Inside the tank, he was waiting.

And in that moment, the glass no longer felt like protection.

It felt like a wall you weren’t sure you wanted to keep.

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Bonus Sessions

In which you interview 2 multi-world champions in one sitting.

Warnings: discussions of the traumatic 2021 Abu Dhabi race (lol) Pairing: Max Verstappen x Podcaster!Reader Word Count: 2k words

- The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 2 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 3 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 4 - Master List

(quick note. shoutout to @shelbyteller for the inspiration for this one. Hope it lives up to your expectations bb!)

"I can't believe you got him to agree to this." You say, shuffling a few papers on your desk in the Monaco apartment you share with Max.

Max looks at you, brow raised. "Are you kidding me? I didn't have to do any convincing. That man loves you. Honestly, I should probably be a little jealous of how eagerly he agreed to come on the show."

You roll your eyes, knowing that Max is being ridiculous. "As if I'd ever look at anyone but you." You tease, rising from your desk chair before crossing the room to sit on Max's lap.

When you had moved in with Max earlier in the year, one of the things he had insisted on was turning one of the spare rooms in his (well, now it was yours too, he had insisted on putting you on the deed to the property after your engagement, much to the dismay of his lawyer) apartment into a dual recording studio and office for you.

Tucked away in one of the corners was a large mahogany desk that you spent most of your time at. On the other side of the room that's decorated in tones of gold and champagne pink sits your podcasting setup with 2 comfy sitting chairs, microphones, and side tables. It's the perfect cozy setup. You didn't use this room all the time for your guests, a lot of the time you were traveling to meet them. This room was used for when you did your 'bonus session' episodes and when you had more personal friends on the show, like today's guest.

Max wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you closer into his chest. "Have I ever told you that I love you?" He murmurs, breath tickling the shell of your ear.

You hum, small grin spreading across your face as you lean your head further into the crook of his neck. "Not in the last ten minutes."

"Well, let me remedy that terrible fact." Max's lips skate over your jaw before they find their home. "I love you beyond words, schatje." His words are mumbled against your lips but you understand them all the same.

When he slips his tongue into your mouth you can't help the sigh that leaves your body. It doesn't matter how many times Max kisses you because every time his lips land on yours, it feels like the first time.

The make out session continues for several moments before you're interrupted by a buzzing on Max's phone. "Looks like he's here. You ready?"

You glance down at your outfit, casual but put together for the interview that you're sure will make some waves in the F1 world. Not only because of who it is but also because of what you got him to agree to discuss today. "I hope so!"

Max leaves the office to retrieve your guest as you begin prep on the room. You had decided to just run the entire episode by yourself today, giving Steve and Shannon the day off from filming since it was in your home and you liked to keep this environment as relaxed and low key as possible.

Voices float towards you as you finish up the last bits of preparation. And then, they're standing in the doorway.

"I hear congratulations are in order!"

"Lewis!" You croon, setting down the papers in your hands before crossing the room to your friend's opened arms. "Thank you so much."

Lewis chuckles before holding you out at arms length, "Let me see that rock. I'm sure Instagram did it no justice."

You happily hold out your left hand for Lewis to take, grinning like an idiot over his shoulder at Max, who is leaning against the door frame with the same goofy grin on his face. The word 'proud' didn't seem to do what he felt for you in this moment justice.

"He did good, didn't he?"

"Ma'am, that man is so wildly in love with you." Lewis chuckles before looking over his shoulder at Max. "Good taste there, mate."

Max nods. "Thanks. Can I get you anything before you guys get started?"

Lewis shakes his head and just like that, you go into work mode. You give Lewis a brief explanation on how it's going to work, just like you did for Max over a year ago. Meanwhile, Max sits at your desk and watches you work. In the last year, he hasn't really had the opportunity to watch you film and record a show because he's always felt in the way but this time is different. He had been the one to ask Lewis onto the show and it had been Lewis that insisted he stay to watch the entire interview when he had tried to excuse himself moments before.

You were so in your element is left Max in awe. The way you moved around the room with such confidence, setting up the cameras and microphones, talking to Lewis like he was a brother or an old friend, you really commanded the room and made both of these drivers, who were used to wrestling flying torpedos around hairpin curves going fast enough to kill someone was just awe inspiring.

"Okay, but seriously, before we wrap this up we need to talk about one more thing." You giggle a bit, watching as Lewis reaches down to scratch Rosco on the head.

"Shit." Lewis hisses while Max laughs from his spot at your desk where he's been watching the entire interview quietly. "I thought you were going to forget about that."

You toss your head back, laughing maniacally. "And blow the chance at having two fan bases hate me? As if, Hamilton. Max, do you want to join us?"

Although you have the air of someone who couldn't care less about the upcoming topic, secretly, your stomach twists with anxiety. When Max had suggested the finale to your landmark interview with Lewis and when Lewis had agreed to is, you had been confident that you could handle such a touchy subject but now? Now that you were face with actually having to talk to your friend about it on camera to be released for the entire world to see? You were having second thoughts.

Max stands and sits next to you in the chair that you had pulled out moments before.

"And before we even get started, I want to preface this final segment by saying that you both agreed to this before hand and I am not blindsiding anyone, right?"

Both men grin at you where you sit between them and nod. "We both agreed to this." Lewis says.

"Well I, for one, feel a bit like a hostage here having to agree to this on camera." You reach across and smack Max on the shoulder, causing him to smile even wider. "Yes, of course. We both agreed to this."

"We're a few years removed from the 2021 season. Lewis, looking back do you think there's anything you could have done differently to change the outcome?"

Lewis shrugs, "If you would have asked me that a year ago, I would have probably said yes but as we get further away from it I think we did everything we could have. Sometimes, there are decisions made and things happen that are outside of your control. As a racing driver, you want everything to be under your control and even when it's not, it's in our nature to take on everything as if it is under our control."

"Are you calling me a control freak?" Max quips from your other side.

"We're all control freaks, man." Lewis says with a chuckle.

"What's that saying? Hindsight is 20/20? Looking back, there are always things you see and go 'well that was a terrible decision." Max says, smiling over at his rival. "But at the time, we all made what we thought were the best decisions we could with the information we had in front of us. I don't think there was anything either of us could have done to have change the outcome based on what we knew then and there."

You nod, grinning at both of the men. "Can we talk about Abu Dhabi for a second? I don't want to talk about the race, that's been done to death. But, can you walk me through what was going through your head in the days after?"

"I isolated big time." Lewis says, looking down at his hands before reaching to scratch Rosco's head. "I took off and spent time alone and just did a lot of thinking. I hated that my championship came down to the decisions of one man. Had we been better and more consistent the entire year, it wouldn't have come down to the last lap. That was on me and no one else. I had to take that on and figure out how I was going to face the team after letting them down."

"But you didn't let them down." Max insists. "That entire season was a masterclass in never giving up and making something out of nothing. I mean, sure I was the beneficiary of that final call from Race Control but it could have easily went the other way. I don't know what I would have done had I been in your shoes after that race."

"You would have been fine." Lewis says. "You've always been better at compartmentalizing things on the track. I take a lot of my work home with me. It's why I struggle to let people in. I'm often caught up in my own world focusing on what I need to do to perform better and improve, racing takes up my whole life and I'm content with that. You're a different breed. You don't take work home with you and that's how you were able to land this gorgeous girl."

"Hey, lay off the flirting with my fiance." Max snaps good naturdly, reaching for your hand and giving Lewis a wink. "Your singular focus is how you've won so many championships though and no one can fault you for that."

The rest of the interview continues for a few more minutes before you begin to wrap things up. It's been almost two hours at that point and the last 30 minutes of the interview is just Max and Lewis talking racing, Max threatening to retire, and Lewis threatening to pull an Alonso and never retire.

When the episode it released, it is a complete surprise and incredibly well received by everyone inside and outside the F1 community, which was somewhat surprising to you as you know what a hot button issue the 2021 season was and how polarizing discussing that very last race could be. In the end, it's one of your more favorite episodes and it opens up the doors to many more sports interviews, including a partnership with F1 TV for some mid-season post-race work that has you doing even more of what you love: getting to know the people beneath the sheen and shine of their own celebrity.

TheYappingHour Posted:

928,991 likes liked by charlesleclerc, ferrari, roscolovescoco, and others theyappinghour newest episode drops today featuring this handsome boy and his dad! ;) make sure you listen to the entire hour...there may be a surprise guest at the end! lewishamilton pleasure being on with you. and once again, congrats on the engagement! max is a lucky man! >>>theyappinghour oh lewis! you're the best. thank you <3 user028 i cannot get over how good she is at making people feel comfortable talking to her about hard things. i've NEVER heard lewis open up about 2021 like that before. >>>user9281 seriously. she is a magician. user0911 the cameo at the end! the yapping about the engagement! lewis sounding so genuinely happy for them! this may just be one of my favorite episodes ever.

tags: @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99

[heartyluv]

Note: This wonderful idea was based on an ask sent by @klossnite! (Click here to read it!) I’m doing my asks like this from now on because it started getting glitchy and weird when I would save them in my drafts. Anyways, she and I were chatting in the comments about Camboy!Caleb, the dynamic he has with his wife, and just how in loveee they are and she would like to see how they were on their wedding night. So know that this is prior to all the camboy fics!

And yes, I am making it canon and known right here, right now! Camboy!Caleb’s wife IS chubby!!!

Creds to @/anitalenia for the dividers!

Warning: Smut, Caleb is fingering you, self-depreciation (you weren’t as confident in yourself before you started making content with him)

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: You were once a fan who paid Caleb to watch him come and whisper filthy things as he did it, and now you’re married to him. When your first night as newlyweds comes to close, something heavy arises inside your mind that only your husband can ease.

Camboy!Caleb/Reader ~ Newlyweds

From the moment you and Caleb woke up to drive to the courthouse early this morning right up to you making it off the plane as you landed in Greece for your honeymoon—it’s been an experience nothing short of surreal.

It never even became a thought to entertain that you’d marry him when you both were strangers as you were paying to show your support for his content creation a few years ago, but only the universe knew how deep your gratefulness went. Officially, you belonged to a beautiful man who had gotten teary eyed as he slid your white and gold diamond ring onto your finger.

The day he proposed to you was a simple one. It was a random morning when you woke up and he was staring at you as you laid beside him in bed. You’d been living together for two years—an official couple for three—and Caleb knew that just calling you his girlfriend wasn’t enough.

He said it softly as he gazed into your sleepy eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

And you knew you were just as whipped when you didn’t hesitate for a moment to murmur yes. He kissed you so tenderly, morning breath and all. It was a fairytale you would brag about until the day you died.

Neither of you wanted a grand wedding with people who outwardly or silently judged him for the work he did or you for being okay with it. So instead of spending thousands on an event that was mainly for other people, Caleb planned a trip for your honeymoon while you booked the appointment to obtain your marriage license with the intention for it all to happen on the same day. It wasn’t the wedding you thought you’d have when you were in high school—with a big gown, a detailed arrangement of flowers, and dozens of guests—instead, it was infinitely better.

You wore one of Caleb’s favorites—a backless light yellow sundress that made you feel like a princess, while he wore a simple white dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and black slacks. Your photographer was an older woman and her husband who took both you and Caleb’s phones to record and snap all kinds of photos for your memories.

The way he kissed you after your vows that came straight from the heart and the second you said I Do had told you everything—that you had absolutely made the right choice.

It was night time as you and Caleb were being driven to where your villa was. He had been guiding you through absolutely everything. The trip and all it would consist of was a secret until he showed you.

After you landed, he had taken you to a gorgeous restaurant that had food so divine that you wished you could’ve consumed more than you had. He then took you to markets that sold all kinds of clothes you adored and small stores that sold the most precious trinkets he knew you’d love.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around how he was able to find so many places that he knew would fascinate you, but you’d been floating through it all with immense happiness. The way he knows you, the way he loves you, is a gift you feel you’ll never be able to repay him enough for.

In awe you gazed at all the people who made these beautiful hills of land a home as you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder. You two were far from tired despite your excursions.

