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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

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Hey first off I love your works they are absolutely amazing and I was wondering if you can do something for Kimi Antonelli where he is dating Lewis Hamiltons daughter and the have been dating for 3 years now sense they were 15 and they have a 1 year old daughter but nobody but family and close friends know about them dating and having a baby but then one day something happens and it somehow got out that they are dating and have a baby so sense that happened mom and baby end up going to a race and they interact with everybody at the paddock?

Little Secrets, Big Hearts - KA12

masterlist

At fifteen, Kimi Antonelli and Lewis Hamilton’s daughter met in secret — two legacies forged in fire, hiding from the world in each other. For three years, they built a life in silence: love, distance, victory, and eventually a baby girl. Their daughter’s birth was kept private, shielded from the spotlight, known only to a sacred few. But when leaked photos expose their family, the world explodes with curiosity. Instead of hiding, they step into the paddock as a unit — mother, father, child — facing the chaos head-on. What follows is a frenzy of reactions from drivers and team principals, awe and disbelief crashing together as the truth becomes undeniable. In the end, with Lewis's support and the paddock rallying around them, they reclaim their space as a family. Visible. Untouchable. Unafraid.

Warnings canon-divergent timeline, secret relationship, secret baby, teenage parenthood, implied first love, media leak, public exposure, emotional vulnerability, intense fluff, soft chaos, protective Lewis Hamilton, father-daughter dynamics, family themes, paddock gossip, minor jealousy, baby cuteness overload, romantic kiss, found family energy.

It started like something out of a movie. They were fifteen when they first met. Kimi Antonelli: the prodigy of Italian motorsport, already fast-tracked toward a Formula 1 seat. And her, Lewis Hamilton’s daughter, hidden from the public eye by design. She was protected, shielded, fiercely loved but rarely seen. No interviews, no press, no public appearances unless carefully planned by her parents. She was the product of a lifetime of scrutiny and a father who swore the world wouldn’t eat her alive like it tried to do to him.

And still, somehow, she found Kimi. Or rather, he found her. It was a rainy afternoon in Brackley, in one of the simulator lounges at Mercedes HQ. Toto had invited Lewis to watch a promising junior test, and Lewis, half-laughing, half-joking, brought his daughter along.

“She’s not allowed near the sim,” Lewis had said as he ruffled her curls. “Unless she plans to keep her hands off every single button.”

She had rolled her eyes. Kimi had stared. He didn’t mean to. But he was fifteen, and she was beautiful, and she looked at him like he wasn’t just another karting stat. He was stammering when he said hello. She was bold when she replied.

That was the beginning.

Over the next few months, they messaged. Quietly. Carefully. He didn’t have Instagram then, only WhatsApp and the Mercedes junior team group chat. They bonded over playlists, over racing, over long texts about what it felt like to have dreams so loud and people so invested in you they forgot you were human. She confided things she’d never told anyone. He told her she made him feel calm in a way nothing else ever did. She kissed him for the first time behind the team truck at Spa.

And then they were together.

Three years. Through everything. His rise through F2. Her gap year. His promotion to F1. Her quietly finishing uni online while keeping their secret. Every milestone, every race, every heartbreak, they did together. And when she got pregnant, it never even crossed her mind to run. She told him with shaking hands and watery eyes, terrified, not of him, but of what the world would do. He had kissed her, crying himself, and whispered, “We’ll do this. I want this. I want you. Both of you.”

Their daughter, a tiny thing with his eyes and her curls, was born just weeks after his first F1 test. Only a handful of people knew: Lewis. Susie. Toto. George and Carmen. Ollie Bearman, sworn to secrecy with his life. Kimi’s family. That was it. No public posts. No mentions. They weren’t trying to hide in shame, they were protecting what mattered most.

And somehow, for over a year, it worked. Until now.

The leak came suddenly. No warning. No lead-up. Just one blurry photo, Kimi holding a baby, shirtless, cradling her against his chest in what was clearly their kitchen. She was babbling. He was smiling. The image spread like wildfire.

"KIMI ANTONELLI: SECRETLY A FATHER AT 18?"

"WHO IS THE MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?"

And then the second photo hit: them together, walking out of their private villa in Tuscany, his hand on her lower back, the baby in a sling across her front, both of them laughing.

The paddock imploded. The PR teams scrambled. The fan accounts rioted. TikTok went feral. F1 Twitter didn’t sleep. Everyone had a theory. Every driver had to pretend they hadn’t known. Journalists couldn’t get enough.

But through it all, one thing stayed the same. They were a family.

So when the dust started to settle, when Kimi finally posted a single picture, a grainy polaroid of the three of them with the caption “mine.”, it was game over. The truth was out. And she was done hiding.

That’s why, the next weekend, they flew to the Grand Prix. All three of them. Kimi walked through the paddock hand in hand with his daughter’s mother. And slung across his chest, face buried in his t-shirt, was a curly-haired, smiley one-year-old wearing a tiny team lanyard and the tiniest little white bucket hat anyone had ever seen.

The chaos was immediate.

“No fucking way,” Pierre Gasly said, frozen mid-sip of his espresso as they passed.

“Wait-wait-IS THAT-?” Logan Sargeant gasped, nearly dropping his phone.

Charles Leclerc was already beaming. “I knew it,” he said proudly to Carlos. “I KNEW it.”

And the team principals? Oh, they were fighting for their lives. Toto looked smug as hell. Like a proud godfather watching his secret weapon arrive. Christian Horner blinked twice. “Did we know about this?” Fred Vasseur just laughed and muttered, “Charles is going to kill me for not warning him.”

Zak Brown damn near choked on his own gum when the baby reached for Kimi’s sunglasses.

And Lewis? He looked like he might cry.

Because when he saw them, the way she walked like she owned the paddock, the way Kimi glanced at her like he’d burn the world for her, the way his granddaughter cooed and clung to her mama’s shoulder, he realised they’d done it. Against all odds, all scrutiny, all expectation. They had built a real life. A hidden, sacred life.

“Hey,” she said, stopping in front of him, voice soft.

He pulled her into a hug. “You look good.”

“Terrified,” she whispered.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “You’ve got nothing to be scared of. You did this right. You both did.”

Beside them, their daughter giggled. Lewis offered her his finger. She took it with a fierce little grip.

“Definitely a Hamilton,” he joked. “She’s gonna rule the world.”

Kimi stepped up then, uncertain but respectful. “Hey, Hamilton.”

Lewis shook his head. “Hey Kid.”

And just like that, everything was okay. The paddock was already buzzing. Even before the cameras started rolling, before the pit lane crowd thickened and the first race engines fired up, there were murmurs, a shift in energy. Something was different. Something was coming.

And then it happened. Security parted like the sea, photographers whipped around, and for the first time since the news broke, the entire grid caught sight of her. Of them. Lewis Hamilton’s daughter. Kimi Antonelli’s secret girlfriend. And the baby.

She walked in slow, calm, unrushed, head high, one hand curled gently around her daughter’s hip, the other holding the toddler’s tiny backpack. Her black Prada sunglasses sat like armour. Her oversized Mercedes race jacket, Kimi’s, was zipped halfway over a baby-pink dress. Her hair was twisted into a clip, her shoes were flat, and her presence was thunder. She wasn’t just here. She belonged here. And no one knew how to behave.

Not when the one-year-old on her hip had Lewis Hamilton’s cheekbones, Kimi Antonelli’s curls, and a gummy, sunbeam smile that disarmed even the iciest of paddock staff.

It wasn’t until she entered the Mercedes garage, past security, past chaos, past journalists who didn’t even dare shout her name, that the whispers turned into what the fucks. Toto looked up from his notes and smiled instantly. She was greeted with hugs from half the engineering team and a quiet, affectionate “You’re early, principessa” from the old mechanic who had been there when Kimi was still karting.

The baby squealed as her mother set her down on the couch inside the hospitality, arms raised until Toto picked her up with surprising ease.

“I’ve seen how she looks at pasta,” Toto said, bouncing her on his hip like he’d done it a hundred times. “Definitely Lewis pushing the Ferrari lifestyle.”

And that was only the beginning.

The first driver to arrive was Oscar Piastri.

He walked into motorhome to say hi to George, only to freeze like someone had pulled a handbrake on his entire soul. “Wait, wait, wait-” he said, pointing between her and the baby. “Is that-?”

“Mhm,” she said, calm as ever. “Oscar, meet the real boss of the team.”

Oscar gawked. “She’s yours? Like… you and…?”

She nodded. “Me and Kimi.”

He blinked. Then blinked again. And then: “Okay but why is she cuter than every baby in the world?”

The baby reached for his ears. Oscar let her tug them. And then Lando arrived. He swaggered into the hospitality like he was born in a leather jacket and woke up on a yacht, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, pretending he didn’t know what was coming.

Until he saw the baby. And froze. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “You’re not kidding. She actually exists.”

“Of course she exists,” she said, already laughing. “She’s not a hologram.”

Lando looked between the baby, her curls, her tiny Ferrari socks, and then back at the reader with a completely wrecked expression. “Okay but like-like Kimi made her?”

“Kimi helped, yes.”

Lando blinked. “That’s so unfair. She’s cuter than both of you. No offence.”

“None taken.”

He leaned down and offered her a fist bump. The baby blinked, squished his knuckles with her whole palm, then giggled. Lando looked like he’d just witnessed god.

“Okay,” he said seriously, “I’m giving her a McLaren cap and telling everyone she’s mine.”

Toto looked up. “I will burn your entire team to the ground.”

Max Verstappen wasn’t far behind.

He entered looking grumpy, standard, until he noticed the crowd. “What’s going on here?” he muttered. And then he saw the baby. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” His face contorted. “You-you are the mystery baby??”

She tilted her head. “She’s a baby,” she deadpanned. “She doesn’t answer questions yet.”

Max stared. Then, weirdly… smiled. “She’s got your eyes.”

“I know.”

“Poor kid,” he teased, then ducked as the reader threw a breadstick at him.

Max stepped closer, studying the toddler. “She looks like Kimi. But like, nice. Like if Kimi was cuddly.”

“She is very cuddly,” she said. “Kimi? Not the baby.”

Max laughed. “I still can’t believe you kept this secret for years. Lewis must’ve-wait. Does Lewis know?”

“That's my grandchild, of course I know dickhead,” came a deep voice behind them.

Max turned around. Lewis. Already suited, sunglasses on, arms crossed like he’d seen the whole thing play out.

“Jesus,” Max muttered. “Is anyone going to survive this race weekend?”

“Doubt it,” Lewis said.

By the time Christian, Toto, Zak, James, Andrea, and Laurent arrived, there was no pretending anymore.

The whole paddock knew. Photographers were screaming. Paparazzi were stalking hospitality roofs. F1 Twitter had combusted three times in under an hour. Headlines were hitting live: “SECRET F1 BABY?!”, “ANTONELLI FAMILY REVEALED!”, “WHO IS SHE??”

She hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a walk through the paddock, just to let the world breathe her in for the first time not as Lewis Hamilton’s daughter, but as a mother. As Kimi’s partner. She was holding their daughter on her hip, soft curls pulled into a tiny half-up ponytail, cheeks flushed from the Monaco sun, and it was meant to be quick.

But the paddock didn’t let things go quickly. Not with something like this. The cameras hadn’t even caught their nameplates yet before Charles Leclerc was cutting across the media zone, hands up in surrender like he’d just spotted a sacred animal. Alexandra was with him, sleek dress, dark sunglasses, heels clicking, and she let out an audible gasp the second she saw the baby.

“You didn’t tell me she was this cute!” Alexandra cried, tugging off her glasses and crouching down immediately. The little girl blinked, suspicious, then reached out a hand toward Alexandra’s necklace.

“She likes you,” she said softly, shifting her daughter’s weight.

Charles beamed. “Smart girl.”

“Smarter than both of you combined,” Alexandra muttered, running her finger down the baby’s soft arm.

Charles turned to the reader, warm eyes flicking over her like he was trying to check if she was really here. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

Alexandra stood up and kissed her cheek. “I don’t care what anyone says, you’re iconic for keeping this private. If I had your face and your secrets, I’d do the same.”

A flash of laughter escaped her. “I think we just wanted her to be ours, you know? Before the world got their claws in.”

“She’s still yours,” Charles said, voice low. “No one gets to take that.”

They left reluctantly media duty, and next came Yuki Tsunoda, bouncing toward them like he was already half-caffeinated and high on sunshine. He nearly tripped over a cable trying to get to them.

“Oh my god,” he said, staring at the baby like he’d just walked into a Pixar movie. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like Kimi,” she corrected.

“She’s cuter than both of you.”

“Don’t let Kimi hear that,” she teased, but Yuki was already making faces at the baby, who stared back with big blinking eyes and an unimpressed scowl that was absolutely inherited from her father.

“She’s judging me,” Yuki whispered. “She’s so tiny and she already hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She has your bitch face. You’re both dangerous.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Fred Vasseur came next, flanked by his ever-present phone and a half-eaten pastry. He took one look at the baby and froze, then let out a sigh so dramatic it could have made Max Verstappen flinch.

“I should’ve known it was yours,” he muttered. “She’s got that Antonelli look. Serious. Suspicious.”

“She’s cautious,” she said proudly.

“She’s judging my coaching.”

“She doesn’t know you exist yet.”

Fred squinted at the child, then pointed at her cheek. “That mole? It’s going to be a killer when she’s fifteen. You’re all doomed.”

She laughed, bouncing her daughter gently. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Don’t. She’ll think I’m soft.”

“You are soft.”

Fred rolled his eyes and walked off, grumbling in French about babies with Ferrari-level cheekbones.

And then came the couple that made everyone shut up. Christian and Geri. They appeared like royalty, Christian in navy, Geri in red, and it was Geri who stopped dead in her heels when she saw the baby, one gloved hand flying to her chest like she’d been winded. “Oh… oh, she’s divine.”

Christian looked equally startled. “Bloody hell, that’s a Hamilton face.”

She stepped aside so they could see better. “Meet your newest paddock problem.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Geri whispered. “You’ve made something holy.”

“Is she as loud as Kimi?” Christian asked.

“Louder.”

“Terrifying.”

“She likes to throw spoons.”

Geri cooed. “So she’s already smarter than Christian.”

Christian sighed. “Tell me you’re going to let her race.”

“I’m trying not to,” she admitted.

“We all said that once,” Geri smiled knowingly. “Then they get a helmet and it’s over.”

Christian leaned closer. “If you let her drive Red Bull junior, we’ll treat her like a princess.”

“She already is one,” the reader said, brushing curls back from her daughter’s face.

Christian just nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Alex Albon and Lily found them near the ice cream stand. Lily shrieked when she saw the baby and immediately yanked Alex toward them, ignoring the cameras entirely.

“LOOK at her!” Lily squealed, hand over her mouth. “She’s a real-life cherub.”

The baby blinked at her, then reached for Lily’s earrings.

“She’s obsessed with shiny things,” She explained.

“Same,” Lily said. “You’re going to have to fight me off.”

Alex reached out carefully, letting the baby grab his finger. “She’s got a strong grip.”

“Tell me about it,” the reader laughed. “She punches Kimi in the nose when he won’t let her have more blueberries.”

“She’s perfect,” Lily sighed.

Alex was still looking at the baby. “She’s already a better person than I am.”

Carlos and Rebecca were the last, strolling down the paddock like it was a red carpet. Rebecca stopped so fast Carlos nearly ran into her. “Oh wow,” she whispered. “That’s a baby.”

“Not just any baby,” Carlos murmured, grinning.

Rebecca leaned in. “Is this your baby?”

“Yes,” She said softly.

“Oh my god,” Rebecca said, near tears. “You’re someone’s mother now.”

“It’s weird, right?”

“It’s beautiful,” Carlos corrected. “She’s got your nose.”

“I think it’s Kimi’s.”

“It’s definitely yours,” Rebecca said, gently tickling the baby’s foot.

Carlos leaned close. “You think she’s gonna drive one day?”

The baby grabbed a strand of Rebecca’s hair and pulled.

Carlos beamed. “That’s a yes.”

By the time Kimi returned from the press pen, his daughter had already made enemies, friends, and lifelong fans. She was wrapped in Lewis’s arms now, head on his shoulder, a gummy smile on her face as she babbled to herself in toddler nonsense. Susie was braiding a flower into her hair. George was trying to teach her how to say “Mercedes.” Carmen was handing her a tiny bottle of water like it was sacred.

And Kimi? He just stood there, watching it unfold, mouth half open like he couldn’t believe this was real.

She walked over to him. “You okay?”

He nodded. “They all love her.”

“She’s impossible not to love.”

He turned to her, voice quiet. “So are you.”

She smiled. “We’re not hiding anymore.”

Kimi looked at the paddock, the chaos, the cameras, the gossip flying like wildfire. Then back at the two girls he loved most in the world. He kissed her, once, firmly. Then turned back to the crowd. “Let them talk,” he said. “She’s here. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

#f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 grid x reader #f1 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fic #kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli imagine #kimi antonelli fic #kimi antonelli x reader #andrea kimi antonelli #ka12

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tayrae515imagines · 2 days ago

Text

loml (Love/Loss of my life)

Requested: Kinda? Prompted in comments but got a request from @reader-bookling123 (I changed the ending a bit as it fit better)

like I need my angst of them being so in love but reader being the first to die in the fire and johnny just finds her corpse before he kicks the bucket like five minutes later and like these two were sweethearts like so in love

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR WE WERE LIARS. Death, profanity, hints to racism towards a character (Not from reader). Some descriptions of bodily harm and death.

Pairing: Johnny Sinclair Dennis x Reader

Playlist: Old Money - Lana Del Rey, loml-Taylor Swift, I Know The End - Phoebe Bridgers, Cowboy Like Me - Taylor Swift, Lost At Sea - Rob Grant & Lana Del Rey

Authors note: I read the book and loved it but that was years ago so this is based mostly on the prime show. I usually write a female reader but left it vague this time. Since there is so little Johnny fics I wanted to be inclusive. Also, the show made Johnny canonically into men so I didn’t want to take from that. As always, leave comments and thoughts. I’d love to hear feedback.

I'm sure I have run on sentences, too much detail, etc. But I am not a professional writer and rusty af. I loved how this turned out so ignore any grammar error!!

“We were young and shivering and ancient and alive” - E. Lockhart

The waves rippled under the boat as sea spray splashed your skin. The destination of your summer adventure coming into view like it always did. Sturdy and sure. Making a statement to the surrounding town.

Beechwood.

From the outside looking in, it was magical. A real life fairytale filled with sea salt, sunscreen, fudge, and brilliant smiles. The height of luxury and privilege. A king, a queen, three perfect princesses and their heirs. Two outsiders that were welcomed into the kingdom with open arms, how charitable of the king. A loyal staff and the two golden guard dogs keeping chaos at bay while causing their own mischief.

But looks weren’t always the truth. You knew this first hand after all your summers on Beechwood. Luxury was often accompanied by greed and jealously. Some not so subtle racism and a lack of basic human decency. The true colors always eventually came out dimming the once bright joys of summer on Beechwood. The older you got, the more clear it became.

It wasn’t a fairytale anymore.

Being friends with a Sinclair had its perks, of course. You couldn’t deny that at times, you felt like you were so lucky. Being pampered on a beautiful beach, not wanting for anything. Mirren Sinclair, your best friend had been taking you to the island every summer since you were both eight. You were an official member of the liars now.

Cadence, Gat, Mirren, Johnny and you. The way it was always meant to be.

Really, your favorite thing about summer fell to her cousin Johnny Sinclair Dennis. Bounce, effort, and snark. Salt, swagger, and reckless abandon...he got your heart racing. You’d been hopelessly in love with Johnny since before you could even really comprehended what love was. His loud voice, messy blonde hair, and wide blue eyes. Johnny made you feel light..like everything good was possible. If heaven was real, you were in it with him on this island filled with privilege. Damn the fairytale.

Once the boat hit the dock, you were running into his waiting arms and everything felt right again. Letters, calls and FaceTimes weren’t enough. But for the next couple months he was here and this was real. You and Johnny.

“There you are! Fuck I missed you baby!” Johnny held you tight and spun you as your legs wrapped around his waist. "I missed you too Johnny, I always miss you." Johnny smiled and pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you close and he carried you to your secret spot on the island. Where you two could exist in some peace.

Johnny had been off for a few days. He still gave you his bright grins but they didn't meet his eyes. It was tonight while you two watched the sun setting over the vast sea, that you decided you had enough. "Johnny, what's wrong?"