When you got to where you’d be staying for the week and watched Caleb bring your bags up the stairs and inside because he refused for you to lift a finger, you explored the space in comfortable silence. The large bed that faced double doors with a mesmerizing view of the ocean and overlook of the other buildings, the breeze that flowed inside with the comforting smell of sea salt, along with the detailed walls and wooden floors made you wish that you could stay here forever.

“What do you think about going for a swim?” Caleb suggests as he walks towards you with a grin. “Wanted us to have a good first day before I got you to myself for the rest of the night.”

You bit your lip as he kissed your neck, bracing your hands on his arms as he grabbed you everywhere he could. “I’d like that.”

“Go change.” He nipped your ear. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I feel sweaty.”

You snorted, kissing his lips after you nodded. “Be quick.”

“Of course.”

While the shower ran, you went into your suitcase to pick your swimsuit. But when you actually realized what you had packed, the hesitation that flowed through you was strong.

Every single one was a two piece and that was thanks to a striking moment of confidence when you decided to step out of your comfort zone and ditch the one pieces you strictly wore.

Caleb has seen you naked and you two have had sex, but for some reason, as you slipped on the dark blue bikini set, you wanted to do nothing but cover up and hide yourself from him. You looked at yourself in the mirror that rested against the wall, turning to the side as you looked at how your plush stomach settled on the bottoms. You frowned when you tried to suck it in, wishing that you were smart enough to have packed at least one thing that was full coverage.

Your mind went to all the women you saw today, their flat stomachs a sight to behold in their beach attire as you and Caleb traversed through the tourist locations. It was then that you decided—I can’t go outside like this.

“Baby?” Caleb called out, startling you because you were so lost in thought that you never heard the shower stop or him open the door. “You okay?”

Your lack of response immediately raises the alarms in his mind. All of his attention and concern is on you now when he walks closer to look at you through the mirror.

You look at him with overwhelming love, thinking of how you met and what has come of it. That’s all that should be on your mind along with how you’ll be celebrating—not how you look in a bikini, but you can’t help it. Especially not when you can feel his hard and muscular body press against your bigger one.

You pull your cover up tighter around you and that makes Caleb’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Woah, woah,” he places his hand over yours from behind. “What’s going on?”

Silence.

“Pretty, I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. That’s what we do, yeah?” He studies you as best he can. “We talk.”

“It’s nothing, babe,” you deflect, getting ready to move away, but Caleb doesn’t let you.

“Not only are you keeping something from me, but you’re lying about it. I don’t like that.”

You know you need to come clean. It’s not fair to ruin everything because of your insecurities.

“I just,” you huff, blowing breath through your lips. “I don’t like how I look right now, is all.”

“What’s wrong with how you look?”

“Caleb, we don’t have to talk about this—”

“What’s wrong with how you look?” he cuts you off, repeating himself with narrowed eyes.

“I should’ve brought something that covered up more, that’s it.” Your response is short—curt. And for that, Caleb has to fix it.

He leans down, kissing your shoulder then making you tilt your head to the side as he lips graze against the skin on your neck. “It sounds like you’re talking bad about my wife,” he whispers, sending shivers through you.

“You know I don’t like a lot of things, but one thing I’ll never accept?” He begins to peel your cover up down your shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as if he dares you to stop him with no words necessary to convey the message. “Someone badmouthing the woman I love—Especially, if that kind of talk is coming from her.”

His strong hands come around to grab your stomach, forcing you closer to him as you gasp.

“What are the two things I’ve always told you?” He kisses your earlobe.

“To be proud of my body,” you shudder at the way he holds eye contact.

“Good girl,” he coos. You feel his fingers against your skin as he reaches for where you tied your bikini at the back of your neck. “The second thing?”

“To never be ashamed of what I want.” Your heart hammers rapidly in your chest.

“Perfect,” he says at the same time your top slips off to reveal your heavy breasts once he unwraps you.

“But being able to recite it to me doesn’t mean it’s instilled, right?” He slides his hands up your body to hold your tits in his hands, his thumbs grazing your nipples to make the peaks taut and just as needy as the rest of you.

His hand trails down the side of your body, tapping the outside of your left thigh with one command.

“Lift.”

You raise your leg, your hand bracing against the wall beside the mirror to keep yourself steady. Caleb caresses your inner thigh, smirking as you press your ass again his hardening cock.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you plead desperately, whimpering as his arm comes over and his finger drags up your slit. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“I’m already here, baby. Use your words correctly.”

“Your fingers.” You can’t help but to arch your back in anticipation as he skillfully pulls your panties to the side. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Your mouth parts as you watch the simple silver band of his wedding ring catch the light of the standing lamp beside you two.

“My wife needs me to take care of her needy pussy, doesn’t she?” Your head falls back onto his shoulder when his thick finger gathers your slick from your quivering hole to bring it to your clit. He circles your bundle of nerves slow, occasionally stopping just to make you bend to his will. “Needs me to show her why she should love the body I plan to fuck my baby into one day.”

“Yes,” you pant without shame, needing any and every part of him inside you.

“Look at yourself when you fall apart for me. I want you to be just as proud as I am.”

You raise your head, watching and feeling how he stuffs you with his fingers. It’s a struggle to keep your leg up as he strokes the inside of your walls, but you refuse to take your eyes off of how wet you’re making him, how your juices make his digits shine while they move in and out of you.

“Caleb…” you cry, feeling the burn in your muscles ache so deliciously. “Fuck, that feels good…”

“I can tell by how you drench my ring, baby. Is this another way you’re choosing to claim me?” he smiles into your neck. “I like it.”

The sight in the mirror of your stickiness clinging to his wedding ring fuels your body with a primal urge you didn’t know you were capable of summoning. This man was absolutely yours, just as much as you were his. The way thin strings of your slick push and pull between your flesh and the band as his fingers coil inside of you is enough to show that.

“I don’t wanna come like this,” you whine, hearing how your cunt squelches like she’s letting him know how much she needs him before you do. “I want your cock…”

“Good,” he purrs, sliding his fingers out slowly to make your thighs tremble. Your leg finally rests and Caleb throws his towel away from his waist, the sound of the heavy material becoming a heap on the floor. He bends you just enough to bring out that arch in your spine that he’s taught you to do so well before spreading your legs wider. A man of his caliber needs space, after all.

You brace your hands on both sides of the mirror as you open up for him like a blooming flower.

“Taste yourself while I fuck you,” he commands and you feel his cock head brush against your entrance as he uses his tip to smear his hot precum between your lips. “You’re going to be proud of every part.”

His fingers push past your plush lips at the same time he guides his thick length into your weeping pussy. Your moans are muffled, his other hand gripping your hip to be able to pound into you like his cock wasn’t already imprinted.

You bring your eyes back to the mirror to see him already looking at you with pride, lust, but most importantly—love. Your tongue peeks out to take his digits deeper and taste the metallic of his ring, making him fuck into you even harder with promise that it was something no one would ever take from him.

Your tits bounce in response to how his tip kisses a part so deep that it makes your eyes sting with tears because it’s so fucking good.

“Don’t ever think about hiding any part of this from me, you understand? There’s a reason why we chose each other. It’s why we’re here.”

“Hmph—yes,” you mumble around his fingers as you continue to suck and indulge on your own sweetness.

“Use your pussy to make my cock feel how well you understand me, then.”

His balls slap your cunt and the sting against your clit is enough to make you cream around him like you were always meant to do. Any thought you had about your body being too much has faded as Caleb’s love and the way he makes you feel becomes of greater importance.

The mirror wobbles in your hold when you feel him stuff you full of his seed. You love how loud he moans at the way you milk his cock for every drop that he has.

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he breathes heavily, still pumping into you slowly after he’s filled you up like he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth to bring it to his own, tasting everything that is you.

You listen to him, letting your gaze go along your puffy lips, your tits, stomach, and thighs, before you come back up to look at him.

It’s because of him that you see it. It’s because of him that you believe.

“I’ve never lied to you, have I?

You shake your head. “Never.”

He smiles, his intentions clear as he leans back to spit where you two are connected. “It’s always good to be thorough, don’t you think?”

He slaps your ass hard, causing you to moan at the sudden strike. “Get in the bed so I fuck my wife properly. Doesn’t hurt to consummate our marriage twice.”

Tags 🏷️: @mcdepressed290 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @calebapplepie @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @klossnite @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @brad-is-rad-blog @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @inutrasha94

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #26

Danny didn’t really think it through. In his defense, there weren’t a lot of guidebooks titled “How to Deal with the Psychotic Future Version of Yourself You Accidentally Redeemed But Are Still Terrified Of.” Jazz suggested therapy. Sam suggested containment. Tucker suggested launching him into deep space. Danny, brilliant and seventeen and sleep-deprived after three days of babysitting a now mostly-reformed Dan Phantom, decided, “Screw it,” ripped open a portal to another dimension, and told him to “go make friends.” Dan grinned, sharp-toothed and wicked, and without hesitation dove through the swirling green and blue mass of unstable ectoplasmic energy.

Thus began the Marvel Universe’s greatest headache.

The first incident happened barely four hours after Dan’s arrival. New York woke up to a brand new urban legend: a demon with burning blue eyes and silver-streaked black hair beating the living shit out of Shocker in the middle of Times Square. People recorded it, of course. Viral videos showed Shocker screaming, running, trying desperately to aim his gauntlets while Dan literally phased through every attack like he was swatting a mosquito. Somewhere in the footage, Dan shouted, “C’MON, MAN! HIT HARDER, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING YOURSELF!” before drop-kicking Shocker into a halal cart.

The Avengers noticed. Specifically, Spider-Man noticed, because Peter Parker had never been so personally offended by something in his life.

“He’s stealing my bit,” Peter whined to MJ later, scrolling through TikTok and watching the mysterious “Blue Devil” bodyslam the Rhino into a GAP storefront. “That’s MY thing. Wisecracking and beating up guys in animal costumes.”

MJ, deadpan as ever, didn’t even look up from her book. “Maybe if you hit the gym once in a while, you could still compete.”

Elsewhere, S.H.I.E.L.D. was losing their collective shit.

Nick Fury reviewed the footage with the grim severity of a man preparing for war. “I want every available agent tailing him. Find out what he is, what he wants, and for God’s sake, do not engage.”

Unfortunately, Dan had other plans. He wanted engagement. Constant, chaotic, no-holds-barred engagement.

When the X-Men tried to approach him peacefully—because, to be fair, a floating, smirking, six-foot-seven superpowered anomaly screamed “mutant”—Dan responded by challenging Wolverine to a fistfight in the middle of Central Park.

“You smell angry,” Dan said, cracking his knuckles and grinning wide. “I like that. C’mon, Knives. Show me what those claws can do.”

Wolverine, never one to back down from a challenge, growled and immediately lunged. It took six X-Men to pull them apart. Logan was half in love and half homicidal.

Jean Grey, massaging her temples afterward, sighed, “He’s not a mutant. He’s something else. Something… worse.”

Meanwhile, Dan wasn’t picky about his opponents. Hero? Villain? Civilian? If you looked at him wrong, he was ready to throw hands. He got into a screaming match with Daredevil over a parking spot. He suplexed Deadpool into a dumpster for calling him “Discount Nightcrawler.” He made Venom cry after a fifteen-minute insult match that Eddie Brock would never fully recover from.

The Fantastic Four tried to reason with him.

“We can help you,” Reed Richards said, voice patient like he was talking to a rabid cat. “We have resources—”

Dan blew up the top three floors of the Baxter Building and left a sticky note on the ruins that said, “UR WELCOME - D.”

The thing was, Dan wasn’t evil anymore. Not really. He wasn’t trying to take over the world. He wasn’t murdering anyone. He just had a lifetime’s worth of rage, grief, and unresolved abandonment issues—and no idea what to do with them except get into constant, escalating, deeply unnecessary fights.

It got to a point where the heroes started treating Dan like a natural disaster.

“Code Blue,” a harried S.H.I.E.L.D. agent barked over comms one afternoon. “I repeat, Code Blue! The entity is currently body-slamming Juggernaut through Grand Central!”