Your question caught him off guard, his eyes blinked a few times before he turned to you. "I'm great baby." He throws out that damn grin at you again.

"You're a bad liar" You mumbled.

A dramatic gasp fell from Johnny's lips. "First of all, I take that very seriously! How dare my own partner say that to me. It's like a knife to the heart!" He put a hand over his chest and fell back into the grass.

You couldn't help but giggle at his dramatics. "Alright fine, I will take it back if you tell me the truth. I know you Johnny Sinclair Dennis, something is bugging you." You lean over and kiss his nose. "Tell me."

Johnny sighed, his playful demeanor falling. "I don't think I'm a good person."

At his words, you sit up straight. "Johnny? What are you talking about?"

"I did something bad..back at school that I didn't tell you about." He looked over at you, seeing the understanding on your face, he counited. Telling you in details what he did. A tear ran down his face and you reached up to wipe it away.

"You did a bad thing Johnny, that doesn't make you a bad person."

"Sometimes I just..see red. I don't want to be like my dad."

"You aren't your father Johnny."

"Well I'm not Harris Sinclair either. I'm the shitty thing in between." He tugged at his hair.

"Johnny.." you frowned and took his hands. "Listen to me. You did a bad thing, I won't pretend you didn't. But you are not a bad person. You're the person who dove into the ocean during a thunder storm to save your younger brother, almost dying to do so I might add. You are the person that always picks up Mirren when she feels self conscious and you are the person who has always, always had my back. You may not be perfectly good, but you're still good. I need you to understand that. Life has set you up to feel like this but we can change it, I want to change that." You pet his cheek gently, looking into his eyes. "I love you. I love you so much I can't focus when you're around. It's like this constant ache and fullness because I am consumed by you. I love you." You lean your head on his, your eyes welling with tears.

"Fuck" Johnny let out a tear filled laugh. "You've always been better with words than me. I don't know what I did to deserve you but I'm thanking the universe all the time."

A smile spread over your face as you leaned in, kissing Johnny softly but trying to show all your love through the kiss. Johnny kissed back, his hand tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. He pulled you on top of his body and broke the kiss so you could both get air. "I'm going to marry you one day."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yup! We are going to have at least three little kids running around."

"Okay, can they have your hair? Those messy blonde curls would be so cute on our hypothetical children."

"Course sweetheart." Her grinned and tenderly pet your cheek. "Anything for you."

You rested your head on his chest, a smile on your face as the night drifted on. You both slept outside that night, tangled in each others arms.

But if you send for me, you know I'll come And if you call for me, you know I'll run I'll run to you, I'll run to you I'll run, run, run I'll come to you, I'll come to you I'll come, come, come

The song lyrics played softly from the small radio you two had on the coffee table. Your cheek pressed to Johnny's chest as he swayed you around the living room of Red Gate. Gat was in town with Cadence while Mirren snuck off with Ebon, leaving you and Johnny some free time. It was moments like this where he was softer, more relaxed.

"I like this song." Johnny mumbled softly, his chin resting on your head. "Reminds me of us."

Smiling, you look up. "That's so cute Johnny."

"Oh shut up." He chuckled and pinched your cheek softly. "I got you something."

"A present? I love presents."

"Oh I know babe. You'll really like this one." He let you go softly to get the small box sitting on the end table. "Hand please"

Giggling, you hold out your hand to your boyfriend. Johnny took it and pressed a kiss to your knuckles as he slid a dainty gold band with a blue stone onto your ring finger, you couldn't help but notice how the stone matched his eyes.

"It's not an engagement ring but it's a promise. You're it for me. I want everyone to know it."

"Oh Johnny...I love it." You tear up softly.

"Forever baby." He smiled and cupped your cheeks.

"Forever."

The smoke filled the stairwell quickly, heat rolling up your spine. Coughing, you tried to make your way up to the attic. "Johnny!"

How did you get into this mess? What the hell had you all been thinking? Oh, that's right, drunk emotionally charged seventeen year old's. It had been a bad family dinner. Gat was gone, you could tell you weren't wanted there but nothing was as bad as listening to the moms fight. To make matters even worse, Harris had fallen and the moms went to the hospital with him.

Gat showed up and now the liars were alone.

Liars forever.

Fuck it...liars forever.

The plan seemed so easy at first. Get in, burn it down, get out. But the flames rose fast. Maybe it was too much kindlin? Too much accelerant? And shit, you forgot about the gas line.

"Johnny!" You yelled again, knees weakening as you made your way up the stairs. Walking, let alone breathing was becoming too much effort and the smoke was so thick. Maybe if you just rested your eyes for a moment...

"Y/N!" Johnny yelled as he raced down the stairs, smoke so thick he could barley see. He lost his balance and landed on the ground with a loud thud. "Fuck!" Johnny pushed himself up onto his knees, ready to run again but froze when he saw you through the smoke. You were unmoving and your chest wasn't rising, the love of his life was-"NO!'

Johnny moved fast, crawling his way to you and pulled your too still body into his arms. "No, no, no! Baby please..please open those pretty eyes. Come on, open them for me." He held your face in his hands, his tears rolling onto your cheeks. A cough ripped from him as he saw flames rising up the stairs. "I'm sorry baby..I'm so fucking sorry." He leaned his head into your neck, sobbing against your skin. He would stay with you, forever. "You are the love of my life. We'll go together. I love you..I love you..I love you."

Forever...

Johnny sat on the kitchen counter of Red Gate, watching his mom pack as summer ended.

"Oh, you're still here." Carrie said softly, holding a hand over her heart.

"I don't think I can leave.."

"Are you alone?" Carrie frowned and walked towards her son, reaching out like she could touch him but she knew she couldn't.

"No, I'm not alone." Johnny smiled genuinely, his eyes flickering to yours as you leaned on another counter.

You winked at Johnny and made yourself comfortable. Carrie couldn't see you, but you knew she knew you were there.

"I should have known." She smiled softly and said her goodbye to Johnny before leaving Beechwood.

Summer was ending for most but not you. Here with Johnny it was summer forever and you intended on enjoying it. You had both suffered enough.

Johnny walked to you, pulling you against his chest. "You're a hot ghost."

You let out a genuine laugh. "Why thank you my super hot ghost boyfriend."

"Nah baby, we are husband and wife now. Been through too much to just be your boyfriend. So, I'm your super hot ghost husband."

Laughing, you lean your head on his. "I love you."

"I love you too." Johnny said softly and kissed you. Everything stilled.

This was never the ending you wanted. It wasn't the future you had planned. You never thought forever would become so literal. But with Johnny at your side..you'd make it work.

He was your happy ending, the one person that made you feel light. The laughter, the smiles, the happiness. It was all him. Adventures never ended, the love only grew, and maybe in some twisted way this was a happy ending. You had Johnny, that was all that really mattered.

Our field of dreams engulfed in fire Your arson's match, your somber eyes And I'll still see it until I die You're the loss of my life...

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sevarchive · 1 day ago

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♡ he ate and left no crumbs ──

જ⁀➴ a kunigami rensuke war au. 5k words

synopsis: in which kunigami rensuke, a young soldier bound by a quiet promise, faces the ravages of war and the weight of love waiting in the shadows of an uncertain future.

a/n: PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS PLAYLIST, it makes everything 100% better! btw this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! visit their original ticket here!

everyone loved kunigami rensuke, but not the way you did.

to most, he was a good boy with kind hands and a strong back, someone who always held the door, who nodded at elders and never left a chore unfinished. they knew him by the shape of his silence, by the way he never said more than he had to.

but before he became the boy people whispered about in quiet reverence, before his name softened into memory and myth, he was just someone you hadn’t quite noticed yet.

everything began on an ordinary tuesday, the kind you wouldn’t have remembered—if not for him. you remember because it had just rained, and the cobblestones were still slick with puddles. you were carrying a too-heavy basket and grumbling about it under your breath, the kind of task someone else was supposed to do. and there he was, already outside the bakery, sleeves rolled, arms dusted with flour, reaching for the same stack of firewood beside the door.

you didn’t say anything at first. just glanced.

then, without a word, he took the basket from your hands like it was second nature.

“it’s alright,” you started. “i can manage.”

“i know,” he said.

but he carried it anyway.

that was the first time you noticed how broad his shoulders were. how he moved like he didn’t want to startle anything. like kindness was just a reflex.

he didn’t ask your name until the fourth time he helped you. didn’t use it until the sixth. he always looked like he wanted to say more but never knew how, like he was trying to carry something between his teeth and didn’t want to let it drop.

you started staying longer at the bakery after that. lingered by the window while pretending to adjust the display. you’d watch him knead dough with strong hands and that same quiet concentration, lips pressed together like he was deep in thought.

one evening, he had something wrapped in a cloth, still warm from the oven. he looked almost shy as he offered it to you, eyes flicking between your hands and your face.

“they let me try something new today,” he mumbled.

“it’s not much. just a different filling.”

you bit into it without hesitation, and your eyes widened. soft bread, still steaming, with a honey-sweet center that melted on your tongue.

“kunigami,” you said, mouth full. “this might be the best thing i’ve ever had.”

he flushed. looked down. scuffed his boot against the dirt.

“i—i made it for you.”

you blinked.

he didn’t look up, just kept talking, voice quieter this time.

“the first one. i told them it was just a test batch, but… i already knew who i wanted to give it to.”

you didn’t say anything right away. just held the bread to your chest and smiled like you didn’t know what else to do with something that soft. something that honest.

you walked home slower that evening. he stayed closer than usual.

and neither of you said what it really meant.

but the bread was warm in your hands.

and his fingers brushed yours like maybe—just maybe—he’d do this forever, if you let him.

somehow, weeks blurred into months.

you never called them dates, not out loud. but that’s what they were, wandering through the sunday markets with your arms full of wildflowers, splitting one paper-wrapped pastry between the two of you. he once paid for a locket at the jeweler’s stall with coins he swore he didn’t need. said it reminded him of you. you still wear it under your blouse, even now.

he taught you how to braid bread dough. you taught him how to whistle.

he walked you home every night. you stopped pretending it was a coincidence. you laughed more around him. he started reaching for your hand without thinking.

and though no one said it, not officially, not aloud, everyone in town had already begun to think of you as his.

one afternoon, he took your hand without a word and led you toward the town square. the sun was still golden and soft behind the clouds, and his grip was warm and sure—like he had a plan.

“what are we doing?” you asked, already smiling.

“you’ll see.”

he stopped by a small vendor cart tucked beside the bakery steps, where the old man with the crooked hat only came on fridays. he bought you a pouch of candied almonds, slipping the coins into the man’s hand before you could even offer.

“you remembered,” you said, a little breathless.

“’course i did,” he said, not looking at you, just watching the way you lit up when you took your first bite.

you teased him, like always.

“you’re getting soft on me.”

he gave a half-smile and bumped your shoulder with his.

“i don’t mind, if it makes you happy.”

you looped your arm through his, resting your head lightly against his shoulder as you walked. the world felt distant in that moment—like it could stay just like this, forever.

then the church bell rang.

once.

twice.

you smiled, almost without thinking.

“a wedding,” you murmured, pausing mid-step.

kunigami turned slightly, following your gaze as the breeze carried the faint sound of celebration through the square: petals being thrown, a bride’s laughter, children running ahead in ribbons and polished shoes.

and for a second, just one small second, you saw it.

you in white. him waiting at the altar, shoulders stiff in a borrowed suit. his hands trembling when he took yours. his voice steady when he said your name.

do you take him—always. always.

his fingers brushed yours, and you wondered if maybe he was thinking the same thing.

but then the bell rang a third time. and a fourth.

and it didn’t stop.

it wasn’t just a wedding bell anymore. it was the signal.

the crowd shifted. heads turned. someone ran from the chapel steps, clutching a parchment roll, calling for quiet.

“by royal decree—due to rising tensions beyond the border—”

your smile faltered. kunigami went still beside you.

“—military enlistment will begin at the turn of the season. all able-bodied boys aged seventeen and older are to report for registration—”

the words blurred after that.

your hand tightened around his sleeve before your body even realized what you were doing. you didn’t look at the speaker. you looked at him.

“you’re eighteen,” you whispered.

he didn’t answer right away. just kept his eyes forward. jaw set.

“i know.”

he didn’t flinch, didn’t speak.

but his eyes weren’t on the crowd.

they were on the bride walking into the chapel, veil floating behind her like a promise.

and you knew,

he was wondering what it would’ve looked like if it had been you.

it was early, and most of the village was still asleep. only the soldiers and the wind were awake. the two of you agreed to meet up in the chapel.

and when you saw him, he looked different in uniform.

his coat was stiff. his boots too polished. he kept adjusting the straps like they were choking him. he’d cut his hair shorter than you’d ever seen it—like someone had taken part of him with the scissors.

but when he saw you, his shoulders dropped. and for a moment, he looked just like your rensuke again.

you walked up to him slowly, heart pounding in places it didn’t belong. he smiled when he saw you, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“you’re early,” he said.

“so are you.”

he laughed a little.

“i couldn’t sleep.”

“me neither.”

you both fell quiet.

it wasn’t like the usual silences you both had, this one felt sharp. temporary. like a match that had just been struck, already fading. then, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.

your breath caught.

you knew that paper.

“you left this at the bakery the other day,” he said, smoothing it out gently. “i saw it before you came back.”

it was the little sketch you’d made, drawn in charcoal on the back of a receipt. a crooked house with wildflowers in the yard. a tiny oven puffing smoke out the chimney. a bench under a tree. a window with two cups of tea drawn on the sill.

you’d barely spent ten minutes on it. yet he memorized every detail.

“i want to build this for you,” he said, holding it out with both hands like it was a blueprint. like it was sacred. “not something fancy. not something grand. just this.”

his voice softened, almost ashamed.

“i know it’s messy. the world, i mean. and i don’t know what i’ll come back with. but if i make it—when i make it—this is what i’m working for.”

“you really remember it?” you whispered.

“down to the window with two mugs,” he said, smiling faintly. “you drew it small, but i saw.”

“i didn’t think you looked.”

“i always look.”

your throat tightened. you reached for the sketch and held it close, the crinkled edges warming beneath your fingers like it could hold the future in its folds.

he stepped closer. looked down at the drawing like he could see more than ink.

“that little room on the left?” he said, tapping the page gently. “that’ll be the kitchen. you’ll bake in the mornings, and i’ll burn toast pretending to help.”

“of course you will,” you said, laughing through your tears.

“and that room here, just off the kitchen—that’ll be the baby’s room,” he added, voice dipping with something tender. “the first one. a little girl, i think. i’ll carve her name into the windowsill the day she’s born.”

your breath hitched.

“next to that’ll be the living room. not much in it. just us. your books, a soft couch, maybe a radio if we’re lucky. and a rug our kids will fall asleep on during storms.”

he traced the sketch like it was real, like he could already touch it.

“then our bedroom. the creaky floorboards. the warm lamp. and me, always getting up too early to knead dough or check if it snowed. and you, wrapped in every blanket.”

you said nothing. you couldn’t.

“and the porch,” he whispered. “don’t forget the porch. you drew a bench. we’ll sit there when we’re old. i’ll hold your hand even when it hurts my joints.”

you laughed, shaky and soft. then he looked up, eyes a little glassy now.

“that’s what i’ll come back for. not medals. not glory. just this. just you. just… home.”

you reached up, cupped his cheek.

“we’ll fill every room, rensuke. i promise.”

then he reached into his coat. pulled out something small. a little cloth pouch. tied with string.

“what’s this?” you asked, voice trembling.

“almonds. from the same vendor,” he said softly. “they’re still sweet.”

you took it with both hands. held it to your chest like it was the most precious thing you’d ever been given.

“i’m coming back.”

you looked at him. he wasn’t smiling. he was serious. like this was something he needed you to believe more than anything.

“i’ll come back. i’ll send letters. i’ll write you every week. and when the war ends—”

his voice broke. he tried again.

“when the war ends… i’ll come back for you. i’ll take you to the river. we’ll eat bread on sundays again. and i’ll—i’ll marry you. right here. in this chapel. i promise.”

you felt it all at once. the weight. the fear. the fierce, aching hope of it.

“rensuke—”

“you can open your own bakery. i’ll help, even if i’m terrible at it. we’ll have two kids. maybe three. i’ll build the crib myself. we’ll hang flowers over the door. and every year, i’ll buy you almonds—”

you let out a shaky laugh through the tears.

“that’s not fair.”

“i know.”

“you’re saying too many beautiful things.”

“then say yes to them,” he said, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “say you’ll wait for me.”

“of course i’ll wait for you.”

you stepped forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you like he could memorize the shape of you. his heart was racing. or maybe yours was.

“say you’ll marry me,” he whispered into your hair.

“i’ll marry you,” you whispered back. “i’ll wear the white dress, and you’ll bring almonds, and we’ll grow old in that little house.”

he didn’t move. didn’t breathe.

“you promise?”

“i do,” you said, voice steady now. “i promise. i’ll be yours. no matter how long it takes.”

the whistle blew in the distance. you clutched his coat tighter.

“you come back to me, rensuke,” you said. “you come home.”

“i will,” he swore, pulling back to look you in the eye. “i swear on everything—i’ll come home to you.”

but he didn’t kiss you. just cupped your face like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. his thumbs brushed your cheekbones, so gentle it almost hurt. he leaned in, close enough for your breaths to mix, your noses to touch.

and then he paused.

“not yet,” he whispered. “i’ll kiss you when it’s done. when i come back. when you’re in white and i’m standing at the end of that aisle—i’ll kiss you then. not a second before.”

you blinked hard, lips parting, but no sound came.

“that’ll be my first victory,” he said, voice thick. “and you’ll be my prize.”

and slowly, like it shattered him, he stepped back.

left you there with a promise on your lips, and a kiss you never got to taste. you stood there long after the train had gone. fingers cold. chest full of promises. and the pouch of almonds still in your pocket.

he had said forever. and you had believed him.

but forever is a cruel thing to say right before goodbye.

the first months were the hardest. not because of the cold, or the drills, or the mud that clung to his boots for days at a time.

he could live with the cold.

he could live with the shouting, the bruises, the weight of the rifle pressing into his spine.

he could live with waking up at dawn and sleeping on damp earth, chewing food that tasted like metal and silence.

what he couldn’t live with was missing you.

he missed you in a way that didn’t pass, it settled in his chest and made a home there.

he missed your hands and your voice and the sound you made when you tried not to laugh.

he missed the bench you drew. the way you leaned on him like you never needed to ask.

so he wrote to you.

whenever he could, wherever he was. in trenches, under flickering lamps, in the lull between gunfire. sometimes with dirty fingers and blood on his boots, sometimes with shaking hands and mud still drying in his sleeves. but always to you.

the first one came only a week after he left.

my love,i thought i’d be too tired to write. turns out, i’m more tired without you. the barracks are cold, but i keep thinking about the window you drew. the one with the two mugs. when i come back, mine will always be for you. – rensuke.

the second came two weeks later, tucked with a pressed wildflower between the pages.

the field was full of these today. nothing else good to say about it, really—except that it reminded me of your sketch. the one where flowers were growing out front. i didn’t even like flowers before. i do now. tell the baker i still miss the almond bread. tell him he’s got competition when i get home. – rensuke.

the third one was longer. you’d read it ten times over by the end of the week.

they’ve started training us with heavier gear. my hands are raw. you’d probably fuss over them. i wish you could. a boy cried last night. said he didn’t want to die. i didn’t know what to say, so i told him about you. about the house. the kitchen. the baby’s room. it helped. i think it helped me too. when this ends, i’m going to build that life with you like i said. every nail, every beam, with these hands. just wait for me. always yours. – rensuke.

you folded that letter into your pocket and carried it with you through every market, every morning, every storm. the words stayed close to your heart. some days they were the only thing that kept it beating.

and in the quiet of your little room, with your hands ink-stained and your eyes heavy from waiting, you whispered the same thing into every reply.

come home.

come build what we dreamed.

and kunigami rensuke, who once kissed flour off your nose and talked about nursery windows—was made to march through fields of screaming mud, watching boys collapse next to him with their eyes still open.

he didn’t write about that part. not at first.

he wrote about you.

because it was the only thing keeping him human.

my love,we stood for hours today. i could barely feel my legs by the end of it. one of the boys fell and didn’t get back up, but no one stopped. that’s the rule now—you don’t stop. but i keep thinking about that crooked house you drew. the one with the chimney that leans a little to the side. it makes me smile. i’d fix it for you. i’d paint it the color of your favorite apron. i miss you more than anything. i hope you’re still saving that ribbon for your hair. i hope your hands are warm tonight. i’ll come back. i promise. – rensuke.

you read that letter by candlelight, pressed it to your chest and wept into your sleeves. you had no idea where he was when he wrote it. no idea what he'd seen. what he was becoming.

but still, you believed him. you had to.

the rain came hard that day. it wasn't the kind that passed quickly. it fell like the sky was angry, like it wanted to drown everything still standing. the battlefield turned to sludge beneath their boots, trenches caved in under the weight of water, and the fog made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead.

they were told it was a routine movement. they were told the enemy had pulled back.

they were lied to.

gunfire cracked before dawn, tearing through the gray. they scrambled—young boys in too-large uniforms, slipping on wet roots and shouting each other's names. they were scattered. they were surrounded.

kunigami’s first instinct was to find riku.

seventeen. barely up to his shoulder. quiet, kind. carried a picture of his little sister in his breast pocket, and once shared half a chocolate bar with kunigami even though rations were thin.

he spotted him by the treeline, blood already soaking through his trousers, one hand pressed weakly to his thigh.