Cap sighed, already pulling on his shield. “Alright, team. Let’s move out.”

Black Widow holstered her guns. “At least it’s not another alien invasion.”

Thor, cheerful as ever, grinned. “I relish a good battle!”

Hawkeye muttered, “You relish being concussed.”

Dan, for his part, loved the attention. He loved the chaos. He loved the feeling of letting loose in a world that could actually handle him, where nobody flinched when he punched through a concrete wall or melted a tank with a blast of pure ectoplasmic fire.

He was happy, in his deeply deranged, borderline-psychotic way.

That didn’t mean he was easy to deal with.

After Dan singlehandedly wrecked a Hydra base (“I was bored, okay?” he said when the Avengers confronted him), Tony Stark decided to try a different tactic.

“Look, Big and Blue,” Tony said, lounging on the ruined remains of what was once a cutting-edge jet. “Ever think about channeling that rage into something… productive? Like, say, joining the Avengers?”

Dan blinked, actually considering it for a full five seconds.

Then he laughed so hard he almost dropped a car on Tony’s head.

“Me? Work with you guys? Under orders? Are you high, Tin Man?”

Steve Rogers, exhausted and already developing a migraine, tried. “You could do a lot of good—”

“I am doing good,” Dan said brightly. “I’m keeping you on your toes. No need to thank me.”

“You broke Clint’s arm last week,” Natasha reminded him.

“He’ll live.”

“He was trying to give you a granola bar.”

Dan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “He looked suspicious.”

The closest thing Dan had to a friend was Deadpool. Not because they got along—they didn’t, not even a little—but because Deadpool was the only one insane enough to keep up.

They had a rivalry. A bloody, chaotic, absolutely incomprehensible rivalry that involved prank wars, bar fights, and one extremely regrettable karaoke contest that left three bars in ruins and a citywide ban on musical gatherings involving either party.

“I hate you,” Dan snarled once, pinning Deadpool to a wall after a four-hour chase across Manhattan.

“I hate you more!” Wade screeched back, thrilled beyond belief.

“Great! Friends forever!” Wade cackled.

Dan screamed into the void.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton was back in his own dimension, blissfully unaware, telling Jazz, “See? Everything’s fine.”

Jazz, reading a news article titled “Unknown Supernatural Entity Causes $3 Billion in Property Damage, Punches Doctor Doom in the Face” quietly considered strangling him.

Eventually, the heroes adapted. Dan was like bad weather. You prepared for him. You kept an eye out for ominous blue clouds and spontaneous outbreaks of screaming. Sometimes he helped. Sometimes he made things worse. Mostly, he made things interesting.

There were even betting pools.

“Fifty bucks says he crashes this gala,” Sam Wilson said, tightening his bowtie before a high-profile Avengers event.

“Hundred says he wears a suit to crash it,” Bucky Barnes added, deadpan.

“Two hundred he punches Tony before dessert,” Carol Danvers said, sipping champagne.

Dan did crash the gala. In a tuxedo.

He punched Tony before the entrees even made it out.

By then, nobody was even surprised.

The turning point came when Galactus tried to devour Earth (again). The heroes mobilized. Big stakes. High drama. Apocalyptic dread.

Dan showed up in the middle of the chaos, lazily floating beside Captain Marvel.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head at the giant cosmic entity looming in the sky. “I’m gonna punch that.”

Carol, blinking, said, “You can’t just punch Galactus.”

Dan, already cracking his knuckles, grinned. “Watch me.”

And then he did.

Nobody knew how. It defied physics, logic, and every law of reality. But somehow, Dan punched Galactus so hard the giant stumbled, clutched his jaw, and left.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Deadpool clapped. “THAT’S MY BEST ENEMY!”

Thor dropped his hammer.

Tony sat down on the ground and decided to reconsider all his life choices.

Steve very seriously said, “We are never letting him leave.”

Thus, against all odds, Dan Phantom—the violent, chaotic, semi-redeemed ghost of a now-erased dystopian future—became an honorary Avenger much to his own dismay.

He didn’t exactly follow rules. He certainly didn’t behave. But when Thanos invaded three months later and Dan showed up by suplexing a Leviathan out of the sky and riding it into battle like a demented cowboy, nobody complained.

Well. Except the Leviathan.

In the end, Danny was right.

Everything was fine.

If your definition of “fine” included a psychotic ghost terrorizing both heroes and villains equally, destabilizing multiple governments, and becoming a beloved menace.

But hey. Could be worse.

At least he wasn’t totally evil anymore.

[orphicmeliora]

Evermore

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC!Reader

SUMMARY: You have spent your life inside hospital walls, your world stitched together with IV lines, late-night alarms, and the quiet acceptance that some things cannot be fixed. You've been passed from one doctor to another, another test, another trial — all chasing a miracle that never came. Somewhere along the way, you stopped waiting for tomorrow.

But life, in its quiet cruelty and unexpected grace, gives you something you never thought to ask for — a glimpse of another world. A different kind of heartbeat, steady and sure, weaving its way into your fragile one. Moments you never believed you could have: laughter, longing, dreams too big for a hospital bed.

You don't know how long it will last. You don't even know if you dare hope for more.

But when the night is quiet and the snow falls just right, you let yourself believe — for one stolen breath — that maybe your story isn't meant to end here.

Maybe, somehow, you are just beginning.

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

You're dying.

For as long as you can remember, you've known more of hospitals than your own house. It's gotten to a point where when you think of home, it's not a cozy living room or the scent of your mother's cooking that surfaces — it's the sterile, cold corridors of Akso Hospital. The beeping machines. The too-white sheets. The antiseptic sting in the air. That's home.

You've been passed from hospital to hospital like a worn file folder, a case study waiting for a miracle. Doctors, researchers, specialists — all curious, all clinical. Some of them smiled too brightly when they poked at you; others barely met your eyes as they dictated notes into recorders. No matter their faces, it was always the same: a child with a heart too fragile for the world she lived in. Congenital heart disease, they'd say, like it was a sentence you had to carry. Words like hypoplastic, cardiomyopathy, degeneration slipped off their tongues without a second thought.

Research papers had been written about you. Trials run, theories floated, hands reaching inside your chest like gods trying to rewrite fate. But there was no saving you. Not really. Only delaying the inevitable.

At some point, death stopped being a frightening monster lurking at the end of the hallway. It became a quiet fact. A gentle inevitability. Like winter following fall. Like the last leaf leaving the branch. Sometimes you even think of it fondly — a release from the endless pricks of needles and the sting of failed hope.

You don't cry about it anymore. You stopped doing that years ago.

Just you, and the slow ticking of monitors, and the muted conversations outside your door.

But there are still things that ache. Things that death doesn't erase.

Like the school uniforms you never wore.

The scraped knees you never had from playground games.

The friendships you only knew from books and half-forgotten fairy tales read to you by bored nurses.

You grew up surrounded by adults: brisk nurses with kind smiles, tired doctors with far-off eyes, other patients far older than you. No childhood secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers. No first crushes shared during recess.

Today is supposed to be your sixteenth birthday. A milestone for most kids — laughter, cake, maybe even a little rebellion. You asked for so little. Just a single scoop of ice cream. Something sweet, something that would make you forget, just for a second, that you're broken inside.

Maybe your body decided it was too much joy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Whatever it was, the chest pain started fast and sharp, a blooming fire that stole your breath and sent the world spinning. They rushed you to the ICU, alarms blaring, voices cutting through the fog of your consciousness.

Doctor Li was there, of course. He's always there. A steady presence when everyone else felt like passing shadows. You caught glimpses of his furrowed brow, the tightness in his voice as he barked orders you were too far gone to understand. He was fighting for you. He always did.

The world blurred. Faded. You remember thinking — distantly — how strange it was to die with the taste of vanilla on your tongue.

You don't die that night. Not yet.

But something inside you, small and bright and hopeful, dims just a little more.

The next few days bleed together in a haze of machines and murmured reassurances. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, tethered to the world by the soft beeping of your heart monitor and the cool, practiced touch of the nurses adjusting your IVs. Doctor Li checks on you more than usual — lingering longer at your bedside, as if afraid that if he looks away, you might simply vanish.

You hear snatches of conversation sometimes. Fragments that weren't meant for your ears.

It’s strange how even in survival, you feel like a guest overstaying her welcome.

"She stabilized, but barely."

"Should we consider moving her back to the general ward?"

"Give her time. Let her rest."

On the third day, you notice a figure lingering near the doorway. Not a nurse — they’re always in motion, efficient and brisk. Not Doctor Li, either — this figure carries a stiffness to his stance, a sharpness that cuts into the sterile quiet.

You glance over, disinterested. A boy, maybe a few years older than you, dressed in street clothes that look out of place in the hospital’s sanitized world. Dark hair that falls messily into his eyes, a scowl permanently etched across his face like it was born there. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he doesn't want to be here.

You recognize the look immediately — resentment barely contained behind a mask of detachment.

You turn your head away. You couldn't care less.

Let him glare. Let him hate. You’re used to people looking at you like that — like you’re an inconvenience, a burden. You’ve spent your whole life apologizing for existing, even when your lips stayed silent.

He says nothing to you, and you say nothing to him.

Good. Silence is easier. Cleaner.

Later, you hear the nurses whispering about him.

You don't understand why any of it matters. To you, he’s just another shadow passing through your world. Another person whose life will keep moving forward, even when yours stands still.

"Doctor Li’s son. Came straight from his graduation. Poor kid."

"Must be hard, sharing your father with the hospital."

"He'll understand someday. Sacrifices have to be made."

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lull you back into sleep.

Tomorrow will come. Or it won’t.

It hardly makes a difference.

Tomorrow comes. And then the day after that.

Somehow, despite everything, you keep breathing.

You're moved out of the ICU eventually, back into the quieter, less urgent wing of Akso Hospital that has become more familiar than any childhood bedroom you never had. The walls here are softer shades of green, the windows wide and bright — an illusion of freedom you stopped believing in a long time ago.

Your days fall into a familiar rhythm: early morning blood draws, midday vitals checks, whispered conversations with nurses who treat you like a little sister they can't protect. You read when you can, mostly battered romance novels left behind by old patients, and sometimes you simply lie there, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles like they hold some secret map to a life you’ll never live.

And Zayne —he starts appearing again.

At first, it’s just glimpses. A flash of dark hair down the corridor, the low murmur of his voice when he trails after Doctor Li during rounds. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. He keeps his gaze clipped to charts and clipboards, face tight with the kind of focus you recognize all too well: the kind born from trying to control what can’t be fixed.

You wonder — briefly — why he keeps coming back.

Most people your age would run from a place like this. Wouldn't they? Chase the world outside with hungry hands, desperate to live, to feel something more than fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

But Zayne stays.

He stands at his father's side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat, frowning at words too complicated for you to care about. He listens when Doctor Li explains your charts, your declining numbers, the latest tests they want to run. Sometimes he asks questions, voice low and rough around the edges.

You don't bother trying to hear the answers.

You’ve long stopped hoping anyone had any real ones to give.

The way his shoulders stiffen when Doctor Li mentions your heart’s deterioration. The quick, darting glances he thinks you don’t catch when you wince from another IV insertion. The rare moments his mouth tightens in something almost like frustration, or helplessness.

Still...

You notice things.

You pretend you don't see.

You pretend it doesn't matter.

And you — you have always been leaving.

Because it doesn't.

You have learned, through years of slow dying, that getting attached only makes the leaving harder.

It happens on an afternoon like any other.

The kind where the sun slices through the window just enough to make you ache for the world outside — a world you’ve only seen in pictures and half-forgotten dreams.

You’re sitting up in bed, a book resting on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like hours. Your IV pole hums faintly beside you, the only real reminder that you’re still tethered here.

You glance up without thinking — and there he is. 

You hear footsteps before you see him.

Not Doctor Li’s sure, even strides.

Softer. Slower. Hesitant.

Zayne. 