“riku!”

no response.

“riku, look at me! come on, stay awake, kid.”

kunigami dropped to his knees in the mud, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. he threw riku’s arm over his shoulder and tried to stand, he was heavier than he looked. or maybe kunigami was just exhausted.

every muscle screamed. but he didn’t stop. they had to move. they had to go now or not at all.

“you’re alright,” kunigami muttered, more to himself than to riku. “you’re alright. i’ve got you.”

he didn’t think about dying. not yet.

not until the sound of enemy boots pounded through the brush just behind them.

“shit, shit—”

he staggered forward, half-carrying, half-dragging riku through mud that sucked at his legs like quicksand. his shoulder ached. his lungs burned. his fingers were numb from gripping the rifle too tight, from not letting go of the only thing he could still save.

but it wasn’t enough.

a shot rang out behind them, close. too close.

he felt the wind of it pass his cheek. heard the bark of a tree splinter.

riku stirred weakly, eyes glassy.

“tell my sister—” he choked.

“don’t,” kunigami snapped, voice cracking. “you’ll tell her yourself. just hold on.”

but he knew. he knew they wouldn’t make it out.

his boots slipped again. he crashed hard against the trunk of a fallen tree, dragging riku down with him. his chest heaved. his arms screamed. riku’s weight was slumping.

there was no way forward.

kunigami dropped his head against the bark, rain soaking into his collar. he was shaking. he tried to breathe, but it felt like drowning.

and for one brief, quiet second, the war slipped away. the shouting blurred into a hum. the pain dulled. and all he could see was you, barefoot in that imaginary yard, apron tied loose, holding out a warm roll in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

you smiled like he’d never left. like he'd made it back. like it was real.

this is it, he thought. this is where i die.this is where everything ends.this is where i fail you.

he closed his eyes. drew in a shuddering breath.

i’m sorry. i wanted more time.

then—footsteps.

he barely registered the sound of boots slamming into the mud, the low, desperate shout of his name. someone grabbed him by the collar. dragged him upright with a grunt.

“kunigami—”

his eyes cracked open. blurred.

“what the hell did you do,” takeshi growled.

kunigami blinked. he couldn’t answer. couldn’t think. his fingers were numb. his body felt like stone.

“you said you’d watch him. you said—”

and then the fist came with no warning. it landed across his jaw. sharp, brutal. kunigami slumped sideways, blood in his mouth, the taste of copper thick and warm.

he didn’t fight back. he didn’t move.

“where is he?”

“where the hell is riku?!”

kunigami’s lips moved. no sound came.

“you let him die!”

another punch—this one to his ribs. a scream threatened to rip out of him, but he swallowed it. choked on it.

“you should’ve stayed down with him,” takeshi spat. “should’ve rotted there too.”

he fell to his knees beside him, panting, rain soaking through both of them. the forest around them was silent, save for their breathing. and kunigami? he didn’t even cry.

he just curled a hand near riku’s dog tags still clenched in his palm, mud-caked, bloodied, bent at the edge—and whispered, almost to no one,

“i tried.”

takeshi didn’t respond. didn’t look at him. and for the longest time, kunigami stayed there on the ground. hand still wrapped around something cold that used to mean a life.

the world just moved on.

and kunigami rensuke, well, he stopped moving too.

the war ended in spring.

they rang the bell in the church tower just after dawn, and for once, it wasn’t for mourning. the sound echoed through the hills like laughter returned to the world. there were ribbons on windows. flags draped across doors. a warmth in the air that didn’t feel borrowed.

you stood at your gate, heart full and trembling, watching the road.

he’d come home today. you were sure of it. even if his last letter came months ago. even if the silence had stretched too long.

you told yourself the war had taken too much of him. that maybe he was still healing. maybe his hand couldn’t write, but his heart still remembered.

he promised.

you whispered it into your morning tea. you said it under your breath at the bakery. you folded his old letters and kept them tucked into your pocket like scripture.

he said he’d come back.he said he’d build the house with the crooked roof.he remembered every line of it. even the mugs in the window.

you told the girls at the shop that you'd marry him before the leaves turned gold. that he wanted a room for your books. a window for the cradle. that he swore he’d plant trees even if he didn’t know how.

you laughed like it wasn’t killing you to wait.

the streets were full now. people shouted names. ran into arms. wept into uniforms.

one by one, the men arrived.

you clutched your coat tighter around you. the ribbon in your hair was the same one he touched the day he left. you imagined his voice behind you,

“it suits you,” he’d say, all red ears and clumsy smiles.

and then—there he was.

a tall figure through the crowd. broad shoulders. reddish hair in the light. your breath caught.

rensuke—

but it wasn’t him.

he turned, and his face was wrong. and so was the next man. and the next. maybe he was just late, that’s all. maybe the train. maybe the march took longer. you were still waiting when someone tapped your shoulder.

a man you didn’t know. dirty boots. torn coat. eyes like a wound that hadn’t closed right.

“are you… were you waiting for kunigami rensuke?”

you blinked.

“yes,” you whispered. “he’s mine.”

the man paused. his mouth opened. closed.

“i was with him.”

your heart stilled.

“where is he?”

“is he alright?”

“is he still recovering? he hasn’t written in months—maybe he couldn’t—but he’s coming, right? he said he would—”

the man’s face crumpled.

“he didn’t make it.”

the world dropped out from under you.

you didn’t hear the cheers anymore. couldn’t feel the cobblestones under your feet. your fingers trembled as the stranger reached into his coat and handed you something small, softened by dirt, warped by blood, barely holding together at the seams.

it was your sketch. the house you drew.

the crooked roof, the mugs in the window. he kept it. all this time. even at the end.

and then it started to rain.

but your cries were louder.

you collapsed to your knees in the street, sketch clutched to your chest, sobs ripping through your ribs like they wanted to take everything with them. people turned. watched. but no one moved. because grief like that—loud and raw and holy—was something they didn’t dare interrupt. he had promised. a house. a life. forever. and now all you had was paper in your hands, soaked in blood and rain and everything he never got to say.

what do you call the girl who ironed her best dress for a wedding that never came? who memorized a last name she never got to take?

what do you call someone who waited like a wife, wept like a widow—

but never got to be either?

it had been five years since the war ended. most days, kunigami didn’t count anymore. time moved differently here, in the quiet stretch of coast where the sea touched the sky and nothing felt urgent.

he worked when his body allowed, slept lightly, and lived in the corners of a village too kind to ask questions. his right hand never fully healed. his ribs still ached when it rained. but he breathed. and some days, that felt like enough.

he never made it back with the others.

a month before the troops were set to return home, he and another soldier, takeshi, had been sent across the river for supply relay.

it was a calm mission, barely watched. and maybe that’s why he didn’t expect it. the shove came quick. silent. one second he was standing, the next, the river swallowed him whole.

when he woke, he was alone on the rocks, lungs burning, shoulder torn. the locals found him half-dead. patched him up with herbs and warm hands. he couldn’t walk for weeks. couldn’t write. couldn’t even speak. and by the time he could move again, the war had ended without him.

but he never forgot her. not even once. not even when his own name felt strange in his mouth. if she still waited. if she’d stopped hoping.

but he whispered her name like a prayer. and he swore to himself, quiet and steady, that one day, he’d find her. even if she had moved on. even if she didn’t recognize him. he’d find her.

because he had promised. and promises were the only thing he had left.

i hadn’t meant to come back.

i was just passing through, looking for a warm meal, maybe a bed that didn’t creak with every breath, when i saw the sign.

the same weathered wood, the same crooked lettering that had been nailed to the post when i was seventeen. the old bakery still stood, vines curling up its brick walls. the bench out front hadn’t moved. neither had the ache in my chest.

everything looked smaller now. quieter. but it was still home.

or at least… it used to be.

my feet moved before my mind caught up. i walked the same stone path we always used to take, passed the leaning fence where i used to wait for her, and the bakery window where she’d wave at me with flour on her cheek.

by the time i reached the road to the chapel, my hands were shaking. and then the bell rang.

for a moment, i forgot how to breathe. it was the same sound we’d heard years ago while walking home after closing up the shop. everyone stood outside the chapel, dressed in spring colors, smiling and waiting. someone was getting married.

and then—i saw her.

she walked slowly down the aisle, veil catching the light, a bouquet of soft blooms cradled in her hands. she moved like the air itself parted for her. like even time had paused, just to watch her, just to say goodbye to me one last time.

i watched from the shadows. just behind the hedges, far enough that no one would notice. far enough that i could fall apart in silence. my hands trembled.

god, she was beautiful. and then—it hit me. all at once, like a storm to the ribs.

every version of her i’d ever loved. her voice echoing in the bakery after we locked up.

her grin when i handed her bread too warm to hold. her eyes, tired but soft, as she leaned against me in the cold. her fingers trembling as she pressed a crumpled sketch to her chest like it was the only future she could hold onto.

i want to build this for you, i told her once. and i meant it. i still do.

even now, i can see it, the little crooked house. the window with two mugs. the porch swing. the nursery where i’d carve our child’s name into the sill with clumsy, shaking hands. the life we whispered about when the world was too loud to dream in daylight.

i still love her.

every breath of her.

every memory. every smile. every moment i never got to have.

but she was already walking forward. and she wasn’t walking toward me. her steps slowed at the altar. and that’s when i saw him.

takeshi.

no. no, that… that couldn’t be right. my breath caught in my throat, sharp and sudden like i'd been punched again.

takeshi?

i blinked hard, like maybe i was wrong. like my mind, still scattered from everything it had survived, was showing me ghosts. but it wasn’t a ghost.

it was him. standing at the altar. he looked like he belonged there. takeshi.

the same bastard who found me broken in the dirt and didn’t say a word to her. the same comrade who threw me off that boat. who left me behind when we were finally going home.

the one who looked me in the eye after riku died and said, you should’ve brought him home. who hit me like grief was a weapon, and i was the only one left to hurt.

and now—now he was the one holding her future.

he could’ve told her.

he knew.

he knew i was alive.

he saw me breathing, broken but breathing, and he still went home and told her nothing.

he let her mourn me. he let her believe i was gone.

and i, i couldn’t write. i couldn’t even hold a pen. my right hand wouldn’t close, my ribs cracked, my mind stuck somewhere between fever and memory. i screamed her name into pillows when the pain got too sharp. i carved her initials into wood when my fingers started working again. i held that sketch like a prayer.

and he, he took everything.

i looked back up. she was reaching for him.

her hands in his.

and she smiled, like she was finally safe. finally home.

i remember that smile, she used to give it to me. and in that moment, everything inside me shattered.

the house.

the mugs in the window.

the baby’s name on the sill.

the almonds in her coat pocket.

the porch swing we never sat on.

all of it, ours.

all of it, gone.

she gave it to someone else. and i hadn’t even known. then the bells rang again.

i stood there, frozen in place like something buried in frost. i blinked—just once—and in that single breath, i let myself see it differently.

her in white, walking to me.

her arms wrapping around my neck.

her lips meeting mine at the end of that aisle.

me in the suit.

me saying the vows.

me kissing her like i swore i would, like it was the only thing i’d lived for.

but it wasn’t real, because she was already his. she had already chosen, and i was five years too late. i turned before the music started. before she said i do. before i saw her kiss someone else like she meant it.

i walked away from the chapel. from her.

from the ghost of a boy who promised forever and the man who bled his way back, only to lose her in the end.

i’ll go somewhere far. somewhere no one says her name.

somewhere almonds don’t taste like goodbye.

somewhere i don’t look at windows and think, there should’ve been two mugs there.

because she was my home. and nothing in this world hurts more than watching your home smile for someone who knew exactly what she meant to me.

i don’t know where i’m going, but wherever i end up, some part of me is still there, standing outside that chapel, watching her walk toward someone else with the smile she once gave to me.

carrying every vow we whispered in the dark like they never happened, and maybe the world will forget my name, maybe no one will remember the promises or the porch or the almonds in her coat pocket.

if anyone ever asks, tell them i loved her—enough to crawl my way back through hell just to keep a promise she’s already forgotten. tell them i waited, even when my hands couldn’t hold a pen, even when the pain begged me to let go.

and tell them i’m still there, stuck in that moment she smiled for someone else, still wearing a heart that only knows her name, still the man who can’t be moved.

it had been sixty years.

the town had changed. storefronts repainted, streets renamed. the bakery they used to pass on the way home was long gone, replaced by a laundromat that smelled like bleach and rain. no one remembered the war anymore. not really. only rusted plaques and the occasional wilting flag remained.

y/n never had children.

people used to ask, back when she was newly married and still learning how to smile like she meant it. they’d say things like, “you’d be such a good mother,” and she’d nod, say “maybe one day,” and tuck the ache away like it didn’t already have a name.

but the truth was, she couldn’t bring herself to. not because she couldn’t, but because the life in her chest had already been lived once, in a dream she never got to keep. a crooked house, a porch swing, two chipped mugs. and him.

rensuke.

the boy who said “when the war ends, i’ll kiss you at the altar.”

the one who carried her sketch like scripture.

the one who left with every piece of her heart and never came back.

they said he died in the line. no body. no letters. just smoke and silence. she believed them. she had to. it was the only way to keep breathing.

she buried the sketch in a drawer, lit candles for him every year and whispered his name like prayer.

but grief doesn't listen to time. so even now, on a quiet walk far from town, with her knees aching and her scarf pulled tight against the wind, something still tugged her toward the trees. a forgotten path. a bend in the hill she hadn’t taken in years.

and there—she saw it.

a house.

not just any house. their house.

crooked chimney. a porch swing swaying gently in the wind. wildflowers spilling over the edge of the path. and in the kitchen window: two mugs. waiting.

her chest tightened like a fist. she stepped closer, afraid to blink. afraid it might vanish. but it didn’t. it stayed. it breathed.

the door was closed. the yard was swept. the silence wrapped around it like something sacred. there was no name carved into the frame. no sign. but she knew.

everything about it was exact.

just as she had drawn it. just as he had described.

the almond tree beside the porch. the little bench. the way the swing faced west, where he said he wanted to watch the sun set on a life they'd built.

her fingers brushed the windowsill.

“someone must’ve had the same dream,” she whispered.

but even she didn’t believe it.

because who else remembered where the mugs should go? who else would’ve left the chimney crooked on purpose? who else would’ve built this, down to the tiniest, most impossible detail?

her hands trembled as she reached into her coat pocket.

the locket was still there. its brass dulled. its clasp fragile, wrapped in the same red ribbon he had tied around it, decades ago.

she pressed it to her chest. then she pulled it away, slow, like it might shatter. his name was still inside.

with what little strength she had left, she stepped to the edge of the porch—

and let it go. the locket landed in the grass with a soft whisper.

because he never got to come home, and she never got to wait long enough. and yet, somehow, the dream still lived, not in memory, not in hope, but in wood. and love, even the kind left behind in the dirt of a battlefield, even the kind buried under sixty years of silence, still remembers what it was made for.

it still knows the shape of his hands.

still looks for him in places he never got to return to.

still hurts in the exact shape of the life we never got to live.

finally, after standing for a long time, she turned away before she could change her mind. unbeknownst to her, she never saw what lay just beyond the trees, where the shadows grew thick and the grass grew tall.

two names carved into the stone, one long faded by wind and time, the other still new, waiting.

y/n kunigami, beloved wife.

the other was newer, the engraving still crisp and clear,

kunigami rensuke, beloved husband.

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

#sevarchive ۶ৎ #theaskroulette #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock angst #blue lock fluff #blue lock au #kunigami rensuke #kunigami x reader #bllk kunigami #bllk x you #kunigami x you

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brinasheqrt · 20 hours ago

Note

sabrina got harassed by paparazzis or at the backstage of her concert (or amother place u can think of) and feels a bit nervous and uneasy, and she needs reader to comfort her?? (preferably masc!reader)

Safe

summary - request!

warnings - none.

wc - 2.2k

You’d parked in the usual spot outside the studio—half-shaded, tucked between two concrete pillars, and far enough away from the main doors to avoid attention. The tinted windows did most of the work, but it was still hot, even with the engine idling.

Sabrina had texted you twenty minutes ago:

“running over, almost done. promise.”

It wasn’t unusual. When she got into a creative groove, especially in a writing session, time stopped existing. You didn’t mind. Your playlist had been looping quietly, and you were scrolling through photos from your last trip together, smiling at the memory of her squinting into the sun with your sunglasses on crooked.

But when the studio doors opened, you could tell something was off.

She stepped out quickly, head down, one hand gripping her tote bag tighter than usual. A flash went off across the street.

Then another.

Paparazzi.

You straightened up in the driver’s seat instantly.

“Sabs…” you muttered under your breath, hand moving toward the door handle, but she hadn’t seen you yet. Two guys—cameras slung around their necks—were already walking toward her, quick.

“Sabrina, smile for us!”

“You dating that girl we saw you with last week?”

“One photo?!”

“What happened with Barry?!”

You saw her flinch at the last question.

The man’s voice was loud, too loud, and her pace quickened. She wasn’t saying anything—just beelining for the car. You threw the door open and stepped out.

“Back off,” you called, tone sharp, shoulders square. The click of their cameras didn’t stop, but they slowed a little when they saw you approaching.

Sabrina’s eyes found yours and instantly softened.

“Baby,” she said, half-breathless as she reached you.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding her toward the car. “Just ignore them. I’m here.”

They didn’t follow, not closely, but the damage was done. You could feel the tension in her body as she climbed into the passenger seat, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged the door shut. You made sure to shoot the men one final warning look before getting in and pulling out of the spot.

It was quiet for a while, except for the low hum of the road under your tires.

You glanced at her.

She was staring out the window, biting her lip. Her hands were fidgeting in her lap—playing with the ‘SC’ ring she always wore, twisting it over and over.

“Sabrina,” you said gently, reaching across to rest your hand over hers.

She blinked and looked down, like she’d only just realized what she was doing.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “That was stupid.”

“Hey.” You squeezed her hand. “Don’t do that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t think they’d be there,” she said quietly. “I usually wait for someone to come out with me, but everyone was still in the booth and I just… I don’t know, I wanted to go home.”

Your eyes softened. “Of course you did.”

She fell silent again. Her jaw was tight now, and when you stopped at a red light, you noticed her foot tapping anxiously against the floor mat. The kind of twitchy movement that only came when she was trying to hide her nerves.

You reached for her hand again and laced your fingers through hers.

“Talk to me.”

Her throat bobbed. “I hate when they yell stuff like that. Like they’re entitled to know everything.”

“They’re not,” you said. “And you don’t owe them anything.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, but you felt her squeeze your hand tighter.

“I used to be good at brushing it off,” she murmured. “But lately it’s been… harder. I don’t know if that makes me soft or sensitive or—”

“It makes you human.”

Your voice was steady. Calm. You knew she needed that right now—something to anchor her.

You pulled into your driveway a few minutes later and shifted the car into park. You didn’t rush her out. Instead, you turned to face her, your fingers still threaded with hers.

“Want to go inside?” you asked gently.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the house, then back to you. “Can we just… sit for a second?”

“Of course.”

You leaned your head back against the seat and turned the AC up slightly. The silence between you was comfortable now—held together by the quiet strength of your presence and the way you hadn’t let go of her hand once.

Finally, she broke it.

“I hate how it makes me feel after,” she whispered, voice so small you barely heard it. “Like I’m being watched even when I’m not. Like something’s gonna jump out.”

You looked over at her—really looked—and saw the tightness in her shoulders, the way her chest was rising and falling a little too fast, the tremble in her lip she was trying so hard to hide.

You reached over and cupped her cheek.

“Come here.”

She didn’t hesitate. She unbuckled her seatbelt and slid across the center console clumsily until she was in your lap, arms slipping around your neck, face pressed into your shoulder.

You held her. Strong and steady.

Her breath hitched once—then again—and you felt it: the way her fingers clenched at your jacket, the soft, shaken sound she made as the adrenaline started to wear off and her nerves cracked open a little.

You kissed her temple.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Her body trembled slightly, but she didn’t pull away. You cradled her like she was glass. You ran your hand up and down her back, soothing and slow.

“They don’t get to have you,” you whispered. “They can take a picture, shout all they want—but you’re still yours. Always.”

She nodded against your shoulder.

“I didn’t like the way one of them looked at me,” she admitted. “Like he knew something he didn’t. Like I was…”

“Objectified,” you finished for her softly.

She nodded again.

You exhaled, pulling her tighter. “I hate that you had to feel that. I hate that they try to make you smaller.”

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered.

Your hand paused on her back. “Yeah?”

She nodded, face still tucked into your neck.

“I always feel better when I’m with you. Like nothing bad can reach me.”

You kissed the top of her head and let that sit between you.

“Let’s go inside,” you murmured after a while. “You need to be wrapped in a blanket and buried in my hoodie.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from her—a real one. She leaned back enough to look at you, eyes glassy but warm now.

“And snacks?”

“Obviously.”

She kissed your cheek, soft and grateful. “Thank you for always being there.”

“Always,” you echoed. “No matter what.”

⸻

Inside, she sat on the couch, bundled in your favorite hoodie, the sleeves way too long on her. Her legs were curled up beneath her, and her makeup—what was left of it—was smudged under her eyes, but she looked softer now. Less wound up. Calmer.

You set a cup of tea down in front of her and sat beside her, resting your hand on her thigh. She immediately laced her fingers with yours again.

The room was quiet. No cameras. No shouting.

Just you.

After a while, she looked over at you with that vulnerable kind of gaze—one she only gave you when the walls came down completely.

“You don’t think I’m weak?” she asked, voice hesitant.

You shook your head instantly. “Never.”

“I just… I hate that I still get scared. That I still carry it with me, even after I’m home.”

You leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her cheek.

“Courage isn’t never being scared,” you said quietly. “It’s being scared and getting through it anyway. And you do. Every time.”

She stared at you for a long moment—then curled into your side, head resting against your chest.

“Can we just stay like this?” she mumbled.

“For as long as you want.”

You let the quiet stretch out, your thumb brushing over the back of her hand, grounding her. And when she finally drifted off—still curled into you, breathing steady—you knew she felt safe again.

And that was all you ever wanted.

#sabrina carpenter #sabrina carpenter x reader #sabrina carpenter x you #sabrina carpenter fluff #fluff #angst #sabrina carpenter angst

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eternalstrigoii · 2 days ago

Text

Sé Abú (It is Forever) - I

Playlist / Chapter By Chapter / AO3

summary: There's a beautiful full moon over Neshoba County, Mississippi, and you are in love with a horrible vampire. word count and warnings: 7,348 ; Presence of firearms. canon-typical violence and bloodshed, canon-typical cunnilingus. Penetrative sex. Monster imagery. Tags update as necessary.

. October 16th, 1932

Remmick couldn’t think. His shaking hand could barely wind the chain he’d worn around his neck – caked with dried blood and flecked with dark-burned flesh – through the claws of your interlaced hands. His were still long and sharp, stained with blood and swamp and carnage; yours were daintier, somehow. Dense and canine. There was still mud under them.

Your eyes were half-closed as you whispered into the hot, muffled brightness. If this was to be a wedding, then it would be a marriage from both sides – the thick, woolen blanket Chayton had heaped over the both of you offered minimal reprieve from the sun, but it had come from home.

It should’ve been different. Should’ve been something of yours and something of his braided together for the handfasting, the union that formed the whole.

There were prayers that should’ve been said. Ones you couldn’t deliver yourself.

But this was enough.

His still-glinting chain between your trembling fingers. The blanket that passed from grandmother to father to you for his shield.

I love him, you said to any spirit who would listen, I bring him before you as you brought him to me.

The words were there for him, then, tumbling in a gentle chorus from his lips as he clutched your hand, triggered by the sound of yours. Half a prayer remembered – delivered, once, to someone who was not you.

I’ve joined with him. I’ve tasted him, and he, me. His blood is in my veins.

There was something to be said for second chances. Even when what was meant to be eternal resided within numbered days, he would not have traded a moment of them. Not then, and certainly not now – no matter what they’d bring.

Whatever he is, he and I are one and the same. He is mine and I am his.

The truck jostled sharply on the unpaved road. Your bodies pitched, scraping the hot bed; disturbing the slow-healing wound through his midsection and making the world around you spin. The quiet sounds you both made – agony and nausea, a stab of fear poorly staunched with desperation – couldn’t crest the rumbling engine.

So much for gathering yourselves enough to escape. Shit.

“Are you covered?” you uttered on a ragged breath.

He thought so. The sun’s oppressive heat was subsiding, anyway; you must’ve entered precious, forested shade. It gave him just enough reprieve for his body to attempt to close the gaps where still-hot lifeblood pooled. He tried not to think of how quickly you must’ve been approaching Neshoba. How little time you might have left.

He tried to meet your eyes, to speak without having to put the words in his rough, half-human voice, but you had tucked your head against his shoulder.

“Not yet.” His long claws ghosted along your bloodied jaw, fitting to the nape of your neck to bring your head aloft. “Come on, love. Stay wit’ me.”

The ghost of a smile crossed your perfect mouth. The teeth inside were still jagged, kin to the shredding likeness of his own. “Until the end and after.”

“Until the end an’ after.”

He laid his head back on the uneven metal. It still sang with heat that made his already-splitting skull throb in time with your pulse. He let your head lower into the crook of his neck as you curled your body into his. Let your fastened hands lower against his battered chest.

You wanted, so badly, to be able to shield his body with your own. To drape yourself over him until your blood in his veins worked well enough for him to move unfettered, but the sun, and the scent of garlic on his proffered clothes, promised that recovery would take time. Time you didn’t have. You gave him everything you could in order to keep him alive, and it hadn’t been enough.

At least a silver bullet to the head would be quick. They might even have the sense to shoot you both at once.

“Bhfuilis soranna sorcha,” he tried to sing, though the words mangled in too many teeth, “Ach tagais 'nós na hoíche, trína chéile le chéile, claochlaithe.” Although you are the light, you come to me like nightfall; together, transformed.

“I love that,” you whispered, your own voice hoarse. “I love how you sound when you sound like you.”

He loved those words. How closely they resembled your name. You transformed something in him, you and he together…

The old truck’s tires slowed.

There was no point in mentally cursing, though he did; every sawed-off, hateful thing that could rise to him in the moment tightened his grip as he pulled your body closer by the hem of the shirt he’d worn two nights before. He was weak, but he would fight. He would fight because you couldn’t, because you deserved the chance to live—

“I love you,” you whispered, and the decision was made. You had not moved despite the tacky blood dried on his skin, the lingering scent of burning flesh. He still smelled like himself, underneath. People only thought of rot in terms of fresh decay; he smelled like soil. Like life in its first stages.

“I love you,” he agreed. It was both apology and promise. This time, no one would run. Not as the driver’s door opened. Not at the approach of boots on soil.

You squeezed his fastened hand. He laid his cheek against the top of your head.

And the blanket gave to blinding day.

. Neshoba County, Mississippi

. April 13th, 1932

The rocking chair creaked, slow and even.

Chayton’s shotgun was within reach. The tip barely kissed the glass of his daughter’s bedroom window – so close, yet left at a great enough distance to only pose a threat. Some part of you wondered if it was meant to be that way. If he thought about it when he set himself up for nights like these. The Blackberry Moon had only just surpassed the canopy of new leaves, peering down upon one of the last still-cool nights. It cast him in silver pallor down to the plaits of his braid. Made the chips in his tin cup glint when he raised it for a drink.

The coffee smelled burnt. He always burned it when he did it himself.

“I can see you,” he called. He never bothered to raise his voice. He knew he didn’t have to.

You stood and stretched, disturbing the leaves, unfurling a body much too long and large for its old skin. You were the color of smoke above the fire, with eyes as bright as the harvest moon. Your bones crinkled when you moved, decompressing; hands too large, fingers too long, too sharp, Not Right, like the way your spine sometimes pressed too close to the surface. Like an animal not quite starving.

He did see you, then. You always knew when his eyes found the shape of you in the dark. His heart always betrayed him.

You emerged from the brush with practiced patience, deliberately slowing down your steps. The sort-shorn grass was wet with dew, tickling underfoot.

There was meat on the last step. Deer, freshly dressed on its own hide. No hickory smoke, just the raw, red meat and sharp, white bone.

Not enough to sustain you. But he had a family to feed.

You settled where the grass was worn thin at the base of the steps, where his daughter must’ve run between the house and the freshly-turned garden when the sun was high. You could still smell them on the wood and in the water; the way his wife must’ve lingered near that spot.

Scent could only tell you so much. Had she been the one to lay a cover down to keep the wood from staining? Did his daughter even know what it was they prepared for? What did he tell them? What did he tell anyone?

Your teeth came down on the first set of ribs. The sound was enough to call your thoughts home.

Chayton watched. The rocking chair’s even rhythm persisted.

You looked up at him from time to time. You lay like a dog – chest to the ground, arms up on the soft hide. It must’ve unnerved him to see you alternate between eating like an animal and using your hands. Must’ve, though his expression betrayed nothing; he drank the coffee. Looked at you. Looked up at the distant sky.

You said little to one another.

You picked the carcass until it was as near to clean as it could be left. It never took long. Then you gathered the edges of the hide and rolled it inwards, folding the dented bones into a neat pack. Tucked it against the railing with the hem on the bottom so it wouldn’t unfurl.

Your brother moved in your periphery. Set his half-empty cup on the windowsill.

You stilled.

He had unanswered questions. Ruminations that could’ve, should’ve, broken the communal silence.

The tension coiled in your stomach burned his face into your eyes. He was starting to look his age. Older than your father ever got to be.

“Kayla…” he began. A dozen thoughts started and stopped. When you left, you would not return until the moon was yet again at its fullest; he wasn’t sure he would know you outside of your wolf-skin. He hoped you did. He hoped that you did not mistake fear for apathy, distrust for disdain. He hoped you knew that the only thing yet capable of rendering any of your people, in their proud legacy of oration, inarticulate was you. He hoped that you knew your people still called you his sister.

It was the only way they felt comfortable referring to you.

You waited long enough to ensure he was not going to pick up the shotgun before you moved. You backed off slowly, refusing to take your too-bright eyes off of him until you’d put in enough distance to slink back into the shelter of the dark.

Neither of you heard the other let out the breath you’d been holding.

The deer sat like carrion in your stomach until you were satisfied with your aloneness. You kept your breath light and steps soft while you listened to the other night-creatures pause at your passing. How quickly they resumed reassured you that only animals used the slick stones of a tenderly trickling creek for a footpath; that the deviation in routine did not a coordinated ambush bring.

It still felt wrong.

It all felt wrong to you. Why had he waited until now to try to break a silence more than fifteen years in the making? How could he look at you from the same place, month after month, year after year, both of you seemingly unchanged beyond the presence of a thicker coat, and say nothing?

You would’ve liked to meet Dinah. Properly. Birdie, too, though she was far less wary than her parents; you’d seen the top of her head crest the window ledge when she was small. Her eyes were wet-earth-brown, nose short and flat – or, at least, it had been while she was still growing into her features. She slept better, now. Slept like you did when you didn’t have to make sure a war party wasn’t in your future.

A half-rotten, lightning-split log marked the spot where the creek became home. Your spine rolled pleasantly as you stood. You combed your wet hands through your hair only to bend again, gathering a cupped handful of the shallow water to wash away the worst of the blood.

You had a month to mull it over.

You’d let the wolf-skin slip by the time you’d reached the field around your home. All that fur harbored more ticks than you were willing to deal with; you’d much rather run soap over your skin beside the outdoor spigot than bother with the wash tub and comb. You’d left the kitchen-bar wrapped in a towel on the porch, and you swung yourself around the banister to get it before anything that had crawled onto you could crawl off instead of getting drowned in the tap.

The water was cold. The air dressed you with gooseflesh. You bathed until the earth squished underfoot. By the time you’d made your way inside, you could smell a distant fire.

He’d skipped another meeting to see you. Just one more thing to add to the never-ending list of things they could hold against you.

You dressed for bed in a button down older than you were, whose threadbare elbows would do nothing to block the cool that had seeped into the wood of your favorite porch chair. You had a routine, however loosely committed you were to it: you started a fire of your own in the woodstove, just enough to get the house warm, and gathered up the book you were reading for the third time to go sit outside until your still-wet hair became unbearable. It wouldn’t be long until the pleasant chill gave to oppressive heat, and you intended to savor every moment.

So you did. You went back outside and sat in a curl with your ankles tucked behind the old chair’s arm rest, holding the book from the top. The world was quiet enough that you almost expected to catch the rhythm of a distant song.

“Hey, there!”

The sound of another person tore you back into reality as abruptly as though the book were yanked from your grasp. You sat up, the old chair creaking; never once had you doubted your senses, but whatever fleeting blame you’d placed on being too interested fled at the smaller, softer noise.

There was a white man cutting across your yard.

There was a white man cutting across your yard and he wasn’t making a sound.

The grass brushed against his pant legs, of course; his steps were soft, but they were there – gently treading. You could hear him breathing, but not…

Not the sound of a heart. Not the way it should’ve beat. Something moved blood in that man’s veins, made the breath from his lungs feed his still-flushed body.

He saw you looking and raised a hand to wave, like he’d expected your wide-eyed silence. Like he was neutralizing the threat of his presence before he’d gotten anywhere close to the porch – which some part of you reminded you that he absolutely should not do.

You didn’t move.

You were too busy reeling. You should’ve heard him coming long before he’d become visible, even from inside the house.

He didn’t give you long to wonder what manner of spirit he could be. The scent of him reached you before he did – of rot, rich and cool like turned earth, like leaf-mold and spent bergamot. Nothing human, but nothing without form. There was blood on him, in him, somewhere. You could smell it under the starch in his clothes.

He stopped several paces from the porch.

He caught scent of you, too, and you were mouthwatering. Sweet and deep like viscera pulled apart by starving hands. Like lovers’ tangled embrace. The violence of birth, the cradle of death, and the ash-and-tallow soap meant to keep it buried.

You unfurled yourself slowly, unhitching each ankle from behind the chair’s arm. Adjusted to set your feet on the floor. Your heart beat your ribs like an animal in a trap, but you managed to fold down the corner of your page and set the book on the chair when you stood.

“Evenin’.” The word came in an accent you didn’t know and carried more weight than it should’ve.

“Little late for evenin’,” you replied.

He wasn’t dressed for this. There were no roads close enough to wonder if he’d been in a car that had broken down; he would’ve walked for miles, and there were no dirt stains, no clinging insects, no grass awns or exertion-rumples. It didn’t even look like he’d worked up much of a sweat. Certainly didn’t smell like it.

“S’pose so.” He was watching you, too. Trying to understand what it was that some part of him recognized. It was no labor to look at you. He tried to be subtle about it, though the movement of his eyes could only be so contained. Most people were beautiful in some way or another, that was true – but most people, at least in this age, also wore more than a shirt repurposed for a nightdress. Your husband must’ve been tall. The way the fabric clung to your upper arms didn’t match the way the aging hem brushed your lower thighs. Aging hem – maybe not a husband.

“I didn’t mean t’ scare you. I didn’ think anybody lived this far out.”

The cadence of his voice didn’t match. You weren’t sure how you knew that, the words just didn’t have the right rhythm. The longer he stood there, the more certain you were that nothing good could come from this.

“They don’t.”

You tried to draw a boundary with those words. You meant to say, in no uncertain terms, that this was your land – he was not the first white man to come onto it and he would surely not be the last, but none had ever been welcome.

What you said, to him, sounded a little more to the tune of no one but me.

That would’ve made things easier, had he been able to figure out what it was about you that made him feel like he should retreat.

“You Choctaw?” he asked. Quite possibly the most idiotic thing that could’ve come out of his mouth – he knew it even before the look that crossed your face said more than either of you managed to convey in words thus far.

“What are you, the census bureau?”

His mouth betrayed him. You saw the flicker of a smile make it twitch – he thought you were funny, even if he knew he couldn’t laugh.

(It gave you some bare-bones pleasure to know you could still trade quips.)

His posture eased just a little. You weren’t sure if you liked that, but you had to allow it. “That’d be a shame. I’m lookin’ t’ meet with the tribe, an’ it might be forward of me, but—”

“What do you want with the tribe?” You had to kill whateverwas about to come out of his mouth before it went somewhere it couldn’t come back from.

He should’ve known a well-placed barb wouldn’t ease your skepticism. Rightfully so. He prepared to speak in half-truths, to let you in just enough—

But you noticed the way the moonlight hit his eyes. The flash of sanguine red.

“What are you?”

The redness vanished. He blinked. He quirked his head like he didn’t know what you meant, though you knew he did.

You let your own eyes brighten. Let the anxiety hammering your heart into your ribs become the emergence of thick claws and too-sharp teeth. “I’m not gonna ask again: what are you?”

He held up his open palms a little further ahead of him than a simple surrender necessitated. Some part of him must’ve recognized that you were as much of a threat to him as he might’ve been. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight.”

“Then answer me.”

There was no version of this standoff where either of you got out of this unscathed, was there? He must’ve known what you were the whole time, and he still never faltered. Your only consolation was—

“I need t’see your Fire Keeper,” he finally said.

Now the rhythm of the words made sense.

“I came here, from Ireland, twenty-one years ago.” His breath was a little shallow; he couldn’t find the balance between the truth and the gentler version, though he tried. “The land of my father didn’t exist anymore. Invaders kept comin’ – stealin’, pillagin’, takin’ away what made us who we were. Your people an’ my people went through horrors at the same time – ours wasn’t a famine no more than your people willin’ly left their land.”

That didn’t answer your question. Either of them. Not fully. It put a pit in your stomach that you couldn’t force down, but it didn’t – couldn’t – make you stupid.

You started to ask why those things were connected when he continued, “Your Fire Keeper can conjure spirits. Me, I’m trapped here – what I am doesn’t get the privilege of seein’ home again.”

“That’s not true.” You didn’t know if it was, but you didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to.

“It is. Half’a Ireland was wiped out less than a hundred years ago. More an’ more before that. We used t’ be able to reach the other side ourselves.”

He was looking at you, but he wasn’t just looking at you. That pit in your stomach was a gaping chasm; you felt naked, laid bare and vulnerable in a way he never should’ve known you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just you. Maybe he had no idea that he was not looking at you, not looking through you, but seeing you.

It scared the hell out of you.

“Your people sent help when you had nothin’. I came t’ask for help one last time. I’ve got no family left. There’s barely anythin’ like me.”

You believed him.

“I’ve been alone for a long time. I jus’ need t’see my people. Just once.”

You believed him. There was absolutely nothing in his tone, or his posture, or the unnaturally fluid way he moved, or the way his words lilted in his human-looking mouth that gave you any inclination of insincerity, and that frightened you worse than a stand-off.

“Please.”

He touched the porch railing. You didn’t fully process how close he’d gotten until he was there, until you should’ve been pushing him away.

“What are you?” you repeated.

“I thought you weren’t gonna ask again,” he quipped back.

It didn’t dissolve whatever was between you this time. You took a step forward of your own; you felt uncertain of your legs, but that wasn’t how it looked. Not to him. Your hand reached out to brush the railing not too far above his as your bare feet landed on the step, and you were so close that the radiant heat of your body felt like summer on his skin. You were so close that he could’ve stroked your claws.

“Vampire,” he replied. “An’ you?”

There was another name for it, but you doubted he knew a word of your language. “She who wears wolf-skin.”

“Werewolf,” he said, almost automatically. There were plenty of names for it, maybe as many as there were for him.

“I guess.”