Hovering awkwardly just inside your room, clutching a thick textbook to his chest like a shield. He's not wearing his usual scowl today. Instead, his face is carved into something tighter, more uncertain, as if he isn't quite sure whether he should even be standing here.

You raise an eyebrow, silently daring him to speak.

He clears his throat. It sounds painful.

"I—" he starts, then immediately cuts himself off, glancing away. His hand tightens around the book's spine.

You blink at him, unimpressed.

If he’s here to offer hollow pity or awkward small talk, he can save it. You’ve heard it all before — the forced conversations, the clumsy sympathy from visitors who can't even look you in the eye for long.

You drop your gaze back to your book, pretending he isn't there. Silence stretches thick and heavy between you.

For a moment, you think he’s going to retreat, like so many others have.

But he doesn't.

You freeze, your thumb hovering over the corner of the worn page.

Instead, after a beat of hesitation, you hear him mumble — so quiet you almost miss it —

"…That book’s terrible."

Slowly, you glance up again. He’s staring at the battered cover, expression wrinkling in disdain.

"I mean," he says, awkward and stiff, like every word is being dragged out of him by force, "the plot makes no sense. The heroine falls in love with a guy who literally tried to kill her in the first chapter."

You blink once. Twice.

"Yeah," you say, voice hoarse from disuse, "but it's not like I've got a lot of options."

And then, unexpectedly, a small huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close.

You hadn't realized how long it had been since someone your age spoke to you like that. Not like you were breakable. Not like you were already halfway gone.

He shifts his weight, looking vaguely guilty now. Like he hadn't meant to insult your sad little world.

You watch him for a moment longer, studying the way he fidgets — a boy trying very hard not to look like he cares, even though it’s written in every line of his posture.

Without thinking, you extend the book toward him, offering it out like a peace treaty.

"Got any recommendations, then?"

He stares at you, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. Like he wasn't expecting you to choose to talk to him.

Slowly, almost warily, he steps forward. Takes the book from your hand, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—warm and real and alive.

Something small shifts in the air between you.

Barely there.

But you feel it all the same.

But right now—for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Maybe tomorrow he'll disappear again.

Maybe you’ll still die before you ever really know him.

The next day, you don’t expect him to come back.

People make gestures sometimes — quick, impulsive things born of guilt or pity. You’ve learned not to get your hopes up. You've learned not to expect anyone to stay.

But late in the afternoon, as the sun dips low and the room fills with that golden, aching kind of light, you hear familiar footsteps outside your door. Slower, more deliberate this time. No shuffling nurses, no hurried doctors.

You glance up from your spot on the bed just as Zayne leans into the doorway, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding something behind his back like a guilty secret.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, frowning faintly, like he’s annoyed to find you still there. (Or maybe annoyed with himself.)

You raise an eyebrow, a silent question.

He scowls a little deeper — a defense mechanism, you think — and mutters, "You said you didn’t have good options."

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand from behind his back and tosses a book onto your bed.

It lands with a soft thud against the sheets, the cover facing up.

You blink at it, surprised. It’s thick, heavier than the flimsy paperbacks you usually get stuck with, and worn around the edges like it's been read a dozen times. A fantasy novel, from the looks of it — something with sprawling kingdoms and sword fights and impossible magic.

You run your fingers lightly over the embossed title, almost afraid it might disappear.

"I had it lying around," he says quickly, too quickly. "Figured you could use something... less stupid."

You look up at him again, and this time you catch it — the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears, the way he can't quite meet your gaze.

You almost smile. Almost.

Instead, you trace the cover one more time, letting the weight of the book settle into your lap like something precious.

"...Thanks," you say, quiet but sincere.

Zayne shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t care. But he lingers a moment longer than necessary, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, he jerks his head toward the book. "Page ninety-seven is the best part," he says gruffly. "Don't skip to it, though. You have to earn it."

And with that, he turns and stalks off down the hallway, disappearing before you can say anything else.

You watch him go, your chest feeling strangely full, like someone had opened a window inside you after years of stale, closed-off air.

You pick up the book, flipping it open carefully. On the inside cover, in faded ink, there’s a name scribbled messily: Zayne Li.

You smile — small, private, and fleeting.

—

Maybe you were wrong.

Maybe not everyone leaves.

You tell yourself it’s just a book.

And every single one of them — every single page — is littered with traces of him.

One book turns into two. Then three.

Each one arrives without ceremony — sometimes left on your bedside table when you’re asleep, sometimes handed over with an awkward grunt and averted eyes. Always worn. Always loved.

Little notes crammed into the margins. Sharp, neat handwriting in black ink. Observations. Sarcastic comments. Underlined passages with a single word beside them — you. Sometimes a whole phrase: this reminds me of you or you'd probably argue about this part.

It’s like Zayne is sitting beside you as you read, muttering in your ear.

The strange thing is — the words, the quiet thoughts he left scattered across the pages — they make you feel something. Something unfamiliar and terrifying. A buzzing under your skin, a pressure behind your ribs, too wild and heavy to name.

You devour the books hungrily.

You savor every messy annotation like it’s oxygen.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You're just imagining things.

Until the night it isn’t.

You’re halfway through another novel — a sweeping, painful story about a dying girl and a boy who loved her too much — when it happens.

Your heart flutters.

You freeze, book slipping from your hands onto the bed.

Not in the way it usually does — the panicked, stuttering rhythm that sends alarms shrieking and nurses running.

This flutter is different.

Soft. Gentle. Terrifying.

For a second, you can't breathe — not from weakness, but from something that feels suspiciously like hope, like longing.

Within seconds, your room explodes into motion — nurses flooding in, monitors flashing to life, Doctor Li himself arriving in a whirl of urgency.

You panic.

You hit the pager beside your bed, repeatedly.

They swarm you with equipment, prick your fingers, measure your heart rhythms. Voices rise and fall in a symphony of concern.

In the middle of it all, you sit there, dazed and mortified.

Because you realize — slowly, stupidly—you’re not dying.

When the chaos finally ebbs, when the monitors hum their steady, forgiving rhythm again, Doctor Li kneels beside your bed and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder.

Not yet.

Not from this.

"You’re alright," he says, voice warm and steady. "It was just... an excitement response. A little arrhythmia. Nothing dangerous."

You nod, face burning.

You don't tell him it wasn't excitement about life. It was about his son.

It was the first time in your memory that your heart had jumped not from fear, but from feeling something more.

It was a start.

Time moves strangely after that.

You learn him.

Weeks blend into months.

Zayne visits more now — under the pretense of study sessions with his father, but you both know better. He still brings you books, still pretends it's nothing, but sometimes he stays to see which parts make you smile. You argue with him over characters. He rolls his eyes when you get too emotional. You learn the patterns of his dry humor, the sharp warmth hidden under his guarded exterior.

And, quietly, dangerously, you start to want more.

One afternoon, you find yourselves alone. Doctor Li is caught up in surgery. The nurses are busy elsewhere. The hospital is unusually quiet.

Zayne sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, tapping a pen against his knee. You’re thumbing through the latest book he loaned you — a nonfiction this time, something about stars and deep space, endless distances that make your small, fragile life feel even smaller.

For a while, you exist in comfortable silence.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne says, "You know you’re sick. Really sick."

It's not a question. It's a fact, laid bare between you.

You close the book slowly, pressing your palm flat against the cover to keep your hands from shaking.

"I know," you say, voice barely a whisper.

Zayne leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

"I want to fix it," he says roughly. "I’m studying to fix it."

You stare at him, heart twisting.

"You can't," you say, almost gently. "Nobody can."

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

"I have to," he mutters. "Otherwise... what's the point?"

The words hang there between you — raw, desperate, infuriatingly beautiful.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

"You don't have to waste your life on me," you say. "You have your own future. Your own world."

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you — really looks at you.

And in his dark, tired eyes, you see it.

"I'm not wasting it," he says.

The stubbornness.

The grief.

The terrible, trembling hope.

He says it like an oath. Like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, you're not fighting alone anymore.

You glance up from your book, startled to see Zayne standing by your bedside, a mischievous glint in his otherwise serious eyes.

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of a chair being quietly pushed back.

He holds out his hand to you — palm up, steady.

"Come on," he says, voice low and urgent. "Before someone notices."

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

"I’m not exactly mobile, in case you forgot," you say dryly, gesturing weakly at your IV stand and the tangle of wires monitoring your heart.

Zayne’s mouth tugs into the smallest, briefest smirk.

"I planned for that," he says.

He lifts a second IV pole from behind him — wheels it forward like a grand conspirator revealing his secret weapon. It’s empty except for a few dummy wires and a hastily knotted hospital gown draped over it like camouflage.

You blink.

He actually planned this.

"You're insane," you whisper.

"Maybe," he says. "But so are you for trusting me."

His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something electric under your skin — something alive.

You don’t trust easily.

You never have.

But tonight — with the sterile hum of the hospital around you, and the fierce, reckless light in Zayne’s eyes — you find yourself reaching for his hand anyway.

Carefully, painstakingly, he helps you out of bed, maneuvering your real IV to look as inconspicuous as possible. You clutch his arm for balance, and he doesn't flinch or pull away. He just stands there, solid and steady, like he was built to hold you up.

Together, you slip out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The hospital at night is a different world — softer, quieter, suspended in time. The usual sharp edges of sterile life blur into something almost magical.

Zayne leads you through the labyrinth of corridors, past empty nurses' stations and closed doors, moving like a ghost through his second home.

Eventually, he pushes open a heavy door, and you find yourself on the hospital’s rooftop.

You don't ask where you're going.

You trust him.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing. Linkon city sprawls out below you, lights blinking like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the dark.

Above you, the real stars stretch in endless constellations, faint but stubborn, refusing to be erased by the city's glow.

You stand there, breathing in the night, the IV pole at your side forgotten for a moment.

Zayne leans against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"This," he says, tilting his chin toward the sky, "is the closest I could get to taking you out of here."

You stare up at the heavens, feeling something bloom painfully in your chest.

"You’re not supposed to do this," you whisper, but there’s no anger in your voice. Only wonder.

Zayne shrugs. "Sue me."

You laugh — a small, broken sound — and he turns his head slightly, like he wants to hear it again but is too proud to ask.

Finally, you glance over at him.

For a long time, you just stand there.

Two kids on a rooftop.

One dying, one refusing to let her go quietly.

"Thank you," you say simply.

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile.

"You’re welcome," he mutters.

Then, after a beat:

"You’re not allowed to die yet, by the way."

You blink at him, startled.

"That’s an order," he adds, looking away as if embarrassed. "Doctor’s orders."

Not if there’s still more of him.

You bite back the emotion swelling in your throat, smiling instead.

Because you realize, deep down, you don’t want to die yet.

Not if there’s still more of this.

After that first night, the rooftop becomes your place.

Whenever the nights are quiet and the staff is distracted, he appears in your doorway with a raised eyebrow and a silent question.

You and Zayne never talk about it.

You never plan it.

It just happens — an unspoken ritual.

You always nod.

And then you're off again — sneaking past monitors, wheels squeaking faintly, IV pole rattling slightly as you creep through the halls like co-conspirators against fate.

The rooftop feels almost sacred now.

Up there, the air smells less like bleach and more like possibility.

Up there, you aren’t just a patient strapped to machines — you’re alive.

You learn more about him — the way he hates instant coffee but drinks it anyway. His ridiculous sweet tooth. The way he grips the railing a little too tightly sometimes, like he’s afraid of losing control. How his smiles are rare but real, and he saves most of them for you.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you sit in silence.

He listens. Really listens.

And he learns about you — the real you, the one buried under layers of hospital gowns and medical files.

He learns you love thunderstorms. That you used to dream of becoming an astronaut before you got too sick to dream at all. That you’re terrified, not of dying, but of being forgotten.

And something inside you, long frozen, starts to thaw.

You start pushing yourself during physical therapy. You sit up longer. You fight to stay awake through bad days just so you can catch a glimpse of him passing by.

You get stronger.

Not in the way that matters medically — your charts still fluctuate, your heart still falters sometimes — but your spirit grows stubborn. Fierce. Hungry.

And even if you don’t say it out loud, you know he wants it too.

You want more time.

You want more nights under the stars.

You want more him.

But the clock is always ticking.

Some nights, the pain comes back — sharp and sudden, clenching around your ribs like an iron hand. Some nights, the monitors scream and the nurses race in, and Zayne isn't allowed to visit until you're stabilized again.

On those nights, you stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how fleeting all of this is.

And then one night, when you’re both on the rooftop again, he blurts it out.

You wonder if he knows.

If he feels it too — the way the future presses down on you both like a heavy, inevitable sky.

"You’re getting worse," he says, voice low and tight.

You don't argue. You don't pretend.

Instead, you lean against the railing, the cold metal digging into your palms, and whisper, "I know."

You expect him to retreat. To shut down the way most people do when confronted with the ugly truth of you.

But Zayne just steps closer.

"You’re still fighting," he says roughly. "Even when it’s pointless. Even when you’re scared."

You laugh — bitter, broken.

"There's no winning this," you say. "No miracle cure. You know that, don't you?"

Then, very quietly:

He says nothing for a long time.

Just stands there, breathing hard, like he’s holding back something too big for words.

"I’m still going to try."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what feels like forever.

There’s no pity there. No empty promises.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to lean just a little closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

Only determination.

Only him.

He stiffens — startled — but then, slowly, carefully, he shifts so you fit against him better.

The IV line tugs against your arm. Your heart monitor blips faintly in the background.

But here, in this small, stolen moment, you aren't a diagnosis. You aren't a prognosis.

You're just a girl.

And he's just a boy trying to save you.

The night it happens, you’re both too tired to pretend you're fine anymore.

The rooftop air is thick and heavy, the heat of the day still clinging stubbornly to the concrete. You sit cross-legged on a worn blanket Zayne smuggled from the staff lounge, your IV pole parked dutifully beside you, your heart monitor muted to a low, steady pulse.

Zayne lounges beside you, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the stars.

Neither of you say much.

The sky stretches overhead in an endless velvet sweep, pinpricked with faint light. Somewhere far below, Linkon city hums and breathes without you.

Words feel too heavy tonight.

Besides, you don’t need them.

You turn your head slightly, watching him.

His face looks softer in the dark — the stern lines of his mouth eased, the tension usually buried in his shoulders melted away. You can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he probably doesn't even realize he has.

You realize — with a strange, aching clarity — that you want to remember this. You want to burn this version of him into your memory so you can carry it with you, no matter what happens.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.

The monitors hum quietly beside you, a gentle lullaby.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your body leans sideways — just a little, just enough — and without thinking, without planning, you drift closer until your head finds his shoulder.

Zayne goes rigid at first — like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his chest — but after a long, tense second, he shifts carefully, allowing you to settle against him.

You half-expect him to tease you. To make some snide remark.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, perfectly steady, like he’s afraid even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you remember the feeling —safe, warm, suspended in something fragile and golden —as you sink into dreams for the first time in months without fear clawing at your throat.

You wake up hours later to the faintest touch — Zayne carefully adjusting your IV line, his fingers clumsy with sleep, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

He blinks down at you, caught between guilt and something deeper, something raw.

"Sorry," he mutters, voice rough. "Didn't mean to—"

You cut him off by curling a little closer, burying your face in the crook of his arm.

Later, when you’re both back inside, tangled in warmth and silence, the question slips out before you can stop it.

And for once, he doesn't argue.

He just lets you stay.

You’re still curled under your hospital blankets, the faint beep of your monitor filling the room like a heartbeat. Zayne sits in the chair beside your bed, scribbling distractedly in his med school notebook, but you know he’s only half-focused at best.

"Zayne," you say quietly.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"If you could have anything," you whisper, "anything at all… what would you wish for?"

He freezes, pen hovering midair.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s going to answer at all.

Looks at you.

Then, slowly, he sets the pen down.

Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

His eyes are tired and beautiful, reflecting every terrible truth you both carry.

You open your mouth — to ask with who, to demand more clarity — but he beats you to it.

"I’d wish," he says slowly, like dragging the words out of his chest hurts,

"for more time."

"With you," he says, voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest — not from illness, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of him, of this.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s there, wiping a thumb under your eye, the touch so painfully gentle it almost undoes you completely.

He just stays.

He doesn’t ask for anything more.

He doesn’t try to kiss you, or make promises he can’t keep.

Because he knows. You both know.

This love—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t about grand declarations or fairy-tale endings.

It’s about now.

It’s about this fragile, fleeting moment where you are still here, still breathing, still together.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The days that follow feel… different.

It’s subtle at first — a lighter step in your walk, a softer smile tucked at the corners of your mouth — but it’s there.

Hope.

Tiny, fragile, impossible hope.

And it’s all because of him.

You don’t dare speak it aloud — not when your body is still betraying you at every turn, not when your doctors still whisper in careful, practiced voices outside your room — but it grows inside you anyway.

A stubborn little flame.

Because of the way Zayne looks at you now — not like a patient he’s sworn to protect, not like a lost cause — but like a person.

A girl with dreams worth fighting for.

One night, when the hospital halls are unusually quiet and the rooftop is bathed in a silver wash of moonlight, you find yourself blurting it out.

Your secret list.

The things you thought you had buried.

"I want to see snow," you whisper, breath misting faintly in the cold. "I want to dance without an IV pole dragging beside me." A soft, broken laugh slips from your mouth. "I want to eat an entire cake without someone telling me it’s too much sugar."

You glance at him, embarrassed, cheeks hot. "And I want someone to kiss me like it’s the end of the world."

But Zayne just listens — really listens — every word sinking into him like gospel.

You expect him to laugh.

Or worse, to pity you.

And when you fall silent, when you turn your face away to hide the burning in your chest, he steps closer.

You blink up at him, stunned.

"So we’ll do it," he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

"We’ll do all of it."

"Zayne—"

"I mean it," he cuts in, voice fierce and steady. "Whatever time we have — we use it. Every second. No regrets."

You want to believe him.

God, you want it so badly your heart physically aches with it.

Still—still—

But you’ve been burned by hope before.

You know how cruel the world can be to people like you.

The way he looks at you now, fierce and soft all at once —the way he says we —you think maybe, just maybe, it’s worth believing again.

"Okay," you whisper, a little breathless, a little terrified.

He smiles then — not the small, careful smirks you’re used to, but a real, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face.

"Good," he says, offering his hand to you like it’s a promise.

You slip your fingers into his, and the night folds around you, carrying your fragile hopes into the stars.

Later, back in your bed, curled up under warm blankets and still clutching the memory of his hand in yours, you allow yourself to dream.

Tiny dreams.

Stupid, beautiful dreams.

You fall asleep smiling.

You imagine catching snowflakes on your tongue with him.

You imagine dancing barefoot in a field, laughing until your lungs ache for the right reasons.

You imagine frosting on your nose, stolen kisses, clumsy hands trying to twirl you around.

You imagine living — even if it’s just for a little while — like you were never sick at all.

The night it happens, it’s unbearably hot — heavy, clinging summer air that sticks to your skin and makes the hospital walls feel even more suffocating.

You’re dozing restlessly in your bed when he appears at your door.

Zayne.

"Come with me," he says, without preamble.

His hair is a little messy, his white coat half-buttoned and wrinkled like he’s been moving fast — a little frantic, a little reckless.

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the sprint through the halls.

You blink blearily at him, confused.

Before you can protest, he’s wheeling you out of the room, fast and determined.

He doesn’t explain. He just strides forward, unhooks your IV pole from the wall, checks the portable monitor strapped to your wrist, and mutters,

"You’re stable. Good enough."

You always have.

Your heart kicks wildly in your chest — a mix of fear and excitement and confusion — but you don’t ask questions.

You trust him.

—

He leads you to the rooftop.

It’s empty, quiet — the city sprawled out below you like a glittering sea.

The sky overhead is a deep, endless blue-black, scattered with stars.

And then —

Zayne closes his eyes.

Takes a slow, steady breath.

And the world shifts.

It starts slowly — a faint chill curling into the warm summer air, the barest shimmer of cold gathering around him.

Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, it begins to fall.

Snow.

Tiny crystalline flakes drift from the sky, swirling in delicate, shimmering patterns.

You gasp — a real, sharp, alive sound — and reach out instinctively.

A flake lands on your fingertip, melting instantly against your warm skin.

"You said you wanted to see snow," Zayne murmurs, voice low and a little shy. "Real snow’s impossible right now, but…"

He trails off, lifting a hand helplessly, as if embarrassed.

As if this miracle he’s created isn’t enough.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can't speak. You can't even think.

You just stand there, under the impossible snowfall, heart thundering in your chest like it might break free entirely.

He watches you — watches the wonder bloom across your face — and his own expression softens, the usual tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

And then—

As if the night wasn’t already enough—

He pulls something out from behind a nearby bench.

A small, messy cake.

"I made it," he says gruffly, ears turning pink. "Don’t laugh."

Lopsided.

Clearly homemade.

Icing smeared unevenly across the top.

You laugh anyway — a bright, broken sound — and it feels good, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

He steps closer, offering you a plastic fork.

You scoop a big, absurdly sugary bite and shove it into your mouth without hesitation, icing smearing at the corner of your lips.

Zayne chuckles under his breath — a rare, breathtaking sound — and reaches out with a thumb to wipe the frosting away.

The touch lingers longer than necessary.

The world slows down.

Your heart is pounding so hard now it’s probably setting off alarms somewhere inside the hospital.

And you realize — you don't want this moment to end.

You don’t want to forget any of it.

But you don't care.

Because then—he sets the cake aside.

Takes your hand in his.

The snow still falls around you, shimmering under the rooftop lights.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just pulls you into a slow, clumsy dance — his hand on your waist, your IV line dragging along but forgotten, your feet stumbling awkwardly in hospital socks — and you laugh again, breathless and giddy and so impossibly alive.

You sway together, turning in small circles, the city spinning lazily beyond the rooftop’s edge.

You think maybe your heart is breaking and mending all at once.

You think maybe you’re falling in love.

And when the song of the night winds down to a hush, when you’re standing chest-to-chest and he’s looking down at you with that unbearably soft expression —

You rise up on your toes.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And you kiss him.

Soft.

Gentle.

Trembling with all the things you’re too scared to say.

It isn’t perfect — your noses bump, you’re both a little off balance — but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s yours.

Because it’s every wish you never dared to make coming true at once.

You pull back a fraction, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the cold he summoned just for you.

Neither of you speaks.

You don't have to.

Everything you feel is written in the way his thumb strokes over your wrist, in the way your fingers curl desperately into the fabric of his shirt.

You are here.

You are together.

For however long you have left.

And for now, for tonight, that's enough.

The plan takes a week to set in motion.

Doctor Li is cautious, of course — his worry etched in the lines around his tired eyes — but in the end, he agrees.

Maybe because he sees the way you light up now, the way your charts have stabilized just a little, like your heart has found something worth fighting for.

Or maybe because he remembers — painfully — what life is supposed to feel like outside sterile hospital walls.

Clearance is granted. Nurses fuss and fret, loading your bag with medications and emergency supplies, setting strict curfews and contingencies.

But you don’t care about any of that.

Because when Zayne wheels you out the front doors into the bright, wild world, it feels like stepping into another life entirely.

The city is buzzing, golden sunlight pouring like honey over everything.

And the park — oh god, the park! It's huge and sprawling and alive, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children laughing.

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours as he leads you through winding paths, under archways draped in climbing roses, past glittering fountains that catch the light like tiny rainbows.

At one point he finds an empty patch of grass, drops a threadbare blanket he must have stolen from the hospital laundry, and you sit side by side under a tree, dappled sunlight dancing across your skin.

You’re breathless with wonder.

Breathless and alive.

For a long time, you just exist.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Watching the clouds drift by like lazy ships.

And then — quietly, almost shyly — Zayne starts talking about the future.

"Our own place," he says, tracing patterns in the air. "A tiny apartment, the kind where you can hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. We'd have to get a cat. Or a dog. Or both."