You didn’t move and neither did he. He was different, up close. Less average looking than you’d thought. His face was sort of round, sort of chiseled, neither angular nor plain. His ears were a little big, hair a little too neat. The things you didn’t like about him were the ones that seemed the most contrived. His shirt didn’t fit him properly, straining across his chest like it was meant for a man with less broad shoulders.

You were so beautiful he felt as if he were staring into the sun. The soft, fresh-earth brown of your eyes had lightened to a rich, unnatural amber. Your mouth was soft, hair the satin of a raven’s wings falling in a curtain down your back. A little spilled over your shoulder. Your curves were softness upon muscle, and the shape of your face was meant to be held in someone’s palm.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you said, though you shouldn’t have.

You really shouldn’t have.

He stared at you like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“You need to be patient,” because you knew there was no way you were going to pull this off, “But—”

“Thank you.”

He said it on a breath, on an exhale, like he had never dreamed you’d say yes. He had no idea how many barriers still stood between him and his purpose, but one of them – arguably the most important – no longer did.

“Thank you, miss…?”

“Kayla.” You’d never heard yourself say your name like that before. “Kayla Marsh.”

“Remmick,” he replied.

You nodded, aware that it was only one name, but not asking. Not yet.

“Kayla.” You had also never heard anyone say your name the way he did, like it was something meant to be savored. “Thank you, Kayla.”

You were still looking at him as his fingers ascended the railing. It was a slow gesture, one you should’ve caught in your periphery; you didn’t realize he’d moved until he was touching you. His fingers weren’t as warm as they should’ve been, and they startled you, and you did absolutely nothing about it as he, so carefully, so deliberately, moved them under and around your own in order to take your hand in his.

“May I?” he asked on another breath, and you nodded without thinking.

The step he took didn’t just put him in your immediate proximity, it put the two of you nearly chest to chest. Your hand pressed to his shoulder on instinct; you weren’t sure if you were trying to stop him, or yourself, or just this, because you weren’t stupid, you did know what this was, what was between you, and why you should not do it.

His eyes were the color of blood on the surface of a fresh wound. Ironic, considering that was how he made you feel.

“May I see you?” His fingers moved along the seam of your shirt, ascending your thigh from the bare skin just above your knee. He was asking and inviting all at once, and some horrible, greedy part of you wanted him to reach out and start undoing your buttons one at a time.

“Only if I can see you, too.”

He brought your knuckles to his lips. His eyes glinted with promise.

You let your hand fall. The tips of your claws made thin runs in the fabric of his shirt, only half-noticed; his lashes lowered in response to your touch. You thought about recreating that flash of fantasy on him, flicking each button open even if it meant you’d sever every piece of thread. It was the only thing you could think about; he was more solid than he’d seemed. You ran your palm down his chest. Over his stomach, which quivered when you passed his ribs.

You stopped short of reaching his belt.

His eyes returned to focus as you, still holding his hand, retreated back up the steps. The tether of your touch coaxed him to follow you, to let himself be guided, though he only managed to last until he’d reached the solid floor.

With no warning, your back collided with the nearest beam. His hands were under you, boosting you onto the railing’s edge.

You obliged, settling against it. His eyes caressed the expanse of new skin bared to him as your shirt hitched up.

His hands went to his. It took him no time at all to liberate the neat, white undershirt beneath. His suspenders fell, like reigns, against his thighs. The chain he wore looked old. Expensive. You couldn’t focus on any one thing if you wanted to pay attention to the way his deft fingers flicked open the buttons at his cuffs. It bordered on obscenity.

He, too, stopped just short of his belt; you’d drawn your lower lip in between your sharp teeth like you’d forgotten they were there. He hoped you didn’t have faith that he could stop himself if you broke the skin.

He couldn’t take that chance.

One last, low breath passed between your lips and his. His mouth closed over yours – softly, at first. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, claws carding slowly through his hair.

He kissed you like you deserved to be kissed. Coaxed your lips apart with the gentle brush of his tongue. You obliged, even if you had to bite back the urge to recoil in disgust at the viscosity of his saliva. The taste of it wasn’t the problem, though you knew that familiar red-meat game had been born of foreign reason. It was the way it touched your tongue. Like plasma.

He rutched your shirt a little higher. The cool air found where you were warmest, and you felt a full-body flush come over you. You really should’ve waited, should’ve grabbed up your book and taken him inside even if it was in no way wise.

He drew back just enough to lick the wonderfully rough callouses on the pads of his fingers, and every hesitation quieted under the weight of a hitched-breath, “oh.”

He met your eyes as his dampened fingers traced the seam of your cunt. His touch was unhurried – you were soft, warm and wet; he felt your inner muscles flutter and savored parting you around the first knuckle of two fingers.

“D’y’like that?” he murmured. The pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, and the gasp it caused made all of his blood gather in his cock.

“Yeah,” you managed. “Yes.”

He kissed you again. Harder, this time.

His fingers rocked inside you as your nails pressed into his upper arm. You couldn’t get enough of him. Didn’t want to. You flicked your tongue against his to invite it back into your mouth, and he moaned. You’d never heard a man moan like that. Fuck, you’d never heard a man moan at all. You wanted him closer, wanted to push your feet through the loops he’d made of his suspenders and –

He dropped to his knees. The thin band of saliva that connected his mouth to yours drew taut until it broke.

He held your hips against the railing as his fingers withdrew; you would’ve broken the grasp of a mortal man. He rubbed damp circles into your skin as he leaned in to nuzzle the sweet little button of your clit. It made your thighs twitch. His tongue darted out to taste you, and the sound you made as your heels hit the wood was all the encouragement he desired.

That’s right, he coaxed with gentle, persistent ministrations; he let one of his too-strong hands fall to your thigh to boost it over his shoulder. There you go. He kept you there, a hand on your hip and one on your thigh, so close that your throbbing pulse deafened him.

His tongue fucked you slowly. Flattened. Curled. Fit to your clit like he was made for you as he drew it between his slick-wet lips. He kissed your cunt like he was kissing your mouth, and your strung-taut muscles and quick, shallow breaths sent the thrill of praise through him.

“There,” you gasped, your hand knotting in his hair without warning. You pressed him closer, demanding he keep pressure on the spot that made your vision hazy.

He obliged, of course. He ate you slow and messy, flicking his tongue, teasing that spot that made your eyes roll back and your hips arch against his mouth. You were losing your senses, consumed with the wonderful heat building in your nerves. That’s it, he coaxed, the words sending wonderful vibrations into you, through you, your heel pressing into his back to spur him forward.

He loved that. His teeth grazed your clit, just soft enough to tease. Just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

You didn’t, couldn’t, warn him. You just came.

He groaned like your orgasm brought upon his own. The sensation of it, of his encouraging, persistent licks made you clench and quiver. Made your thighs close in as he buried himself between them, tasting your release like it could sustain him.

It took him a moment to let go of you. His inhuman claws had begun to emerge, unnoticed until then; they pressed into the swell of your hip until blood beaded at their points. It was just enough to wet them, to leave the taste of you in two different forms on his skin.

“Was that alright?”

You laughed. Wasn’t much of one, considering how hard you had to fight for the ability to breathe, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “You’re the only other person who’s ever made me cum, so. Yeah. More than alright.”

He thought you were joking. He rubbed the small, quick-healing marks where his claws had pierced your skin as he stood. The tenderness of the gesture kept you quiet.

It also made you look at him like he hung the moon, not that either of you were willing to acknowledge that.

“I don’t know why you asked to see me,” you said, maybe just to break the silence. “We never finished taking off our clothes.”

“Didn’ mean it like that,” he replied, voice thick like honey. “I wanna see you as you are.”

It took him a moment, but he let himself change. It started with his hands – they shifted from the blunted shape he had known as a mortal man into the claws of a predator. It went in stages, sharpening and lengthening until the shifting bone felt as if it had re-settled into its proper place. His teeth did much the same in a jaw that had to dislocate in order to make room for all of them. He was unnatural. Inhuman. His eyes were like coals in the fire, lit, somehow, from within. It was different from the redness he’d already shown you.

It was the first time you’d ever seen a face like your own in someone you didn’t know.

You reached out – without hesitation, he noticed. Your fingers brushed along his jaw as if searching for a new swell in the still-tender flesh. You didn’t ask if it hurt; your eyes were softer. A little darker, but still bright. Still not human.

You held out your upturned palm. It took him a moment to recognize that you wanted him to place his hand into it. Your fingers lingered upon his face, and it struck him as a cruel irony that they were in no way calloused. You healed from all wounds, then, even the ones made to protect you.

He lay his palm tentatively into yours, spreading his fingers so that the sharp, dark claws would frame your wrist.

“You’re beautiful.”

He laughed. It was low, bitter, and a lot more intimate than it should’ve been.

It made sorrow twinge in your chest.

Your fingers did the same, around his. You brought him close to you, again, by the gentle hook of your claws against the heel of his palm. His lashes lowered over his back-lit eyes, and the sight of him, so sincerely devastated by simply touching you…

You kissed him. Again. Your soft mouth was so patient with his; he did not know if he could handle kissing you like this, but your tongue was careful as it passed his parted lips. You brushed it along the points of his teeth like you were taking note of how sharp they were, that all of them were. You were still cradling his jaw, the claw on your thumb raised just enough to avoid breaking the skin.

His arm encircled you. He drew you to the edge of the railing, almost right against the simple buckle on the leather belt he wore. He’d pilfered. He wore clothes from several different men, few of which fit as well as he’d hoped.

You let your hand drop from his to undo it, and he had to help you lest you stop touching him. He had no reason to worry about that – he’d barely started taking off his pants before your warmth found the spot where his cock strained against the fabric. A low, needy moan escaped him.

“May I?” you asked without retreating, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

He nodded rather fiercely. He was so hard he ached.

You tugged his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, then his undershirt over his head. He undid your buttons quickly, only fumbling a little; he could not resist the urge to put his mouth on your collarbone the moment it was bared to him. To move from it to your shoulder, then up your neck – kissing, tracing his sharp teeth along the path of your pulse until you were so close to him that you couldn’t even shiver without him feeling how it raced through you.

You stroked his cock the way you’d stroked his jaw, your hand cradling his length as your thumb traced a path from about-midway to the ridge of his tip. It jumped a little, leaking as readily as his drool had connected your mouths.

You found that undeniably hot.

“Kayla,” the chest-reverberating timbre of his voice drew your eyes back to his. “Please…” You’d let his tip linger near your clit, and the urge to gently buck his hips – to take over, slip inside of you and fill you – consumed him.

You brushed your nose against his. Were you nuzzling him? He could hardly process it before you had your thighs settled at his hips.

“Take it slow.” You let your hand return to one of his strong arms as he settled himself against you. He rocked his hips lightly, watching your eyes change as you felt him slick himself in the wetness he’d caused. He liked them brighter, like this. You were so beautiful, but somehow more, still, when there were no barriers between you.

He nodded. Slipped a hand under you to brace you where he needed you to be, and slid inside of you like he belonged there.

Your claws broke skin. It was one thing to touch him, another entirely to feel him seat himself to the hilt inside of you – his cock pushed your limits in all the right ways.

“Easy,” he breathed, but it was so wrought that you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or himself. He rolled his hips shallowly. The railing creaked. The claws of your free hand sunk into it like the wood had gone soft. Your eyes were aglow behind your half-lowered lashes, and only you seemed to be aware that his had gone ember-bright.

Again.

The railing protested. Your breath caught on a little moan. You were trying not to dig your claws in, but there was so much of him it made you lose track of yourself.

Again. Your toes curled. Pleasure shot through you like sparks, made all the worse by the heavy, delicious drag of his thrusts. You were so wet for him, so welcoming; your body didn’t want to feel him retreat.

“Remmick..”

The sound you made of his name drove him half-wild. He shifted his angle slightly, but all for the better – you keened like an animal as your head fell back. He did it again and again, the tempo of his steady rhythm increasing. You were senseless and nothing but your senses, both overwhelmed by him and enraptured with him. You let go of the ledge to wrap yourself around him, to let him lift you up off of it so he could hit that perfect spot that made you moan like he was the only man who could deliver such pleasure.

“Feels so good,” slipped out.

“Yeah?” The word was almost automatic. He tried to gather himself enough to express a coherent thought, but the desire to put his mouth back on your skin, to taste the frantic throbbing of your pulse, won, instead.

“Yeah…”

You lost yourself in the sweet little licks he left along your throat. The way his teeth asked permission for something you weren’t sure if you wanted to give, but would’ve. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses from the hollow of your throat to the spot just below your ear only to keep going along your jaw, back to your mouth. Back to another round of smoldering kisses that made it all the harder to resist the hot flush that came over you, made pins and needles intensify in the backs of your calves. It felt like changing, like you were on the cusp of where your skin and the wolf skin were about to alternate though you knew you weren’t.

“Please,” you breathed into his mouth, your knees pressing into his sides just above his hips. “Remmick, please—”

His thumb brushed your clit. You cried out, your back arching as he held you as close to him as he could make you stay. Your claws dug into his back to form thin, quick-healing slashes. He was so close, all of a sudden – it was too much to feel you and to feel how even a light touch worked you toward your peak. You were clutching him the way your cunt clutched his cock, and he wanted nothing more than to join you at the heights of ecstasy – so much and not enough.

He pulled your hips flush with his and ground into that soft, perfect place that alighted every nerve. You howled. Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, demanding he join you, begging for him not to pull away, to fuck you through it, to keep going even if it made no sense to.

Your orgasm pushed him over the edge. He had to brace you against the porch railing so his knees wouldn’t buckle; he made a plaintive sound that might’ve been your name.

His cum didn’t feel the way you thought it should’ve. It wasn’t cold, at least. Friction had probably warmed him up enough to make it not-tepid, though it didn’t exactly feel right.

You shifted a little. His hands flexed, keeping you firmly where you were. He was too overwhelmed to move, yet; his heavy breath and slackened muscles needed another few moments’ recovery.

You stopped trying to move when he held you still. Tried, and failed, not to dwell on how insufferably hot it was to have his hands on your hips while he twitched inside you. While he filled you with his cum. You had no business enjoying it.

He met your eyes again, after a moment, and the way his widened with surprise at the intensity of your gaze should’ve made you blush. Should’ve, but didn’t; turns out, you really did like the half-ruined look on a man.

“I was just about to settle in for the night, if you wanted to stay.”

He blinked. Quirked his head just a little, like, after all that, he still wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly.

You picked up your shirt from where it had been draped, forgotten, over the railing. The way your body shifted made Remmick’s lashes lower again, though he knew he ought to withdraw. You were surely going to dress for bed, again, and…

You draped your shirt over your arm as you sat up, bracing a hand on the nearest beam so you could kiss him. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t lingering, but you kissed him of your own volition all the same. It left him reeling so intensely that he did nothing to stop you from separating your bodies, climbing off the railing and grabbing your book off the chair. You hesitated, just for the length of a heart’s beat, before grabbing his clothes, also.

He really shouldn’t let you do that. He didn’t know what you knew, let alone what you might think when you found out the extent of his limitations. What left him vulnerable to you, let alone the cool, night air.

You reached the door before he’d even taken a step to follow. “Are you coming?”

That was an invitation. One you arguably shouldn’t have made. He nodded, pausing to gather his shoes before he did. As if bending didn’t make you tilt your head to admire him in all the ways his un-altered pants didn’t convey.

You waited. Only when he’d joined you did you let yourself in, and Remmick, ever grateful, closed the door behind you.

dividers by me, cafekitsune, olenvasynyt, saradika-graphics and kaitsawamura

tag list: @draconicks, @ally-thefandomperson, @ircngrip, @shutupwyl, @unbetrayal

#Remmick #Remmick (Sinners)#Remmick x OC #POV Fic #Sé Abú (fic tag)#Sé Abú (It Is Forever) - Remmick x Kayla #Remmick x Choctaw Werewolf OC #In Progress Fanfiction #Second Person POV #Sinners (2025) Fanfiction #This is probably what you'd expect from reading the phrase 'Remmick x Werewolf' so proceed accordingly #tags and warnings updated as necessary #I hope tumblr's formatting cooperates with me because I am still a novice at navigating it

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thirstkanaphan · 2 days ago

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Initial impressions from the solo track previews!

WOW. I can't believe how fully-realized each track sounds just from the previews, and by that, I mean each member knew exactly what kind of song they wanted to make and each brought their own personal flavor to the composition, lyrics, and style. Hongjoong (as producer and composer for most of them) also deserves kudos for being able to extract that unique sound from each member while also maintaining the "essence" of Ateez for the overall album.

This feels like a mature album. The boys are men; they are experienced, curious, confident, and multi-dimensional. Their music feels like extensions of themselves, including parts we're familiar with and some we're perhaps meeting for the first time!

I had made some predictions in an earlier post, so here's how they stack up against the previews:

Slide To Me - Yunho

I wonder for this song if he'll offer something a bit more upbeat. I looked to the Spotify playlist he made us for Lemon Drop, which includes Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon and Amnesia by 5 Seconds of Summer. Yunho often uses 5SoS songs in his IG stories, so I am inclined to think his song will be similarly inspired by pop songs of the 2010s!

FREAKY YUNHO FTW!!! I love the R&B/Soul/Funk sound and the lyrics are so sexy: I bet his performance is going to be sensual and flirty. I'm scared.

Skin - Seonghwa

Skin could either be a freaky dance track or a gut-wrenching anthem about self-acceptance (por que no los dos?).

Definitely the former rather than latter 😂 LET'S TALK ABOUT SEX, BABYYYYY!!!! The way Seonghwa utilizes his heavenly falsettos against this dirty little beat...fuck yeah!!!

You know he's going to deliver a performance to top the chair dance from Towards The Light, right?

Legacy - Yeosang

I could definitely see a sweet, pop ballad in the style of IU or Maktub OR more heavy, rock-inspired music like DAY6; both would provide a good showcase for his voice.

NONE OF THE ABOVE!! Yeosang's low growl summons us to a chorus filled with fire and anger!! This feels like the epic soundtrack to a fantasy saga. I can't wait to see the edits for this one. I also want to see Yeosang on stage summon the rage we know he's capable of. RISE!!!!!

Sagittarius - Wooyoung

I felt so emotional hearing this again (even though I listen to it often). It just sounds like pure Wooyoung. The yearning!!! I know this is not a "new" solo, but something about the preview made it sound fuller, and a bit more polished. Oh, that performance will destroy us.

To Be Your Light - Jongho

We're obviously getting another ballad, and a tear-jerker that that. However, I'd love for this song to utilize Jongho's warm and rich lower range.

Not quite on the mark. This is different from Everything and I like the more up-tempo rhythm. It's still classic Jongho vocal greatness. The song actually reminds me of an anime ending OST, filled with nostalgia and good feelings.

Creep - San

I'm honestly at a loss for this one. I love angry, growly Bouncy San and I love soft, delicate Snowflake San. The title makes me wonder if we're getting a something unexpected this time...

OKAY, SAN!?!! Was not expecting this! I love the electronic guitar and the sexy vibes of this song. San is utilizing his lower vocal range, with the slight edge of growl. We're not surviving this one, I fear....

NO1 - Hongjoong

This actually be the one I'm most curious/excited about because we've already seen SUCH a range from Hongjoong in the past couple of years, from his By.Hongjoong covers to SMB. It would be such a swerve if we got a lyrical song from Hongjoong instead of a rap!

HAHAHAHAHA!!! NOPE! Not even sure how to describe this song - I love the electronic beat, I love that we're getting dance party song, I love the distortion in his voice. I can't wait to shake my ass to this one!

Roar- Mingi

Mingi's Single CD remix for In Your Fantasy is "Yaeji Ver." which reminded her of Yaeji, a Korean American DJ who has a really cool, mellow style infused into house + hip hop tracks. This is a total reach, but Mingi is always talking about wanting to experiment with different genres, so what if he tries something like this?

We're in full "Fix On Project" mode with Roar and I love it!!! This feels like the sister to Autobahn. Mingi loves playing around with autotune, so this feels true to form BUT his powerful rock vocals are soooo delicious. ANOTHER FUCKING BANGER.

also, BARKING IS NOW A FAN CHANT!!

IN CONCLUSION

let's make this album soar. they deserve it.