You laugh, heart aching sweetly.

He grins, warmed by your smile, and keeps going, voice steady and dreaming.

"I'd cook. You'd probably hate it. You’d tease me until I ordered takeout."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a blessing.

"And someday…" His voice falters, softens. "If you wanted — we could travel. Anywhere. Everywhere. Mountains, oceans. I’d show you real snow."

You open your eyes, finding him already watching you.

There’s a look in his gaze that’s almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"You’ll see everything," he murmurs, like a vow. "I’ll make sure of it."

You smile.

You don't say what you’re thinking — that you’d be happy seeing anything at all, so long as he’s standing beside you.

You just tuck the dream away, precious and impossible, into the quiet spaces of your heart.

You spend the afternoon like that.

Eating terrible ice cream from a street vendor.

Dancing barefoot in the grass even when your knees wobble and Zayne has to catch you, laughing into your hair.

Taking blurry, ridiculous photos with his phone — him pulling faces, you struggling to keep a straight one.

You are tired beyond words when you return to the hospital — every muscle aching, your chest tight with strain — but you are happy.

So unbearably, blissfully happy.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you belonged to the world.

Like maybe you could carve a little piece of it for yourself after all.

But happiness, you learn, is a fragile thing.

Easily shattered.

Easily lost.

It starts slowly.

Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.

A missed heartbeat here.

A dizzy spell there.

Nothing serious.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

But soon it’s undeniable.

You don’t want to worry Zayne.

You don’t want to darken the light he’s given you.

You can’t catch your breath after simple movements.

Your fingers tremble when you try to hold a fork.

Your chest burns with a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of oxygen seems to soothe.

Zayne notices, of course.

He’s not stupid.

And he’s terrified.

The night you collapse in your room — monitors screaming, nurses rushing in a panic — Zayne shoves through the crowd like a force of nature, wild-eyed and desperate.

He’s the one who grabs your hand as they work frantically around you. He’s the one who keeps whispering your name, again and again, like he can anchor you here just by speaking it.

"Don’t," he chokes out, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. "Don’t you dare give up. Not now."

You’re so tired.

God, you’re so tired.

Your vision flickers, the world tilting dangerously, but you find his face — blurry, beautiful — and focus on him with everything you have left.

"I’m so close," he says, begging now. "I’m almost there. Just a little longer — I swear — I’ll find a way —"

You smile.

Small. Broken.

You feel your heart weaken again — a tangible, physical slip inside your ribcage — but you hold his gaze.

You don’t have the strength for promises you can’t keep.

But you can give him this:

"I’ll try," you whisper.

It’s the truth.

It’s everything you can offer.

And it’s enough to make his fingers tighten around yours like he can hold you here by sheer force of will.

Like maybe love alone could be enough to save you.

It’s snowing again.

But not like before.

Not like rooftop snow under hospital lights, summoned from Evol and desperation.

This snow is real — thick, heavy flakes falling from a grey sky, the kind you can lose yourself in.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, open field. Everything around you is blanketed in pure white.

And he’s there.

Zayne.

Not in a lab coat. Not with tired eyes and trembling hands. But whole.

Bright.

Smiling that rare, breathtaking smile he saves only for you.

"You made it," he says, voice warm as he reaches for you.

You laugh — really laugh — the sound echoing across the empty field like a song.

Your body moves easily, no wires tethering you, no weight dragging at your limbs.

You run to him.

You run.

He catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off your feet in a dizzying, laughing spin.

"You kept your promise," you murmur against his shoulder.

"I told you," he says simply, "I'd show you everything."

You don’t want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

And so you don’t.

You stay like that — pressed against him, his heartbeat steady and sure under your palm — as the snow falls heavier, swirling around you like a blessing.

You close your eyes.

You dream bigger.

You see it all — the tiny apartment, the noisy neighbors, the stupid cat knocking over potted plants.

Burnt pancakes in the morning.

Train tickets to everywhere.

Laughing on crowded streets in cities you can't even pronounce.

Wedding rings slipped onto shaking fingers.

A life.

A real, messy, miraculous life.

With him.

Always, with him.

And for one shining, impossible moment—you believe.

You believe you’ll live long enough to see it.

You believe you already have.

The world is harsh when it drags you back.

Cold.

Bright.

Noisy.

You blink against the glare of fluorescent lights, the steady beeping of machines surrounding you.

The familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic stings your nose.

ICU.

Again.

You shift slightly — everything aches — and feel the tug of new wires and IVs threaded into your skin.

And then —

Warmth.

A hand.

Wrapped around yours.

You turn your head with effort.

And find him there.

Zayne.

Slumped in a chair too small for him, still in his hospital scrubs, dark circles bruising his eyes.

Sleeping.

But even in sleep, he doesn’t let go of you.

His hand is firm, steady, fingers laced with yours like a lifeline.

You watch him — your heart aching with something too big, too fierce to name.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare wake him.

And that’s enough.

Because for now — for this fragile, precious moment — you are still here.

He is still here.

—

You don’t know how long you just lie there, feeling his hand wrapped tightly around yours, listening to the steady blip of your own heartbeat on the monitors.

Eventually, he stirs.

You’re so tired.

But you're also… at peace.

A soft, broken noise leaves him — like even sleep can’t protect him from whatever war he’s fighting inside.

And when his eyes blink open, dazed and bloodshot, they land on you immediately.

As if he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks again.

For a moment, he just stares.

As if he doesn't quite believe you’re real.

"Hey," you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His face crumples.

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurts.

You manage a smile — small, but real.

"You're awake," he breathes, voice wrecked with relief and exhaustion.

"God — you're awake."

"I wasn’t gonna miss your dramatic collapse," you joke, because you have to. Because the alternative — the raw fear in his eyes — is too much to bear.

It works, a little.

A huff of helpless laughter shudders out of him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters against your knuckles, his breath shaking.

"You scare me all the time," you tease, lighter now, though your chest aches with every word. "But I’m still here."

He lifts his head, looking at you like you're something sacred.

"You have to stay," he says fiercely. "You have to — just a little longer —please —I'm so close —I swear—"

Your heart twists.

You wish you could bottle it up and drink it, let it heal you from the inside out.

He’s been saying that for so long.

So many promises.

So much hope.

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the stubble that wasn't there yesterday.

"I know," you whisper. "I know you're trying. I’m trying, too."

Your hand falls back to the bed, too heavy to hold up.

His hand follows immediately, cradling it again like he can shield you from the whole world.

"I can’t lose you," he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, desperate and tender all at once.

"You won't," you whisper.

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

But it’s a kind lie.

The kind you tell someone when love outweighs truth.

His eyes glisten, wet and angry and afraid.

"You’re going to live," he says, like it’s a fact.

Like he can will it into existence.

You smile again — soft and sad and full of all the things you don't have the strength to say.

"I'll make sure of it," he vows, fierce and breaking.

"I’ll tear the world apart if I have to."

Even now, when your body feels like it’s slipping further away from you with every beat.

You believe him.

You always believe him.

Even now, when you know some promises are too big for this world.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

"I love you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

The first and — you know — maybe the last.

He lets out a broken, shuddering sound, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

"I love you more," he whispers back, trembling.

"I love you enough to move heaven and earth if that's what it takes."

You close your eyes.

You let yourself believe it.

Just for a little while longer.

Just until the morning comes.

The days bleed together in a haze of too-bright mornings and too-quiet nights.

Sometimes you’re strong enough to sit up, to laugh a little when he brings you sweets hidden in his bag, the ones the nurses pretend not to see.

Sometimes you can’t even lift your head.

But he never leaves.

Zayne is there through all of it — a constant, stubborn presence.

He drags a battered medical textbook everywhere he goes, flipping through it with growing desperation between moments spent at your side.

You catch him muttering to himself sometimes — notes, formulas, theories — a language only he and the universe seem to understand.

His eyes never lose that fierce, determined light. Not even when the others — the nurses, the doctors, even his father — start looking at you with that pitying softness usually reserved for lost causes.

Zayne refuses.

Refuses to believe you are anything less than a miracle still waiting to happen.

And for a while, you let him.

You let yourself believe it too.

You dream together — quietly, in snatches of exhausted conversation.

Little things.

You fall asleep with his hand in yours, and for a moment, you almost think you’ll wake up to that future.

Trips you’ll take.

Places you’ll see.

A life waiting just beyond the next sunrise.

Almost.

It happens in the middle of the night.

At first, it's nothing.

A shiver.

A slight breathlessness.

You're used to it. You think you’ll ride it out like all the others.

But then the pain hits.

A blinding, seizing agony in your chest that knocks the air from your lungs.

You’re distantly aware of Zayne shouting — your name over and over—his voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before.

Monitors shriek.

Nurses rush in.

The world explodes into chaos.

You try to find him — try to reach out — but your limbs are so heavy, your vision swimming.

You catch one glimpse — just one — of him being dragged back by hospital staff, his face twisted in a raw, desperate kind of terror that tears something deep inside you.

But you can’t speak.

You want to tell him it’s okay.

You want to tell him you’re not afraid.

You can’t even breathe.

And as the darkness rushes up to meet you —you think, faintly —

I’m sorry.

He’s still holding your hand.

Hours later, long after the machines have fallen silent.

Long after the nurses have cried quietly behind the curtains.

Long after his father stood at the door, silent and broken, and then walked away because he couldn't bear to watch his son shatter.

Zayne is still there.

Head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Your hand cradled in both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Come on," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. "Come on — you promised. You said you’d try —"

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing you in like maybe he can still find some piece of you, some lingering spark that he can fan back to life.

"You can't leave yet," he says, broken. "I’m not ready — I’m not—"

The words dissolve into a rough, gasping sob.

It’s not fair.

You were supposed to have more time.

You were supposed to see the world, to laugh and dance and live.

You were supposed to have a lifetime — not just borrowed days.

Zayne buries his face against your cold fingers.

He doesn’t care who sees.

Doesn’t care if it’s undignified or messy or hopeless.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Enough to move mountains.

Enough to break himself into pieces trying to save you.

Enough to hold onto you, even now — even when the world is cruel enough to have taken you away.

"I’m sorry," he chokes out against your skin. "I’m so sorry — I wasn’t enough —"

It isn't true. You would have told him that if you could. You would have told him he was always enough.

But all that's left is silence.

Zayne stays there, long after the world outside your hospital room forgets.

Long after the snow he once summoned for you has melted away.

Long after the rest of the universe moves on.

Just like you.

He stays.

Because love doesn’t vanish with the heart that carried it. It lingers—stubborn and beautiful and devastating —like the first snowfall on a summer night.

The rooftop hasn’t changed much.

Zayne stands there now, a tall figure in a dark coat, hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.

The same cracked tiles underfoot.

The same rusted railings.

The same battered bench, where once — a lifetime ago — two dreamers sat and imagined a future they could almost touch.

It’s snowing.

Soft, heavy flakes drifting down from a sky the color of mourning doves.

The night he watched you dance in the middle of summer, your laughter lighting up the world more than any stars ever could.

Exactly the way it did that night.

The night he made it snow for you.

His throat tightens.

He tilts his head back, lets the snow kiss his skin.

Lets the memories wash over him — sharp and tender all at once.

The wind whistles softly around him, as if in agreement.

"You'd hate this," he murmurs to the empty air, a wry smile ghosting across his face.

"You always said snow was pretty, but cold was overrated."

He closes his eyes.

He can almost see you — spinning in the falling snow, hands outstretched, that shy, luminous smile you only ever showed him.

Almost.

Zayne shifts, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small, delicate bouquet.

Not flowers.

Paper cranes.

Hand-folded, each one painstakingly creased.

A thousand wishes, a thousand promises.

He sets them carefully on the bench.

A silent offering to the girl who once taught him what it meant to dream — even if dreams don’t always come true.

"I did it," he says quietly, voice rough.

"I kept my promise."

He swallows hard, staring out into the snowy city lights.

"I couldn’t save you," he admits, the old grief still a raw, tender thing inside him. "But I saved others."