#ateez #park seonghwa #song mingi #jeong yunho #kim hongjoong #choi san #jung wooyoung #kang yeosang #choi jongho

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tayswizzlez · 3 days ago

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roman reigns x oc - love me like i'm not made of stone, chapter one: control

title: love me like i'm not made of stone (ao3) pairing: roman reigns x oc (maria marie) summary: maria marie was once called the future of wwe but now she's been sidelined playing valet to her boyfriend, ace spade. when ace's obsession with roman reigns leads to him doing something drastic both maria and roman's worlds may never be the same. rating: 18+, minors DNI warnings: language, violence, eventual smut (including light kink and bdsm), possible other warnings to be added. other things: slow burn, angst, eventual happily ever after chapter: 1/? - control word count: 6287

other stuff: disclaimer | masterlist (coming soon) | playlist | about me

notes: i've had the idea for this fic since i played wwe 2k22 because apparently i'm incapable of making caws without giving them extensive backstories. idk how this one really happened, i just kept pairing up maria and roman for tag matches and… there they were. then i stopped playing and took a break from watching wrestling but when i got 2k25 (my first game since) i had to make maria again and well… this is a result of that?

this is also my first time writing for anything wwe related so hopefully everything is ic. also this fic is 100% kayfabe (it's still real to me dammit!). i've done my best to be as canon compliant as possible but i've had to change some things to better suit this story. this takes place after roman defeats lesner (bc i really just don't want to include him at all lol) and at the height of the bloodline's power. i've changed around some of the rosters just to work better plotwise and because i'm biased and and want to write about the wrestlers i like and slander those i don't jk.

also i'll expand on this at some point but maria is half maori (a tribute to a friend). she is also in her early 30s. images of her were created by me in 2k games.

i honestly don't even know if i really like this chapter because my brain keeps wanting to focus on the later plot so i really just pushed this out so i could get to it but i hope it's somewhat enjoyable??

if you'd like to be added to an update tag list let me know!

i'm bigger than my body i'm colder than this home i'm meaner than my demons i'm bigger than these bones - control, halsey

Once they chanted her name.

Now she was lucky if it ended up on a WhatCulture “Top Ten Wrestlers WWE fumbled” list. Maria Marie one of the longest reigning NXT Women’s Champions reduced to being valet for the mid-card talent that was Ace Spade. Her boyfriend. Ace had promised her it would only be for a few months, just until he could find his footing on the main roster when they both got called up at the same time.

That had been over a year ago.

She kept telling herself things would change, that all Ace needed was one good match. A match that would put him over, a match that would help him find his footing and he would finally have his place on the roster. But deep down Maria knew that this wasn’t going to happen. During their time in NXT Maria had always been the better wrestler. She was better on the mic. She was a natural. She had lived and breathed wrestling for as long as she could remember. As a child she would stay up late to record every show on VHS and she would watch them over and over until the tape was so worn it wouldn’t work anymore. She’d memorize every move, she’d look for any tells of what a wrestler’s next move might be. She had lied about her age so she could join a wrestling club and once they had found out she was younger they ended up letting her stay because they had seen her potential. She was an expert tactician who wasn’t afraid to do high flying moves and take risks. What she had lacked in physical strength she made up for by being calm, collected and calculating in the ring.

And Ace… was Ace. He had never had a title in NXT. He was more of a loudmouth than he was a wrestler, which had only gotten worse when they had both signed to Smackdown. And it didn’t help that he was often an annoying loudmouth. He would talk a big game but never really could back it up. He always walked the line of being the type of guy the fans loved to hate or hated to hate. He was usually thrown into matches with guys at the top of the power rankings, probably to pad those wins out for them. The few matches he had won he had never won clean. But that never stopped him from talking like he was one of the biggest names in the industry.

For the most part Maria would go along with it. Because she loved him or she had at some point. In the last few months in particular Ace had been single minded in his obsession with Roman Reigns. Even at home, on the days they were away from the ring, Roman and The Bloodline was one of the only things Ace talked about. It was like he wasn’t capable of thinking about anything else anymore. Maria had learned to tune him out. She’d nod, give a “mmhmm” or some other sort of ambiguous noise that could be seen as agreement or disapproval. Ace was far to focused on himself to really even notice if Maria was listening or not.

Now was one of those times. It was just before Smackdown went live. Maria and Ace were in one of the locker rooms. Ace had been pacing back and forth, cocky as ever going on about how The Bloodline really weren’t all that great. Maria was styling her hair in the mirror. She looked immaculate. She always did. She put her hair up in an intricate style with braids woven in. Her makeup was perfect - red lips, cats eye liner and just a hint of glitter on her skin. Her clothes were perfectly tailored, skin tight pants, a sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms. She looked good. Really good.

Her eyes shift to Ace’s reflection in the mirror, he’s still ranting. Bleached blonde hair, pushed back with an 80s style bandana, like he was a Motley Crue reject. His gear a mix of garish colours and patterns that somehow for him just made sense. His long entrance jacket thrown haphazardly over the bench. He had a match against Butch tonight and Maria would be there ringside, cheering him on as usual.

“Babe, have you been listening to me?” Ace says suddenly, looking up and meeting Maria’s eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah, of course,” Maria turns to face him, leaning back against the sink.

“I need you with me on this. I can’t do this without you,” he says.

“You know I’m with you,” Maria says. How can he even question her on that, after all the sacrifices she’s made for him. It makes her chest ache whenever he talks like this. It was like no matter what she did, it would never be enough.

“It doesn’t feel like it sometimes,” Ace huffs, almost like a child. “I just need you behind me on this. No one has been able to stand up to Roman so far and I just can’t help but think the guy who can actually do it is me.”

Maria doesn’t reply right away. It seemed almost laughable for Ace to think that he could actually compare to Roman and be the one to make his empire fall. Roman was the best in WWE for a reason, he had an entire Bloodline behind him. He had beaten the best of the best, there was no one left to challenge his power. How could Ace possibly think he could do anything that?

“Babe!” Ace snaps, looking annoyed. “Just think of it. Who better to take on Roman Reigns than me?!”

“Uh, yeah,” Maria forces a smile.

“No one has the brains or charisma that I have,” Ace starts pacing, seemingly oblivious to Maria’s fake smile. “And I’m tired of having to just bow down to whatever they want. Who the hell does he think he is? He’s not special.”

Maria honestly didn’t really have many thoughts about Roman and The Bloodline. She admired him as a wrestler, there were many of his matches she watched over and over. Looking at his moves, looking at how calculated he was. How would act completely cold but there were sparks of real emotion there. Emotions he clearly didn’t want anyone else to see. She didn’t think much of that though - the emotional state of the Tribal Chief wasn’t really her concern.

She had enough trouble acknowledging her own.

A member of the backstage crew sticks her head in the locker room. “Ten minute warning,” she says, before slipping away.

“Ahhh,” Ace grins and rubs his hands together. “Who am I fighting tonight?”

“Butch,” Maria replies.

“Which one was he again?” Ace asks as he swings on his long coat with a flourish. “Doesn’t matter. My name is the only one worth remembering.”

It was impressive how someone with such a bad match record could have such a gigantic ego.

“Shall we,” Ace’s grin morphs into something that for a moment is a little bit softer. It was the smile that had first got Maria’s attention when they were in NXT. It used to give her butterflies now she didn’t feel much of anything about it. He extends his arm to her.

Maria takes it and they start to leave the locker room until Ace gives her a once over. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm,” Maria’s brow furrows. “What?”

Ace frowns and gestures at her arm. “Seriously? No wonder I lose matches, you can’t even remember my lucky charm.”

It takes Maria a second to realize she’s not wearing her armband. It had been something she had done when they had first started dating in NXT. It was supposed to be a one time thing for the NXT Heatwave PLE but Ace had liked it so much Maria had kept it up. She’d take scraps of fabric from his gear and fashion them into arm bands to wear for herself. Even when Ace wasn’t there or it didn’t go with what she was wearing she’d have one on. At one point she had made one from her own gear for him but he said that arm bands made it hard for him to flex and do certain moves. She had just brushed it off. Like she did a lot of things with him.

“Oh, shit,” she sighs. “I must have dropped it, you go ahead. I’ll meet you in gorilla.”

Ace scowls. “Be quick. I need my girl with me during my entrance.”

Despite the scowl he gives Maria a quick peck on the cheek before he leaves the locker room. As soon as he’s gone Maria exhales. For a few moments she just lets herself enjoy the quiet, even though she can still hear the bustle of the show outside. She missed that. She missed being a part of that. She had lived to go out there and do matches in NXT. She looked forward to touring and doing house shows more than she did holidays. And she missed it. So much.

But she told herself being there for Ace was the right thing. He had been the one who had helped her through her concussion recovery a few years ago. He had doted on her, looked after her, got her everything she needed. She could still see the look on his face for her first match back - he had been so scared. He kept asking her if she was really ready, telling her how concerned he was it was too soon.

Sometimes a deep and dark ugly part of herself couldn’t help but think Ace was only so concerned because her coming back from injury meant the spotlight would be on her again. But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. It was too much. Besides what sort of boyfriend wouldn’t have been worried. He was the one who needed her now and she needed to be there for him.

“Five minutes!” she hears a stage hand yell out in the hall.

Maria breaks away from her thoughts, cursing under her breath as she goes back to her bag. She knows she didn’t drop the arm band, she had forgotten it. Normally it was second nature to put it on, one of the first things she did to get ready but now it was more of a chore. She pulls it out of her bag and quickly puts it on. She gives herself one last look in the mirror, forces a smile at her reflection before she leaves for gorilla. *****

That night’s Smackdown show hadn’t been that interesting - as usual. Roman Reigns had watched it from The Bloodline locker room, with Paul Heyman over his shoulder. It felt pointless sometimes but he needed to keep an eye on things. He needed to keep an eye on his show. As usual nothing of note happened. There was that one guy with the bad dye job running his mouth again but Roman didn’t take him seriously. There was no reason too. He didn’t have the skill. He wasn’t even skilled enough to lace Roman’s boots.

It was late by the time he and Heyman were finally leaving the arena. Even after the show there were things to take care of. The halls were dark, most of the other wrestlers had left and it was only crew taking things down for the night.

Roman walked ahead, while Heyman was behind on the phone talking to someone in the WWE offices.

“What my Tribal Chief wants, my Tribal Chief gets,” Heyman says into the phone. “Why is that so difficult to understand?”

Roman rolls his eyes a little as he keeps walking. From down the hall he can hear the sounds of someone in the gym. The crew always set up makeshift gyms at each arena. A place for wrestlers to warm up before matches. This surprises him, normally he was the last one to eave after each show. Curiosity got the better of him and he turns towards the gym - Heyman follows without question still on the phone.

He need to know who was still here, he had to know everything that happened on his show.

The lights of the gym were low, there was even a few crew taking down some of the equipment. In the makeshift ring was one person, the sleek ponytail making her unmistakable.

Maria Marie, the girlfriend or valet or whatever she was of that annoying jobber who had been so obsessed with him. She moved around the ring with ease, her movements so fluid and natural it was almost hypnotizing to watch. It almost made Roman want to charge into that ring and demand to know why she had just been following her useless boyfriend for so long. It was obvious just from watching her like this she had more talent in a finger than he had in his entire body.

Roman understands then why her boyfriend had pushed her into that role. If Maria was on the main roster she would outshine him. It was already impossible to take him seriously but if she was on the card he wouldn’t even be an afterthought, he’d barely even be a footnote. And he can’t help but stare at her as she continues, completely unaware of his presence.

“Ah, Maria Marie,” Heyman’s voice comes from over Roman’s shoulder, he still had his phone pressed to his ear. “One of the longest reining NXT Women’s Champions, once said to be one of the best technical wrestlers of this generation.”

Roman doesn’t say anything. He just keeps watching.

“Now she’s a valet to Ace Spade,” Heyman continues. “A shame she lost her fight, my Tribal Chief. She could have been one of the best- no, I will not go on hold again I am the Wiseman of the Tribal Chief…”

Heyman’s voice gets more annoyed as he goes back to talking to whoever on the phone, he walks away from the gym. Roman stays watching Maria, his brow furrowed.

“She hasn’t lost anything,” he mutters under his breath before he too, turns and walks away. *****

ONE WEEK LATER…

Maria was heading to catering. Ace had been ranting more than usual today and she needed a break. She told him she needed a tea to make sure her voice was ready to cheer him on ring side, which was good enough excuse for him. She was just outside of catering when she pauses, hesitating, she can hear Charlotte Flair and Lacey Evans talking and laughing.

“Did you see Spade’s latest Instagram post?” Lacey laughs. “Who does he think he is? Thinkin’ he can actually step up with the Tribal Chief.”

Maria freezes, then stays behind the vending machine. The two women don’t see her.

“I don’t know who’s more pathetic, him or his girlfriend,” Charlotte replies, voice full of disdain.

Lacey laughs again. “Gosh, she’s so pathetic. Can you imagine givin’ up your career for someone like him? As a woman it’s insultin’ Sets feminism back, yanno?”

“She wasn’t even that good anyways,” Charlotte replies. “Her not being in the ring isn’t a huge loss.”

“True. That girl is all look and no substance. I mean who even is she other than the valet of the most obnoxious and deluded man in the industry. What does that make her? She probably slept with someone to get her title in NXT.”

Maria’s stomach clenches but she stays hidden, unable to move. She had never really spoken to Charlotte or Lacey but hearing the venom in their voices was catching her off guard. Normally she didn’t care what other people thought of her. But something about their tone stings.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Charlotte replies. “If she’s fucking Ace Spade, she’s clearly willing to fuck anyone.”

“Desperation, nasty.”

They laugh. Maria’s hands ball into fists, her manicured nails dig into her palms. Then out of the corner of her eye she sees someone walk past her into catering, Charlotte and Lacey immediately go silent and it’s like the air has shifted. It’s somehow… colder. Maria tilts her head out just enough to see who it was and her eyes widen.

Roman Reigns.

Charlotte and Lacey both stare at him for a moment as he crosses over to the catering table. Lacey combs her fingers through her hair and then puts on her most flirtatious smile.

“Well hello there, Tribal Chief,” she coos. Charlotte rolls her eyes.

Roman says nothing, he doesn’t even look at Charlotte or Lacey. Maria stays where she was, watching. For a few tense moments Roman just looks at the catering table, then he takes a bottle of water and without a word or a look to the women watching him he turns to leave. Lacey watches with a look of disappointment, Charlotte mostly looks unimpressed.

Realizing he’s about to walk past her again Maria steps back a bit, hoping it won’t look like she had been watching the whole thing. As Roman walks by he doesn’t stop but for a moment he looks at her and their eyes meet. Something unreadable flickers in his steely gaze. It roots Maria on the spot. She doesn’t know what it is about that look but it does something to her. But before she can even figure it out, Roman is looking away and walking towards The Bloodline dressing room.

“That was weird, right?” she hears Charlotte’s voice again. “He has his own catering, why come here?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind acknowledging him,” Lacey says, meaning obvious.

“Now who’s pathetic?” Charlotte scoffs.

Maria turns, going the opposite way of Roman. She can’t listen to them anymore. Her mind feels like a mess. She usually had a thick skin but something about how they were talking about her really made her feel bad today. The fact they were so dismissive of her. She knows it has been a long time since she stepped into the ring but it didn’t change everything she had accomplished before that. Once she would have gone into catering and chewed the two of them out for talking about her like that. But now it didn’t feel like there was much point. They had clearly already made up their minds about her. And it wasn’t like she could even challenge them to a match to show them how good she was.

She heads back to Ace’s locker room. He wasn’t set to have a proper match tonight but he insisted that they still had to be there. She’s almost at the locker room when she stops, further down the hall she can see Ace talking to… Seth Rollins? Maria’s brow furrows. She didn’t even know Ace and Seth knew each other. And from the way they were talking it was like they didn’t want anyone to hear. After a few moments the two of them laugh and Seth claps Ace on the shoulder before walking away, a huge smirk on his face. As he passes Maria he smiles at her.

“Ready for the show?” he asks.

Maria’s brow furrows. Seth doesn’t wait for an answer as he continues to stride down the hall. Maria watches for a moment before she looks back at Ace who was now in front of her.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Ace says, sounding unphased as he picks invisible lint off his coat.

“I just… didn’t know you and Seth were… friends?”

Ace didn’t really have many friends in the company, mostly because he would run his mouth too often no one really wanted anything to do with him.

“He was just giving me a pep talk,” Ace replies. “Game recognizing game. He believes in me, unlike some people.”

Maria knows that was meant as a dig at her and she sighs. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you, I-”

“Really? Because you sure act like you don’t believe in me.”

“Ace that’s not…”

“You don’t think I can beat Roman Reigns.”

“I just want you to be realistic, you can’t just demand a match and expect to win.”

Ace shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

Maria sighs, deciding it was best to try and change the subject. “So, I’ve been thinking… I want to get in the ring again.”

“What?!” Ace’s eyes narrow.

“I miss wrestling, Ace,” Maria continues. “It’s been a year…”

“And what am I supposed to do? Huh?!” Ace snaps. “I need you in my corner.”

“I am in your corner!”

“No, you’re thinking of yourself again. How can you be so selfish after everything I’ve done for you. You promised me you’d support me.”

“If you really loved me you’d do this for me,” Ace says, snidely. “And you’ll do it with that smile that makes the whole world melt.”

Maria feels like she’s had ice dumped on her. She wants to scream. But she doesn’t. Instead she bottles all of it up. Like she always does. She doesn’t think she can do this much longer.

“Ace I-”

The Bloodline music starts up int he arena then, echoing in the hallways.

“Are you with me or not?” Ace glares at her.

She doesn’t know what to say, she barely knows what to think. Her emotions feel like a mess right now.

“…yeah,” she shrugs.

“Good, we’re a package deal baby,” Ace grins. “I promise you’ll get your turn again but timing is everything.”

He extends his arm to her, she takes it, automatically, and they head down the hall. *****

“Ladies and gentleman, my name is Paul Heyman. And I serve as the special counsel… to the reigning, defending, undisputed Tribal Chief - ROMAAAN REEIGNS”

The crowd roars. The Bloodline stands in the ring. Roman in the centre, title around his waist, with Jimmy and Jey flanking him. Heyman stands nearby, holding Roman’s other title - mic in hand.

Roman then extends his own hand and Heyman obediently hands over the mic with a little bow.

“ACKNOWLEDGE ME!” Roman yells into the mic.

The crowd goes wild yet again, some cheering, others jeering and booing. And Roman waits, soaking all of it in as if daring every person there to disobey him.

“Every week, I walk out here and it’s the same story,” Roman begins his promo, voice dripping with the type of smugness you could only earn. “I smash them. I stack them. I pin them. And then I fly home with my titles… and my legacy still intact.”

He begins to pace a little in the ring. Heyman in the background utters “yes you do my Tribal Chief.” Jimmy and Jey are all smirks.

“The truth is, there’s nobody left. I’ve beaten them all. Every challenger, every so-called superstar who thought that they were on my level.”

The crowd reacts, some booing, some yelling out names of other superstars.

“Nobody can beat you my Tribal Chief,” Heyman says.

Roman smirks. “Now, I keep hearing about this guy. Keeps buzzing around, flapping his mouth backstage, calling my name like he’s earned it.” Roman raises his hand close by his head and makes a gesture like there is a fly buzzing around him, because that’s all this guy was to him. A fly. A bug. Waiting to be squashed.

He then pauses, tilting his head. “What’s his name again, Wiseman?”

“Ace… Ace something, my Tribal Chief. Like a playing card,” Heyman supplies with feigned confusion.

“Right, that guy,” Roman says mockingly. “Couldn’t remember, he hasn’t done anything worth remembering.”

The Usos start laughing, meanwhile the crowd is now eating it up.

“What type of name is that, Uce?” Jey sniggers behind Roman.

“A bad porn star or failed magician,” Jimmy replies.

“Oh, he’s a failed something,” Roman agrees, smirking right into the camera. *****

“He’s taunting me,” Ace growls. “That motherfucker is actually taunting me.”

He was standing in gorilla with Maria and he was fuming. Maria had never seen Ace like this before. Even the veins on his head looked like they might pop.

“That’s just…” Maria puts a hand on Ace’s arm, trying to calm him down. “It’s just what he does. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t tell me how to take it!” Ace snaps at her, wrenching his arm back. “I’ve had enough of his bullshit. He thinks he runs this company. Well, it’s about time someone stands up to him. And that someone is going to be me. He doesn’t remember me?! I’m about to make sure he never forgets me!”

“Ace-”

Maria reaches out to grab him again but it’s too late Ace has already ripped a microphone out of the hand of a stage hand and is storming towards the ramp.

“PLAY MY MUSIC!” he yells at the crew.

Maria stares after him.

“Oh, fuck…” she mutters before quickly hurrying after him.