Hundreds of them.

Patients who would have died, now living because of the research, the surgeries, the relentless fire you lit inside him.

Because of you.

Always because of you.

Zayne breathes in deep, the cold burning his lungs, grounding him.

"I hope... wherever you are," he says, soft and sure, "you're proud."

The snow falls heavier now, blurring the edges of the world.

Zayne stands there a little longer, letting the silence wrap around him like a memory, like a prayer.

Finally, he turns to leave.

But before he goes, he glances back one last time —and for just a heartbeat —he thinks he sees you.

He doesn't blink.

Standing there in the snow, smiling.

Weightless. Free.

He just smiles back, tears blurring the world into stars.

"Happy anniversary, angel," he says.

And then he walks away, carrying you with him — in every beat of his heart.

Always.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Hello would it be possible to do a dick Grayson x reader at the beginning he dates her just to make his ex jealous when he get back with his ex he relise that he fell in love with her so he’s trying to win her back at the end they get back together

Could you also add a moment where dick get jealous and a pov of him. I love some angst moments

Sure is!! Sorry this took so long to get to, I'm in the galapagos islands rn and college has been kicking my ass and winning

Pft, Whatever.

Jealous! Dick Grayson x Reader

Not real warnings other than a bit of angst and a ton of unfaithfulness😋

It was some rainy thursday when you met him.

You were trying to balance two paper coffee cups and your phone while wrestling your umbrella into submission when someone cought it just before the wind did. A smooth voice asked, “Need a hand?” You look up—and there he was.

Dick Grayson.

Letting him help was probably the worst decision of your life.

He was clothed a Gotham University hoodie and sweats, the kind of outfit that shouldn’t look good on anyone and somehow looked sculpted on him. His entire presence was almost like that of a Greek statue. He flashed you a smile, all effortless charm and dimpled mischief, and you were momentarily stunned silent.

“Thanks,” you managed, handing him one of the coffee cups in silent thanks while you got your umbrella under control. Stupid rain. You probably wouldn't have even met if it weren't for the crappy Gotham weather.

“No problem. You looked like you were about to enter mortal combat with that thing.”

You laughed- it was instinctive, disarming. You could feel yourself flushing a little as you took the cup back. He didn't walk away, though. Instead, he stood beside you for a moment, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, glancing up at the stormy sky like it told a joke only he heard.

“Name’s Dick,” he mentioned finally, offering his hand as his eyes met yours again.

You took it. Rooky move. “I know,” you said. “I’ve seen you on the news. And—well—everywhere.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty. You?”

You told him your name, and you were honestly surprised by the way he repeater it, like he was rolling it over in his mouth to make sure it fit. You didn't expect him to remember it.

He did.

You didn't date immediately. At first, it was chance meetings. He showed up at your usual coffee spot. He passed by your bookstore window and waves. Sometimes he'd leave sticky notes on your bike seat—doodles, silly jokes, an occasional riddle. Always signed, “Grayson.”

By the time he asked you out, it felt inevitable.

Your first date was in a quiet rooftop garden above a city building you didn’t even know existed. He brought you takeout—real takeout, greasy Chinese boxes and everything—and you sat on the ledge watching the traffic below, listening to him tell stories you could barely believe were true. You didn't talk about his past or anything heavier than favorite childhood cartoons and worst first dates.

You thought, maybe, he was exactly what you needed. Maybe he saw you as someone real, not a headline or a rebound.

Maybe.

Three weeks in, you woke up to him making breakfast in your kitchen shirtless, humming something familiar. You watched him for a moment—he looks happy. You felt safe. Which, for the record, was a good sign since it was his first time staying the night. You don't think any of your past relationships started off so well, and you certaintly weren't treated breakfast in bed before Dick.

But then came the gala.

You were his date, of course. He introduced you to Bruce, to Tim, to Lucius. All you could do was try your best not to gape at the glittering crowd. Everything felt like a dream, like you were floating on clouds with Dick's arm looped aroynd yours—until she walked in.

She was wearing a red dress that made her look like she stepped off the cover of a high-fashion espionage novel. Her hair was swept to the side in effortless curls, and when her eyes meet Dick’s across the room, you could something in your chest tighten, like the strings of a sharp being tuned just a tad too much. Like the music they played was bound to be off.

You expected her to stay across the room.

You hoped.

She didn't.

“Dick,” she greeted with a voice that was both warm and pointed, her pupils dialating just that slight bit as their eyes met. Then her eyes flicked to you. “And you are?”

You told her your name, smiled, extended a hand. She shook it, but it felt more like a test than a greeting, like she was waiting for it to be wrong. Her hand lingered on Dick’s arm when she laughed at his dumb attempts to start a conversation between the three of you, and your blood simmered a degree hotter every time she touched him.

Everything just felt... Off. Like there was a bit more to their past than he was willing to tell you.

Later that night, in the car, it just felt too heavy. The air was too thick, too hot, and making it feep like your chest was being pressed in against your lungs and heart. “She gets too touchy for my liking.”

It was silent before- not comfortable, but certainly not the worst thing you've experienced with a guy.

Dick glanced at you and laughed—laughed. “Babs? That’s just how she is.”

“Yeah. With you.”

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes filled with a plea you'd realize later to be complete bullshit before they flickered back to the city streets. “There’s nothing going on between us. Trust me.”

You tried. God, you tried.

You started noticing patterns after that.

The way Dick texts you less when she’s in town. The way he talks about her in the past tense but lights up in the present. The times he cancels your plans with vague excuses that don’t quite add up.

Then comes the night you find the photo.

It’s not even hidden—just tagged on some socialite’s Instagram. Barbara in Dick’s lap, laughing, champagne in hand. His face close to hers. Intimate. Intertwined. Far more emotional than anything he's given you before.

"I was under the impression we were exclusive."

It's a pety text, you know, but there's not much else to do while curled up on your couch near tears over a stupid social media post. Some part of you just hoped it was old, just something that resurfaced once the public started seeing you together just to rile you both up.

But then you saw the chain you got for his birthday dangling from around his neck, pressed right against her cleavage.

He doesn't even respond until nearly 20 minutes later. "Can I come over?"

You almost didn't respond. Hell, you almost didn't see the message from "Birdy Boy💙" through the salty liquid gathering in your tear ducts.

But you did. "Make it quick."

It took him nearly an hour to make it to your apartment.

He blames it on traffic.

You know what he was doing. You know exactly what kind of game he's playing. But deep down, some shriveled part of you tries to believe him.

He doesn’t lie, not exactly. He says he didn’t mean to hurt you. That things with Barbara have always been complicated. That it wasn’t supposed to go this far.

“What wasn’t?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest as you stand in the living room of your apartment. Your throat is raw, and the room is dim. Typically, there would be a much more intimate reason for both of those situations.

He’s silent for a long time, the only sounds coming out of him being his soft breaths. Its rhythmatic, the rise and fall of his chest. It's nearly the same as all the times you've watched it while he slept. “I thought… maybe if she saw me happy, she’d move on. Or maybe—maybe she’d realize she wanted me again.”

He might as well have just taken out your hesrt right there, squeezed it, thrown it to the ground, spat on it, then stomoed it to pieces right there. Your chest is too tight to do anything, your heart pressing against your bones as your ears ring and vision gets slightly misty with tears that just won't fall.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“So what was I?” you ask finally, voice trembling. You hate that sound. It feels weak, vulnerable... Like he can see right through the calm face you're trying so desperately to keep on. “Your bait? Your mirror?”

He doesn’t answer with anything other than just a short exhale that brings shudders through your spine.

You didn’t need him to. "Get out."

And, for a moment, you catch a glimpse of hesitation in his beautiful blue eyes, a glimpse of something real. But as soon as your eyes meet, he's turning around to leave. As his feet make silent steps toward your apartment door, he slips something out of his pocket and onto your table- the silver chain you got for his birthday.

You don't wait for the door to be fully closed to break down, the sobs racking your body before you even realize they're coming. It's subconscious, the way you still practically chase him like a kicked puppy that just can't get enough until your knees finally give out in front of the door.

You know he's still on the other side, probably mirroring your position sat on the ground leaned against it. You can hear a sharp, shuddering inhale from him just like he can hear your sobs.

You want to open the door. But you don't. Neither of you do.

You didn’t sleep that night.

After Dick left—after the weight of everything he didn’t say sinks into your skin—you sit on the couch, staring into the empty corner where he usually leaves his jacket. The silence in the room presses in like a second heartbeat. You think about every smile, every laugh, every night you thought he looked at you like you were irreplaceable.

He had looked through you the whole time.

You don’t cry again until morning.

And when you do, it’s not soft. It’s gut-deep, shaking, angry crying. It’s the kind of heartbreak you didn’t expect, not this soon, not from someone who had held your hand like it meant something.

He texts once, the next day.

“I’m sorry. You deserve better than what I gave you.”

You stare at the words. You reread them. You can hear his voice saying them in your head. But you don’t respond. Because you do deserve better. You just wish you hadn’t had to figure that out this way.

A week later, the headlines break:

Billionaire's Sonand Commissioner's Daughter Back Together Again! Gotham’s Golden Couple Reunited?

You don’t even click the article.

But the image—her arms wrapped around his neck, his forehead resting against hers—it’s enough.

He never officially ended things with you. But the message is clear. So you pack up the last sweatshirt he left at your place, the book he lent you, the coffee mug he joked was his “claim to your kitchen.” You put it all in a box. You set it outside your door. You stare at it for much longer than you'd ever like yo admit, even two yourself.

You send one message. "Come get your things. That’s the last favor I’ll do for you."

You don’t wait to see if he replies. His number is blocked as soon as the message goes through.

You didn't expect to meet anyone for a long time. You weren't even looking.

But then there was someone.

He's quieter than Dick, a little awkward, but honest in a way that feels grounding. He listens. He asks questions. He doesn't flinch when you mention past wounds, and he never makes you feel like you’re a stand-in for someone else.

With him, things are simple. Peaceful. You don’t lie awake wondering if you’re being compared to a ghost.

When he touches you, it’s tender.

When he kisses you, it’s now.

Dick finds out in the most predictable way: he sees you at a café, holding his hand across the table, laughing.

You don’t even notice him at first. But he notices you, and his heart is practically crushed under a ton of concrete.

You see him that night, waiting by your building’s entrance. Leaning against the wall, the hood of his favorite blue jacket up, jaw tight. You stop walking when you see him.

“What are you doing here, Dick?”

His voice is quieter than you expected, like there's too much tension in the air for him to even utter the words he's thought of a thousand times over since the last time you both spoke. “I wanted to talk.”

You cross your arms, letting out a soft scoff. You're not about to fall for his bullshit again “We don’t really talk anymore, remember?”

He flinches as if he's actually been hurt by your words, but presses on without hesitation. “Is he your boyfriend?”

You blink, completely dumbfounded by the sudden question. Part of you is angry he knows so much about your private life. Another part of you almost wishes he'd do something about what he knows. “Wow. That’s what this is about? You’re keeping tabs on me now?”

“I just—” He drags a hand through his hair, the strands still smooth and black against his skin before letting out a curt sigh. “It’s weird. Seeing you with someone else.”

You step closer, enough for him to hear the edge in your voice. “You’re with Barbara.”

He hesitates, truly hesitates, for the first time since you met. “Yeah. But—”

“No.” Your voice cracks like ice, sending shivers right down Dick's spine. “You don’t get to ‘but’ me, Dick. You made your choice. I wasn’t even your first one.”

His gaze drops, blue eyes meeting the pavement faster than a cannon to the ground.

“I loved you,” your tone is caving, and you feel it down to your bones. Your knees are almost ready to give out on you like the night he left. “I gave you the best parts of me. And you used me to win someone else.”

“That’s not fair—”

“It’s exactly fair,” you snap, raising your voice far more than you ever have at Dick before. “And now that I’m finally happy—actually happy—you think you can just show up and claim a place in my life again?”

“I made a mistake,” he says, shoulders shrugging as if the admission was something so obvious to himself. “A huge one. I thought I needed her back, but what I needed was you. You grounded me. You made me feel real again.”

You stare at him for a long moment. His face is open. Honest. And for a heartbeat, you remember everything good between you.

But then you remember how quickly he gave it away. How quick he was to use your kindness and love to get Barbara back.

“You don’t get to realize that now,” you whisper, the sound nearly carried away by the ambiance of Gotham City around your apartment building. “Not when I’ve already picked up the pieces.”

He reaches for your hand, but you step back to put in the code to your apartment, which, by the way, has certainly changed since the last time you two spoke.

“Goodbye, Dick.”

Masterlist

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMARRY HER ANYWAY * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where the triplets and Y/N are going to a friend's wedding and with that a TikTok is recorded and sweet promises are made.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

I'm gonna marry her anyway

(Marry that girl) marry her anyway

The muffled beat of Rude by MAGIC! floated through Chris’s bedroom, blending with the soft hum of Y/N’s movements as she stood in front of the large bathroom mirror. The light bounced off the golden hoops she was fastening into her ears, her delicate fingers working quickly. Her dress shimmered faintly under the bright bathroom light, its fabric flowing elegantly around her as she shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other.

She hummed softly to the music, a content smile on her lips as she inspected herself one last time.

From the door that separated the bathroom to the bedroom, Chris leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, watching her with a fondness that made his chest tighten. His black suit fit him perfectly, but he hadn’t bothered to put on his tie yet, letting it hang lazily around his neck.

The sight of Y/N, so effortlessly beautiful and glowing in the warm bathroom light, made him forget about everything else - like the fact that they were running late.

Unable to resist, he pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her, his footsteps covered in white socks barely audible over the music.

Y/N didn’t notice him until she felt the warm press of his chest against her back, his arms sliding around her waist and pulling her close, interrupting her actions. The fabric of her dress brushed against his exposed forearms - caused by his rolled up sleeves, soft and smooth, tickling his skin.

"Chris." She said, a laugh already in her voice as she glanced at him in the mirror. "We’re going to be late."

"I don’t care." He murmured, his voice low and slightly raspy. He rested his chin on her shoulder for a moment, his eyes locked on her reflection. She looked radiant, her features lit with that subtle glow only she had.

She loved weddings.

His nose brushed against the shell of her ear, the freshly fastened earring cool against his skin. She shivered slightly at the sensation, her breath hitching just a bit. Chris smiled, pressing a soft kiss just behind her ear, where her pulse thrummed steadily beneath her skin.

"Is this new?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His lips ghosted over her neck as he peppered light kisses down to her shoulder and back up again. "You smell different. Good."

"Givenchy." Y/N replied, her voice teasing as her lips curled into a grin. "And stop that, you're going to make me all flustered before the wedding."

Chris chuckled, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against her temple.

"Flustered? Y/N, you’ve got me over here, acting like a lovesick fool. You should see yourself in the mirror. How am I supposed to focus on anything else when you look like this?"

She rolled her eyes playfully, shaking her head as she turned her face slightly to catch his reflection.

"You’re so whipped." She teased, a laugh bubbling out of her as she met his gaze in the mirror.

"I'm whipped." He agreed, tightening his hold on her waist. "Completely. Helplessly. Totally. Do you blame me?" He tilted his head to kiss her cheek, the warmth of his lips lingering on her skin.

Y/N laughed, tilting her head back slightly to look at him directly, with no mirror in the way.

"You’re such a sap." She said, her tone light but affectionate.

"And you're breathtaking." He countered easily, his voice genuine. "So who's really the problem here?"

Their laughter filled the small bathroom, blending with the tail end of MAGIC!'s song. They stayed like that for a moment, basking in each other’s warmth before a loud voice broke through from upstairs.

"Guys!" Nick’s shout echoed up the stairs. "We’re already late, and Matt's threatening to leave without you two! Come on, we need to film the TikTok!"

Chris groaned, his head dropping to Y/N’s shoulder dramatically.

"I'm about to lock the door and tell them we're staying home." He grumbled.

Y/N swatted his arm lightly, pulling away from his hold but giving him a quick kiss on the jaw first.

"You're ridiculous. Let's go before they actually leave us behind."

With one last longing glance, Chris sighed and grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together before bringing it to his mouth, caressing her soft skin with his warm lips.

"Fine."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The TikTok begins with Nick standing in front of the camera. He reaches out and clicks the record button, taking a moment to adjust his posture. Trying to keep a serious expression, he bows slightly, hands exaggeratedly gesturing to his light grey suit as if he’s presenting himself on a red carpet. He takes a step back, his shiny brown dress shoes scuffing lightly on the hardwood floor.

The background music - Club Penguin's Pizza Parlor tune - adds an ironic charm to it all, giving it a playful vibe despite the formal one.

Chris, standing to the left in the black suit that fits like it was made for him, follows Nick’s lead and backs away from the camera. His Balenciaga belt peeks out as he adjusts his freshly tied tie - Y/N insisted on doing it. His gaze shifts from his brothers to Y/N, who's standing by the stairs.

She looks stunning, her dress an elegant pastel shade of dusty rose with a slight shimmer. The bodice is fitted, embroidered with lace, while the skirt flows gracefully to just above her ankles, giving the look a modern yet timeless vibe. Thin straps hold the dress in place, showing off her collarbones and the delicate gold necklace matching her earrings. On her feet are nude heels with crisscross straps, simple but chic.

She catches Chris’s smirk and raises an eyebrow at him, amused by his antics at trying to look like a 007 agent.

Little did he know that he just looked like a bodyguard.

Chris shifts his attention to his polished black shoes, pretending to inspect them before turning to Matt, who stands beside him. Matt's also dressed in a sharp black suit, but unlike Chris, he’s opted for black sunglasses. He lifts his wrist dramatically to glance at it, as though checking the time on a non-existent watch, his face the picture of mock seriousness, causing Y/N to roll her eyes before pretending to peak at the "time" from above his shoulder.

Chris, also seeming not to be amused by his brother's act, extends a hand toward him. Matt glances at it, playing along for a beat before clasping it in a firm handshake.

Chris turns to Nick, offering him the same handshake. Nick accepts, pulling Chris in slightly before releasing his grip and looking back to the camera. With that done, Chris straightens his suit, smoothing the fabric as if he’s prepping for a mission. His movements are almost exaggerated.

Finally, Chris turns to Y/N. His hand extends toward her, palm up, and fingers curled slightly in invitation. His eyes glimmer with mischief and undeniable affection as he exaggerates the gesture, making it impossible for her to ignore. Y/N hesitates for a moment, a smile playing on her red tinted lips, before placing her hand in his, her manicured nails shining below the cold light.

Chris gently pulls her toward the center, stepping back to make room for her between him and his brothers. Once she’s positioned, he spins her gently, the soft fabric of her dress flaring out briefly with the movement. His gaze follows her every step, his expression one of complete adoration, like he’s seeing her for the first time all over again.

If his eyes could turn into hearts, they would.

Nick, standing to her right, catches the lovestruck look on Chris’s face and rolls his eyes dramatically. The motion is perfectly timed, and the TikTok ends there, freezing the frame on Nick’s mocking reaction and Y/N laughing happily to Chris as the music fades out.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The soft murmur of the crowd faded into silence as the couple standing at the altar began their vows. The golden light of the late afternoon bathed the wooden room, pouring in through the grand windows, casting an ethereal glow over the scene.

Y/N sat wrapped in Chris’s arms, her back pressed against his chest as they stood near the back of the room, watching the moment unfold like a scene from a romance movie from the 2000's.

The bride’s voice quivered with emotion as she spoke, her words of love and commitment filling the air. Beside her, the groom’s expression was one of pure adoration, his eyes shining as he hung on every syllable. The child holding the rings - a sweet girl with wide green eyes and soft brown curls - stood between them, clutching the tiny velvet pillow with the gold bands resting neatly on top.

Y/N couldn’t tear her gaze away. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, her lips curved into a soft, dreamy smile that made her entire face glow. She could feel her heart swelling with every heartfelt word exchanged, and her stomach fluttered as though it had grown wings. The love in the room was almost tangible, surrounding them in its warmth and purity.

Chris tightened his arms around her, his strong, steady frame grounding her between her crazy emotions. His pale cheek rested lightly against her temple, and she felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest behind her. The steady rhythm of his breathing was a comforting anchor.

He noticed how her chest rose and fell more quickly than usual, her breath hitching every so often.

A smile curled on his face as he lowered his head slightly, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of her ear as he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"You’re glowing, you know that?" He murmured, his words melting into her skin.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and she turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes with a shy smile.

"It’s just so beautiful." She whispered back, her voice trembling with emotion. "This is everything."

Chris’s lips quirked into a soft, knowing smile as he pressed a kiss just above her ear, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her hip.

"One day, it’ll be us up there." He murmured, his voice low and full of promises that he couldn't verbalize right now, but Y/N understood perfectly.

Her breath caught, and she blinked up at him, her wide, shining eyes searching his for any hint of teasing. But there was none, only sincerity and a quiet certainty that took her breath away.

Chris leaned closer, his lips brushing against her temple, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

"One day, I’ll be the one standing at the altar, watching you walk down the aisle, looking like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen." He whispered. "And then we’ll say our vows, exchange our rings... and maybe, if we're lucky, we’ll have a couple of kids holding them for us."

Her heart stuttered, a quiet gasp escaping her lips as she turned fully in his arms, her hands resting against his chest.

"Chris." She whispered, her voice shaky as the tears in her eyes blurred her whole vision.

He cupped her face gently, his thumbs brushing the corner of her eyes.

"I mean it, Y/N." He said softly, his blue eyes steady and unwavering. "You’re it for me. I can’t imagine my life without you. So one day, when we’re ready, we’ll make this dream yours. Ours."

A single tear slipped down her cheek, and Chris caught it with a kiss, his lips warm against her skin.

"You’ll marry me?" She asked, her voice barely audible as her fingers curled into the lapels of his suit.

"One day." He promised, his forehead resting against hers. "And every day after that, I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you the way you deserve. My pretty future bride."

Before she could respond, the sound of applause brought them back to the present moment. The couple at the altar had exchanged rings, their love sealed with a kiss, and the room erupted in celebration.

Y/N turned back toward the altar, leaning back into Chris’s embrace as her heart soared. She rested her head against his chest, his arms tightening around her protectively as they watched the newlyweds bask in the glow of their love.

As the music swelled and laughter filled the air, Y/N knew with absolute certainty that her dream wasn’t just a fantasy anymore, it was her future, and it was standing right there, holding her as if he’d never let go.

(Marry that girl) yeah, no matter what you say

(Marry that girl) and we'll be a family

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Extra - TikTok comments:

"WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY'RE AUDITIONING FOR MEN IN BLACK??? 💀"

"nick's "bow" is sending me, he really said 007 but make it goofy"

"mission: look hotter than the groom and the bride, and they're succeeding"

"CAN WE TALK ABOUT Y/N?!?! Like, HELLO??? she's glowing. that dress was MADE for her"

"chris looking at Y/N like she painted the stars in the sky. I'm SCREAMING, I NEED THAT RIGHT NOW!"

"chris's eyes literally turn into hearts when he’s with her, I can't 😭"

"they're not even married yet, but I know their wedding is going to break the internet"

"MATT PRETENDING TO CHECK HIS NONEXISTENT WATCH 💀 sir, we see you!!"

"chris straightening his suit before asking for Y/N’s hand... I’m unwell. he’s so dramatic and in love, it’s disgusting (I’m obsessed)"

"chris pulling Y/N into the middle like she’s the main event because she IS"

"who cares about the wedding they’re going to, chris and Y/N ARE the wedding"

"nick's eye roll at the end was SO on brand. he's like 'we get it, Chris, you’re in love, move on' LMAO"

"chris and Y/N are going to make the prettiest married couple, no one can convince me otherwise"

"Nick: suave

Matt: stoic

Chris: Y/N is the love of my life, and I need the world to know."

© vanteguccir