Ace’s music hits as he storms down the ramp, the crowd is shocked. In the ring Roman looks bored he looks at the Usos and Heyman and gestures towards Ace as if to say ‘this guy.’ The Usos meanwhile are already jeering at Ace as he continues to storm down into the ring.

A few moments later Maria is behind Ace, trying to get him to calm down but Ace pays no attention to her. Her climbs into the ring and immediately get into Roman’s face.

Roman’s eyes narrow a fraction as he looks down at Ace, who did he think he was to get so close to him.

“You think you’ve beaten everyone, huh?!” Ace yells into the mic. “You haven’t beaten me. I want a match. You and me, Roman!”

The Usos crack up. Even Heyman starts laughing. Then the crowd does too. After a few beats, Roman smirks a little.

“You want a match? With me?” he looks at Heyman. “Hey Wiseman, is this guy serious?”

“He’s delusional, my Tribal Chief,” Heyman replies. “He’s not fit to lace your boots.”

“FIGHT ME!” Ace yells.

Roman turns back to Ace, still laughing. “What for? There is no challenge in facing you. No title. What do you have that I could possibly want?”

Ace is still fuming. Maria slides into the ring then and goes to him, she puts a hand on his forearm.

“Come on,” she says quietly. “Let’s just-”

Ace wrenches away so hard it causes Maria to stumble a step, which in turn makes Roman’s eyes narrow. He looks directly at her and that same feeling from when their eyes met earlier comes back to her.

“If I were gonna fight someone in this ring… It’d be her,” he gestures to Maria before looking back at Ace. “At least she could keep up. But instead of standing on her own, she’s stuck carrying your dead weight. You got called up and you couldn’t handle the truth, that your girl has and always has been better than you.”

Maria is staring at Roman with wide eyes. The crowd was popping. And then she could hear it, it wasn’t loud but she could hear some fans doing one of her old NXT chants. It made her feel dizzy.

Ace was still fuming but a part of him was starting to panic. He doesn’t look at Maria, he’s not even thinking about her in this moment, not really. His obsession with Roman has never been as intense as it is now.

“Maybe I’ll step into the ring with her anyways,” Roman says mockingly. Show her what it’s like to stand next to a real man. Someone who isn’t afraid of her success or skill.”

The vein in Ace’s head starts throbbing again. “You want her so bad?! Huh?! Is that what you want?” he’s snarling. “You want a prize?! Is that what it’s gonna take for you to fight me?!”

Roman’s eyes narrow but before he can reply Ace continues.

“You and me. A match. You beat me and she’s yours.”

“WHAT?!” Maria’s eyes widen.

For a moment it's silent, like the entire arena needed a second to process what Ace just said. And then it explodes. The crowd goes crazy, the Usos are yelling at Ace, even Heyman is talking but Roman just stares. His eyes cold. His expression deadly. All of Ace’s bravado fades in that moment.

“You really just did that?” Roman says coldly. “You just offered your girlfriend like she’s a… prize?”

Disgust is evident Roman’s face, he wants to punch Ace. He takes a step closer, his voice darker.

“You don’t deserve to be in this ring with me. You don’t deserve to be in any type of ring. But I’ll make an example out of you anyways. You want a match? You’ll get your match.”

With that Roman steps away from him, he doesn’t look at Maria as he exits the ring. Ace stands there, still fuming. Jimmy and Jey go to follow Roman, purposely they both bang their shoulders against Ace on the way out. Heyman then leaves too. Maria is breathing hard she turns to Ace, eyes narrowed.

“Ace what the-”

He doesn’t even look at her. Instead he rolls out of the ring and storms off leaving Maria alone in the ring. Alone with the crowd still going crazy, some cheering, some jeering and booing. She can’t her her chant anymore, maybe she had been imagining it.

In that moment even though she’s surrounded by the bright lights, tens of thousands of fans and the ring she loves so much she has never felt so alone. *****

SMACKDOWN COMMENTARY DESK MICHAEL COLE: (shocked) Did he… did Ace Space just offer his girlfriend as a prize? COREY GRAVES: (flat) He sure did, Cole. I can’t believe I just watched that happen. Real classy move. Nothing screams future Hall of Famer like offering off your girlfriend like a trophy. What is wrong with him? COLE: I’m speechless. That was- GRAVES: (cutting in) Desperate. Embarrassing. And honestly pathetic. What sort of man does that? Especially, to the woman who put her career on hold to support him?! I’m disgusted Cole. Maria doesn’t deserve this. COLE: Maria Marie is a former NXT Women’s Champion, and one of the best technical wrestlers of her generation. She’s not a pawn, not a prop. Certainly not a prize to be wagered. GRAVES: (fuming) Say what you will about the Tribal Chief, but even he looked disgusted. COLE: I just don’t know how to process this. We’ve seen wagers in matches before but something about this one… puts a really bad taste in my mouth. GRAVES: As it should Cole. We always knew Ace Spade was a loudmouth but tonight he proved the exact type of man he really is. He’s not just delusional, he’s desperate. He’s a terrible human being and I personally I can’t wait to see the Tribal Chief punch that smirk right off his face. COLE: If I was Ace Spade, I’d start praying. No way this ends well for him. GRAVES: I don’t know who he should be afraid of more. Roman Reigns? Or Maria. Because if she ever gets her hands on him… he’s not walking out of that ring. *****

It was late. The show had ended hours ago. Maria had no idea where Ace was and at the moment she didn’t really care. She was back in the gym, using the punching bag. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess right now and she had no idea how to even begin to process them. So she used her fists instead. Normally she was so controlled, her punches always landing exactly where she intended but tonight thy were harder, faster, almost erratic. Her fists were slamming into the bag like it was something cruel. Like it was an amalgamation of the last year.

“I don’t know who’s more pathetic, him or his girlfriend.” “How can you be so selfish after everything I’ve done for you.” “If you really loved me you’d do this for me.” “If she’s fucking Ace Spade, she’s clearly willing to fuck anyone.” “You and me. A match. You beat me and she’s yours.”

The words play over and over in her mind and she can’t stop punching. Because if she stops then she needs to think and she can’t do that right now. If she thinks she’ll fall apart.

She hits the bag again.

And again.

Her shoulders burned. Her arms were starting to tremble. She can feel sweat dripping down her skin. She’s punching like her life depending on it.

She can’t stop. Stopping means unravelling. And she can’t do that. She refuses to do that. Not now. Not over Ace. Even if a tiny part of her wants to. Needs to more than anything else.

And then she can’t hold back anymore, she screams. Raw, ragged, guttural. With all the strength she has left she throws one final punch.

The chain snaps. The heavy bag hits the floor like dead weight. The sound echoing off the walls and down the hall and it feels so oppressively loud Maria almost wants to put her trembling hands over her ears. Instead she staggers back, gasping for breath. She stars down at the falling bag. She still doesn’t cry. It was like her body was betraying her by refusing to allow her that release.

And then she collapses on the mat, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. She was just… done. *****

Roman saw the whole thing. Everyone else had left. Even Heyman was long gone. But Roman had stayed late tonight, he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe a part of him had hoped he’d see her again in the gym. Or maybe he just liked it when the halls were empty and quiet, the lights dimmed. He was getting ready to leave when he heard the sound of the bag being used and he knew.

It was Maria.

He couldn’t help but follow the sound. Once again he stands in the shadows and watches her. Even now her pony tail was perfect, it didn’t even look like her makeup had smudged. But there were fractures in her control. It was like she was finally unravelling and he couldn’t look away or move.When she screamed and fell to the mat he still didn’t move. He remembered Heyman’s words from the other night, saying what a shame it was that Maria had given up. Roman saw it then but it’s clear as day to him now. This wasn’t a woman who had given up. The fight was still there but she had been buried under someone else’s story. And despite himself, Roman can’t help but think how beautiful she looks in this moment.

And then mentally he’s scolding himself for thinking that. He was the Tribal Chief, this woman was just another wrestler. Other than asserting his dominance there was really no reason to think about her at all. He was about to step back and leave her when a side door creaks open and of all people Shotzi Blackheart walks in.

“Knew I’d find you here,” Shotzi says, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder as she makes her way over to Maria who was still on the ground. She glances at the punching bag. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Maria says nothing.

Shotzi seems unphased and dropped the duffel to the ground and then flops down next to Maria, laying next to her like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like they had done this dozens of times.

“You’re sleeping over tonight. No arguing,” she says.

Maria says nothing.

“Company policy,” Shotzi continues, her tone casual like she was talking about the weather. “Damage WWE property, get put under a 24-hour emotional surveillance watch.”

“That’s not a thing,” Maria croaks.

“It is so a thing. How do you think Miz and Maryse started dating.”

Maria huffs a little at that, almost a laugh. For a few moments they just lay there next to each other on the floor. Shotzi didn’t ask Maria if she was okay, she didn’t need too - she knew. Asking would just be insulting. After a few moments, Maria extends a shaking hand over to Shotzi, who’s own hand meets her halfway. Their fingers intertwine. Maria’s hands stop shaking.

Roman can’t look away. These two women looked like the came from different worlds, different planets even. Shotzi was chaos incarnate, tattoos, piercings and a wildness that couldn’t be tamed. Maria was perfected control, elegant with an air of elegance to her. They could not be more different. But it looked like they had been friends forever. His jaw tics a little, this made him feel something and he wasn’t sure he liked it. So he slinks back into the shadows to leave. *****

After few more moments, Shotzi helps Maria to her feet. She grabs the duffel bag which was full of Maria’s things and slings an arm around her friends shoulders.

“You know, just say the word and I bet we can get the whole locker room to beat the shit out of him,” she grins. “Sami was practically vibrating and K.O. never needs a reason, he’d do it just for fun.”

“Can we get noodles first?”

“Fuck yes!” Shotzi’s grin turns into a smirk.

Shotzi guides Maria towards the door but then Maria stops, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something. She turns towards one of the dark hallways, brow furrowed.

“You good?” Shotzi asks.

“Yeah I thought I just… saw someone,” Maria says softly.

Shotzi looks in that direction. “It’s probably just the crew waiting for you to leave so they can do take down.”

“Yeah,” Maria takes a deep breath. “You’re probably right.”

Then she follows Shotzi out the door.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x oc #wwe fanfiction #wwe fic #wwe oc #wwe original character #fic: love me like i’m not made of stone #wrestling fic #wrestling fanfiction #oc: maria marie #roman x maria #!my fic #!mine #and now that i posted this i need to go hide #because i am never happy with my writing

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thetravelingmaster · 6 hours ago

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Personal Trainer

Female's Point of View - Hypnosis

As I sit on the floor and look up at him, which is a very familiar and comfortable view for me, I have to keep pushing down my eager arousal and reminding myself that we are in public. In this place, he is my personal trainer in the most socially acceptable sense of the word. However, when he personally trains me in private, that title takes on a wholly different and much more erotic meaning as he teaches me how to properly use the perfectly toned body he helped me achieve in the gym.

Looking up into his piercing eyes, the gentle throbbing between my legs intensifies in anticipation because I know he's about to take charge of me... Make my body do what he wants it to do so he can sculpt it to his desires. The thought that he keeps making my body perfect for his needs makes my blood boil even as he begins and my mind instinctively drops in a place we've come to call 'in the zone'. It's a state of mind that allows me to focus on nothing except his guidance and it's a head space I've become addicted to because it makes all my training so easy to endure.

It wasn't always that way though...

I didn't do the whole training thing back in college so when it became obvious that I needed to exercise to keep fit, I registered with the local gym, hoping that I would figure out what I needed to do once I started. Thankfully, the gym's offer to supply their members with personal trainers seemed like the perfect thing to get started.

I figured that it wouldn't hurt to at least take the free trial period and at least use their guidance to get my bearings. My thinking was that if I didn't like being 'trained' by someone, then I could at least build myself my own regiment based on what exercises they suggested.

Obviously, I had my reservations when a guy turned out to be my trainer, but he was free of charge and very charming so I pushed past my reservations and went to work. The first few weeks were harsh, especially since his special training regime required me to match my sets with the playlist he insisted I listen to on the gym's headphones. Thankfully, the music chosen was VERY engaging and made it easy to power through the demanding repetitions. I always felt completely exhausted afterwards and often felt like I should quit, but something inside me just wouldn't let me so I soldiered on. And lo and behold, just like my trainer had promised, the feeling of accomplishment I felt when I finally started to see the results of my hard work in the mirror more than made up for the hardships of training.

In fact, it felt so good that I didn't think twice about hiring him as my full time personal trainer!

The results spoke for themselves so it was a no-brainer to keep following his lead and do everything he told me to do. The training grew intense, but never to a point I couldn't manage thanks to the constantly upgraded playlists he played for me. Heck, they became so incredibly effective at focusing my mind that I actually started to get 'in the zone' while I worked out. Or at least, that's what my trainer said when I told him that his music was making me zone out and go blank.

Anyway, as the weeks went by, I gained a body I could truly be proud of and at the suggestion from my personal trainer, I began to dress in a way that showed it off at the gym. The looks of hungry praise the patrons gave me were a reward all on their own, but strangely enough, not as appreciated as the praise my trainer offered me when I performed well through his sets. His words of appreciation had a way of making me feel extra good about myself and the more he offered them, the more I craved them.

Which served to make me want to work even harder as I began to book longer training sessions with him. His guidance seemed to become even easier to follow with each session we had together as my brain would start to automatically go 'in the zone' as soon as our training session began. I was there to work out and he was there to lead me. No fuss or worries.

Just simple system of command and obey.

Plus, that's not even mentioning how comfortable I felt around him! I mean, I felt no qualms or worries at all when our training sessions started to include 'progress inspections' where he weighed me and measured my whole body to keep track of my body fat. Of course, he couldn't do that while I wore my clothes so I had to be naked, but in front of my personal trainer, that was normal.

As comfortable as I felt though, my nakedness did make my mind wander towards less professional thoughts and I guess that's why I started to have erotic dreams about the man that so expertly trained me. Some were pretty vanilla, but others were more vivid and intense. In others, my normal interactions with him became starting points for wild romps in the gyms, which always seemed to leave me incredibly horny as I woke up in the morning.

And that was especially true when my dream happened to include scenes where he personally trained me to do more than exercise...

It became hard not to think about those dreams as I followed his lead at the gym and the more I did, the more aroused I felt in his presence. Thankfully, the fact that I always went in the zone so easily helped me keep my cool and stay focused on my training. If anything, being able to clear my mind of thoughts while feeling so aroused started to feel pretty nice...

Which just served to add to my appreciation of our demanding training sessions!

I got used to my growing 'mindless' arousal as it seemed to deepen and extend to even include my 'progress inspection'. I'm not sure why, but eventually all that arousal slowly made me change what truly motivated me to keep training with him. Little by little, I began to feel like I wasn't training my body for my own personal health and satisfaction, but instead, training it to get his praise...

His attention...

The switch in view points made me dive into the sessions even more, which helped me get even deeper into the peaceful mindless zone that allowed me to follow his every direction with ease. Eventually, my efforts didn't go unnoticed during my progress inspection. He praised me for a long while, saying how impressed he was with my level of dedication and ability to follow his lead. His words sent my already simmering arousal into overdrive, making my knees give way beneath me. I looked up at his towering form and intense gratitude for the man that made it all possible flooded my brain.

He reached down, cupping my face in his powerful hand and told me that my obvious arousal meant that I was the kind of girl that needed an 'intimate' personal trainer. I had no earthly clue what he meant, but I was so enraptured with appreciation and used to following his lead that all I could do was agree with him. The moment I eagerly nodded, His following words sent me tumbling back down into that wonderful mindless zone as all thoughts dissipated away. Leaving me perfectly focused on my trainer as he told me that a perfectly toned body like mine needed to be trained in the ways of pleasure.

I didn’t know why, but I knew my trainer was right because when it came to training me, he was always right and my new body was the proof of that.

Besides, my thoughtless mind was too much in the zone to protest or to resist as he placed the headphones on my ears and played a new set of songs I had never heard before. They were very soft compared to the regular songs he played for me, but somehow, even more enticing as they tapped into something deeply buried inside my mind. In a matter of seconds, I felt myself sink deeper and deeper into the zone as he began to guide me through sets of...

I'm not sure what exactly because I was too focused and thoughtless to notice what I was doing. I just know that I was obeying his lead.

Whatever it was he was having me do felt good though... VERY fucking good... So good that once he was done with me and I slowly came out of my zone, I couldn't help but feel compelled to show him just how appreciative I was for his guidance. So before I got dressed, I walked up to him and gave him a searing kiss before I slowly sank to my knees once again. He didn't say a word and nor did I as I undid his pants and freed his growing erection.

He watched me with clear satisfaction playing on the features of his face while I did my best to offer him the best head I had ever given to a man. I sucked... I licked... I kissed... I did everything I could think of and completely devoted myself to the task until I got the reward I was seeking. He filled my mouth with a satisfied moan that sent throbs of pleasure down between my legs.

His moan was a praise of my efforts after all and I LOVED his praise...

Obviously, on some deep level I knew that we had done something sexual, but that was perfectly ok with me. Especially after he told me that fellatio training would also be part of my sets because being intimately trained in the ways of pleasure included managing my own, as well as offering it to others.

As I walked home that night, I couldn’t help but smile as I realized that I would be able to get better at showing him my deep appreciation and earn more of his praise. Which is something I noticed I wanted even more than a healthy body.

Through the following 'intimate' training sessions, I learned the feeble limits of the pleasure my body could endure. He trained me to better control and build my pleasure without undue distractions, which would have been very hard if it hadn't been for his special music that allowed my mind to drift while my body did all the work.

After that, once I was good and saturated with arousal and pleasure, he would start my oral training. I quickly realized that I had a lot to learn about the basic techniques to maximize the pleasure my mouth, tongue and lips could offer. But that was ok because that's what training was all about: repetition after repetition until your body instinctively knew what to do.

Again, thanks to the special music he played over the headphones while I slipped his cock in and out of my mouth, I was always able to easily block out everything around me. Which included my sense of time as I utterly focused on the task at hand.

Eventually, I earned myself extra praise after a particularly satisfying pleasure training and he informed me that I was ready for the next stage. I had no clue what that entailed, but I was excited all the same! I got my answer the next time we had time to train in his office. As always, my arousal was in full bloom as the playlist came on and I drifted into the zone. Pleasure soon followed like it did so many times before and I was more than ready for it. However, what I wasn't ready for was when the pleasure suddenly spiked in this penetrating pulse of intense pleasure. I almost lost it... Drop out of my zone...

But I was too well trained for that and managed to stay focused without letting my pleasure go wild. Pulse after push... Push after pulse... Pleasure invaded me in waves that tempted me to let go, but my trainer required that I didn't. He required that I control it so I did my best for as long as I could.

Sadly however, the intensity of this new training took its toll and even the music had trouble keeping my mind in the zone. Little by little, I felt myself fail as my surroundings eroded back into view. The first thing I registered was that I was standing up, but bent down at the waist over his desk. The second thing I noticed was that he was standing behind me. And the final thing I became aware of was that the reason the pleasure I experienced felt so different from my previous training sessions was because he was using his cock to train my pleasure control.

The thought that he was fucking me in earnest never even crossed my mind. All I could think about was how demanding it must be for him to take such an active part in my training. His dedication made me feel so ashamed that I redoubled my efforts to control my pleasure. Push after pulse... Pulse after push... I applied myself to quell the raging climax that wanted to escape my grip and tried to retreat once more into the lovely music playing in my ears.

It took effort, but it eventually worked and I was able to sink back in the zone, allowing my pleasure to wash over me without overwhelming me. In fact, I managed to sink so deep into my zone that I barely noticed when my 'pleasure set' was done and he had moved on to my oral training. The fact that I was so deep turned out to be a wonderful blessing because it allowed me to push further and take him a lot deeper than I could before, earning me even better praise than before.

As I went home afterwards, I was with a new sense of determination as I thought back to how I had almost failed in my pleasure. All his hard work would have come undone if I lost it and couldn’t keep myself in the zone to control my pleasure like he told me I should. And to me, that was unacceptable because if I allowed myself to be consumed with my own pleasure, how could I properly offer it back? Not to mention how disappointed my trainer would be with me if I couldn’t perform properly for him.

And that’s not something I was going to allow myself to do anytime soon because it would go against what motivated me to keep training so hard: his attention and praise.

Thankfully, I was a lot more prepared for the levels of pleasure I had to endure during my next intimate training session and I barely dropped out of my zone when he took me from behind. In fact, I was able to stay so perfectly deep in my zone that he added a set to the fuck where I had to straddle him. I had to move my hips to the beat and fuck him instead of letting myself be fucked and it was WAY harder to keep my pleasure under control. After a while, I was able to keep myself ‘on beat’ and sink back deeper into the zone, allowing my pleasure to simmer instead of overboiling.

I almost lost it again when I felt his cock swell and erupt inside me, but I thankfully didn’t and managed to stay deep in the zone. The music playing in my ears helped me keep myself perfectly mindless as a new set was added to my training in the ways of pleasure: cock cleaning.

I had never done such a thing so I didn’t quite know how to go about doing it while his cock was so soft and limp, but I didn’t worry because all I had to do was listen to my trainer’s guidance and sink ever deeper into the zone. If my trainer said I needed to do this to further my training in the ways of pleasure, I knew it was important to give it my all. I complied easily with all his demands, obeying every one of his suggestions and after I tenderly cleaned him for a long while, seemingly just to practice doing it properly, he regained his stiffness and I understood the goal on my new set.

It was so I could have the tools to extend and enhance the pleasure I could give, which meant that I could move on to my last intimate set and do my usual oral training.

My body was now incredibly toned and my performances during our special intimate sessions were getting better and better. All in all, I thought my training was going very well and so did my trainer. In fact he thought it was going so well that he said that I would benefit from even more training. That made me VERY excited because it meant I would get even more of his attention and possibly, his praise. However, since he was going to give me so much more attention, that meant that others at the gym could get jealous and complain. I didn’t want that at all so when he offered to train me in the privacy of his home to avoid it, I immediately accepted without a second thought!

I was a little worried and shy about the first training session we had together in his home since I was in his personal space, but after he turned on my headphones, it was like we were back in his office and I didn’t feel bashful at all about stripping naked. And more to the point, following his instructions felt even easier in his home than at the gym for some reason. Was it the comfort level of the homely setting? Was it the quality of his personal high end headphones? Whatever it was, the music carried me into my zone in record time. He began with his usual inspection and pleasure training, which was honestly a new challenge because we could really take our time to make it last a lot longer than when we did it at the gym. It was hard not to drop out of my zone and enjoy the sensations, but my motivation held firm and every time I felt myself dip back to reality, I instantly doubled my efforts to focus on the beats and sank back deeper into my mindless zone.

Eventually, I reached a state where regardless of how much pleasure my trainer pumped into me, my body wouldn’t threaten to boil over and I was easily able to easily stay one step away from climax. It was such a rush when I finally registered and understood what my new body was capable of doing when it was properly trained. It made me appreciate his intimate training all the more, but I was in the middle of my sets so I couldn’t voice my feelings. Besides, I had to wait to speak anyway because my oral training was up next and my mouth was occupied with oral pleasure training, which also somehow benefitted from our private setting and lasted longer as well.

Obviously, it was hard to stay focused with all the pleasure that was already coursing through my veins, but it got even harder when he added a new move to my usual set that made me gag. I dropped out of my zone long enough to register that the reason why was because he was pushing me down his length further than he usually did. For a split second, I even experienced a spike of panic as his cock closed off my airway, but then he told me to relax because this was a normal part of learning to deepthroat.

My trainer was always right…

This was normal and just a new challenge I had to overcome. All I had to do was relax and go back into my zone.

My trust was not misplaced as he guided my head expertly along the new longer strokes and he never kept me wanting for air for longer than I could handle. Obviously, my worries melted away and I was able to sink back into the music that kept me perfectly in the zone. When his praise finally came gushing out and rewarded me for all my hard work, I was so deep in my own zone that it took a while for me to come back to reality and when I did, I was shocked to learn how long my training actually lasted.

I looked up at my trainer and it was clear he was just as spent as I was. Which perplexed me for a moment until I remembered that he had just trained me with his own cock and that surely must have demanded amazing self control. Not to mention incredible determination to stay the course until all my sets were done. I suddenly felt so overwhelmed with appreciation that I offered to stay the night so I could properly repay him for all the personal effort he put into my training. He politely declined, but said he would consider it if it was what I truly wanted.

I was more disappointed than I thought I would be by his refusal, but I knew he was right because what I offered him went beyond our professional relationship. I really needed to think about it properly so when I made my way home that night, I made a point to debate with myself long and hard to see if it was what I wanted. However, it turned out to be a very short and easy inner discussion because I realized that my motivation to keep pushing myself to train had subtly gone from wanting his attention and praise, to outright wanting HIM to be the one to enjoy the perfectly honed tool of pleasure he was creating.

It was what felt the most natural… The most fair outcome…

There was no question in my mind that it’s what I wanted most and as I made my way back to his place for my second private training session, I was determined to do anything it took to convince him to accept my proposal. Obviously, I was there to train first and foremost so I had to wait until he was done leading my session before I could broach the subject with him. Which was perfect really because I was also eager to see how my new source of motivation would affect my training experience.

I was NOT disappointed!

Even his initial inspection of my muscle tone and body fat felt more satisfying… More erotically personal as I stopped seeing him as a trainer scrutinizing his charge and viewed him like a Dominant… Masterful lover evaluating the toy he painstakingly created. Each nod… Each gentle pinch and caress… Each corner smile sent proud chills of delight down my spine because it meant I was worthy of his approval.

And if I was trained enough to meet his approval, then it meant I would surely be an acceptable option to give him all the pleasure he earned by training me.

The thought really excited me and made my following pleasure training that much more difficult because now that my goal was clear, the pleasure he was giving me, as well as the pleasure I was training to give, felt much more personal and… Carnal… Suddenly, it wasn’t just training without a concrete purpose, it was preparation for what I wanted desperately to offer him. Thankfully, his music allowed me to stay focused and sink into the familiar mindless mindset that allowed me to go through my training with my usual exemplary dedication.

At the end of the delightfully long session, the exhausted yet satisfied smile that welcomed me back as my mind ‘awakened’ to reality reminded me all over again how grateful I was for all the time and energy he invested in my training. I was still kneeling between his legs and now that my training was over for the day, it was finally time to renew our conversation. Gently and as tenderly as I had been trained to do, I nuzzled and kissed his soft cock as I told him the conclusion I came to after I followed his suggestion and thoroughly thought about what I wanted. He was pleasantly surprised, but had his reservations and multiple questions as to what I truly intended with my offer to ‘repay’ him.

The conversation we had about the details of my proposal was wonderfully erotic as I nurtured his deflated shaft. His questions were to the point and painted a clear picture of what I needed to do if I truly meant what I was offering him. Since all I wanted was for him to enjoy the fruits of his labour, his desire for me to submit myself as his kinky sex slave seemed like the perfect arrangement for him to do so.

That evening, he began a whole new training regiment, but this wasn’t designed to enhance my body or work on my physical abilities. It’s sole purpose was to walk me through how he expected me to act and obey his commands. It was so comforting and arousing to discover that following his dominant lead in the bedroom felt so much like following his guidance in the gym. It made me feel so comfortable and relaxed, allowing me to truly dive into being his sex slave and finally show him just how appreciative I was.

I did anything and everything he wanted. Followed… No… Obeyed his erotic commands with no other thought other than to make sure I pleased him. Since he personally trained me, I slipped into the submissive role he wanted from me with an ease that made me appreciate my long training hours even more. But as easy as it was to serve him, I made sure not to rest on my laurels and focused all my efforts on controlling my pleasure so I could be the perfectly honed tool he needed me to be.

As I knew it would, feeling him enjoy my body and talents turned out to be quite euphoric for me. Each strict order… Each flex of his erection… Each moan of deep appreciation… Each edge and orgasm I supplied him… Everything about my first experience as his slave served to reward me for all the hard work I had put into my training. Honestly, I had never felt so fulfilled before and as I drifted off into sleep cuddled in his arms, I felt like I had finally found my true self.

The next morning, after I supplied him with a VERY passionate and satisfying wake up, I couldn’t help but tell him how much I enjoyed my evening as his slave. I informed him that as long as he kept training me, I would be MORE than happy to keep showing him my appreciation by offering my submission to his pleasure. He took his time thinking it over and at one point, I feared that he might make me wait or think about it like I did the last time I offered myself. Thankfully however, he didn’t and told me that he would accept as long as I promised to keep working hard during my training.

All the different motivations I had for training myself were still there in my mind: Keeping fit and healthy… Earning his attention and praise… Gaining the body and abilities I needed to be the perfect sexual tool to receive and more importantly, give as much pleasure as I could handle…

And now that I knew how amazing and rewarding it was to submit myself to him and actually feel him enjoy the fruits of his long labours, I knew that keeping my motivation to work hard was a promise I could easily keep!

#short story

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backtothechurch · 3 days ago

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"Everything is blue" Bob Reynolds x reader

warnings: angst, mentions of drug use, bit of pre-thunderbolts bob, reader genre not specified, no use of y/n.

notes: okay im already apologizing for that, but I was inspired by my Halsey playlist and decided to make some angst, im thinking about doing a part two with a bit of comedy and some fluffy to recover from that.

Way before sentry project Bob was an even worse mess, the mess you thought you could save.

Since you were young you knew your neighbour Bob, the abuse and violence on his house were daily and you could hear and see everything from your bedroom. You always had this will to protect him, to save him.

You saw what people usually didn’t, how he was actually good at so much stuff, but the trauma destroyed him. You were the only person who cared when he started using drugs and you almost killed him when he left school, but nothing seemed to change.

When the first time he started to recover you two went in a date, he was happier, he could talk and laugh truly. You two started a relationship while you were in college and he came back to study, but a few months after everything became a nightmare, he was back on drugs, depressed, taking any pills he could. The fights became more often and aggressive.

“I hope you make it till 28 years old” was the last thing he heard from you.

Your life after bob was good, but his memory haunted you.

After a few years you visited your hometown in Florida and heard he had moved out and the people at your city believed he died there, you swear you could hear your heart break. He died and you never got the chance to see him again.

You went back to New York and tried to live your life. You searched for him in every place, called friends and they didn’t even remembered him, the files about him, even his police record was gone, he was actually gone.

After leaving for a coffee break from a bad if not the worst, day at work you were walking when some sort of sadness consumed you, everything was grey and foggy, you didn’t know what was, you kept walking looking for a way out. Then you saw bob, not actually him, more of a memory, both of you playing at his house as kids, you got tense.

You wasn’t a woman of many traumas, you had a good life, good relationship with your family, a good job, and a very good and expensive therapist. But the memory of that day always got chills, was the first time you experienced a violence so closer. Bob’s dad arrived the house and the mood shifted, was when the screams, the slaps and the yells started, you could see the little you leaving the house, but now you could also see the desperation on little bob’s eyes when you left.

You needed to leave that place.

Everything related to bob was a big trigger to you. You ran out the house and went to the garden, now you and bob were older.

“What the fuck is this place” you mutter to yourself walking closer to you and him. He was passed out but the edge of the pool and you were desperately trying to wake him up, your heart was racing just like that day.

That place wasn’t right. “Take me out of here!” You yelled while looking around to some way out. you were believing you were about to die, started to run away, was when you slipped and fell somewhere else, when you heard the music you already knew where you were.

You stay on the floor, staring the ground, defeated. Soon you would hear your and bob’s voice raising, the party he was getting numb, the last time you saw him.

“You’re killing yourself!” You yelled and he just stared you, numb, away and certainly traumatized, you never yelled or made any movement that could remind him of his dad until that day, you regretted that. “Sometimes I think you really want to make me suffer” the voice from the past you echoed and you groan still on the floor. Bob walked to the door and you shout “I hope you make it till 28 years old” the door slammed and you jump a bit scared, you look up to the mirror in front of you, was when you saw. Bob, the present bob, with the sam clothes his lid version used on the first memory, but that one was not a memory, he was staring a total black version of him. You got up and got into the mirror, a group of eyes stared you and you looked back, two women and three men were staring you confused, they were trapped, but you kept walking in his direction.

Somehow his mind didn’t notice you were there, the black shadow hit him with a punch that made him crash on the floor crying while saying things like bob was always alone and he broke down, was when you crashed in front of him.

The mysterious group of people ran to hold himhim and you called his name holding his face. “Bob darling” he shakes his head still with the eyes shut.

“Stop it! you’re not here!” He was crying

“Bob it’s me, open your eyes” after shaking his head and keep crying he looked up at you, the whole pace you were started to fade.

“Babe” he said, lips trembling, was when the people let him go and he crashed on your arms, your fingers went directly on his locks and you hugged him back. his grip was almost letting you breathless. You were back on New York, on another street, very away from where you were. His cries stopped and he wasn’t hugging you anymore, he didn’t even had tears. The mysterious group was there and he was still closer to you, almost touching his arms on yours.

“What the fuck just happened?” You said but before someone answer it had an applause around, you were too confused to clap, was when you were presented accidentally as one of the new avengers by a woman called Valentina.

Bob promised he would explain everything later, you hope he does it.

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #angst #bob Reynolds angst #sentry #void #robert reynolds #robert bob reynolds #sentry x reader #void x reader #mcu

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rasqberrypetalpostcards · 3 days ago

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025.

emotional hoarding: the need to save screenshots, songs, and sentences forever an essay about digital keepsakes, the tenderness of collecting feelings, and the ache of wanting nothing to be lost

i don’t delete things. i don’t mean to be dramatic about it — it’s not always conscious, not always desperate — but i keep everything. old screenshots. archived messages. playlists i haven’t listened to in years. photos of moments i barely remember but can’t bear to let go of.

it’s not just nostalgia. it’s not about the past being prettier. it’s about preservation. about keeping proof that certain feelings were real, that certain people were here, that i was once that soft and that open and that full.

it’s emotional hoarding. and it’s not cute. it’s cluttered. my phone storage hates me. my folders are a mess. i label things with half-thoughts like “important” or “this one hurt” or “remember this always,” and i never clean them up. because what if i forget?

what if i lose the sentence that broke me open? what if i can’t find that one screenshot of a chat that made me feel seen? what if the song that once held me slips away before i get a chance to thank it properly?

keeping things as a way of keeping yourself

sometimes i wonder if i’m collecting these things because i don’t trust my own memory. or maybe because i don’t trust the world to let good things last.

so i archive. i back up. i save duplicates. i bookmark quotes and copy-paste text into six different places.

because maybe, somewhere inside, i think that if i save enough, i won’t lose the version of me that once felt deeply. i won’t lose the girl who read that line at midnight and gasped. i won’t lose the softness that song created in my chest.

i won’t lose the love that bloomed, even if it was brief.

a folder full of ghosts

you’d be surprised how loud a silent file can feel.

you click into a folder and suddenly you’re sitting in a memory you didn’t ask to revisit. the playlist you made for someone who never made one for you. the screenshot of a message you can’t reread without your stomach knotting. the blurry picture of a day that felt infinite at the time.

you saved them because they mattered. and they still do. but now they haunt you a little.

because keeping them means keeping the ache.

and still, you keep them.

songs as emotional timestamps

i have playlists that are practically diaries. no descriptions, just vibes. titles like “hurt but soft” or “this felt like falling” or “i loved you gently.”

songs i don’t even love musically — but they’re tied to a moment, a feeling, a version of me that i can’t recreate without them.

sometimes i’ll put one on and suddenly it’s last winter again. i’m crying in the back of a cab. or laughing under string lights. or sitting alone at 3 a.m., trying to feel something clean.

and it hits me, all over again — music isn’t just sound. it’s emotion storage.

screenshots as modern keepsakes

i don’t print photos. i don’t frame letters. but i screenshot everything.

an old friend saying something kind. a stranger being unexpectedly gentle. a stupid meme that made me laugh when i was falling apart. a tweet that articulated what i didn’t know i needed to hear.

and i scroll through them like someone flipping through pressed flowers.

tiny, pixelated proofs that someone once saw me. that someone once made me feel like i wasn’t alone.

and sure, maybe i’ll never look at them again. but the thought of deleting them feels like erasing a piece of my heart.

sentences that became lifelines

we don’t talk enough about how a single sentence can anchor you.

a line in a book. a caption. something someone said once, maybe not even to you.

words that hit like medicine. like a mirror. like a hug.

i collect them. obsessively. in notes apps and text files and margins of old notebooks.

because sometimes you don’t remember the day or the context — but you remember how it made you feel.

and isn’t that the most honest kind of memory?

not everything we keep is pretty

it’s not all soft and sentimental. some things are ugly. painful. full of longing or regret.

sometimes i keep things because i need to remember what i survived.

because deleting them would feel like pretending i was never hurt. like pretending i didn’t love someone who left.

keeping the evidence is a way of honoring it.

like, yes, this mattered. even if it’s over. even if it wasn’t kind. even if it only lasted a moment.

it mattered.

what if we kept feelings the way we keep files?

what if we organized our emotions like folders? what if we labeled our memories gently, instead of pretending they didn’t happen?

what if we gave ourselves permission to hold on, instead of constantly being told to let go?

maybe it’s okay to have a little mess. a little weight. a little archive of everything we’ve felt.

maybe it means we cared. maybe it means we still do.

soft clutter is still sacred

there is something deeply romantic about saving things no one else would. about keeping pieces of conversations that made you smile. about hoarding proof that once, someone said something soft to you.

you don’t need to apologize for that.

you’re not being too sensitive. you’re being attentive.

to meaning. to memory. to the little moments that might’ve gone unnoticed — but not by you.

you are allowed to hold on

this world moves too fast. deletes too quickly. says “move on” like it’s that easy.

but your heart is not a hard drive. it’s a scrapbook.

so keep the screenshot. keep the song. keep the line that made you feel real.

your softness is not clutter. your memories are not excess. your need to hold on is not wrong.

some things are meant to be saved. outlined in pastel highlighter by, R.

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coolwyous · 24 hours ago

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could we get some more aaa maphinz hcs por favor

not only do i GOT U but i also now have a mini playlist <333 AAA MAPHINZ NATION LETS GO! bball!studnon and journalist!sophia we RIDE for u!!!!

the courting process went CRAZZZYYYYY manon was 100% the grand gesture bball stereotype where she was sending 2 dozen roses to sophia's apartment every week, 100% doing the most would make sure the media coordinators had a seat reserved for soph front row (name tag on the chair and EVERYTHING) during post-games so manon could get a good look at her during all the press conferences 😵‍💫 would drive her crazy bc she'd be like "did you like my flowers 🤭" and sophia would leave her on read only for manon to stop by her apt and see the flowers all tucked to the side of the sidewalk 😭 sophia wouldn't even bother to bring them inside, deadass just let them wilt on the sidewalk LMAO (but manon doesn't know that sophia saves 1 single rose from each boquet she sends her <3333)

on that note, i feel like manon is def the type of person who wants to be spoiling sophia and sophia is the person who hates being spoiled!! (very act ii by 4batz coded) aaa sophia grew up without a ton so she got used to taking care of herself thus why she's so hyper-independent and haaaates feeling like she has to rely on anyone, but manon is so insistent! even if sophia never takes her up on it she keeps offering her over and over w consistency just to show her she's so dead serious abt her it's not just a performance or w/e like she is GOING to pay for sophia's nails one day even if it takes 6 months for sophia to agree! manon will WAIT!!! she is DETERMINED to make this girl fold!!!!

sophia does FINALLY fold but it starts off as a terribly confusing situationship 😔 manon is deadass IN LOVE atp she's been trying to bag sophia for this long and when they finally do hookup manz is kicking her feet the morning after "gm beautiful i made us breakfast how do u like ur coffeee 😁😁😁" and sophia is like "uhhh i have work, you can see yourself out" and leaves like nothing happened!! continues to ignore manon on the court!! continues to pretend she doesn't even notice her even though there is clearly something there between them. manon takes it the tiniest bit personally but is like "ok well the easy part is done, we fawkin, but now i gotta make her fall in love w me" and genuinely keeps trying to break sophia's walls down even if sophia pretends she's making zero progress

manon slowly but surely being consistently headass enough that sophia starts to trust her..... ugh i love downbad loser studnon how could sophia not fall for her......

gf era headcannons!!

sophia likes taking photos of their foods when manon takes her on dates to super fancy restaurants but will never take pics of manon. manz LOWKEY takes it personally bc she dresses super nice for these dates and all sophia does is take photos of the food and maybe a selfie and that's it LMAO but little does manon know it's bc sophia sneaks candids of manz when she's ordering or when she's not paying attention :( likes to see the athlete relaxed and not always posing for something

bonus: manon has a picture of sophia's dinner from their first REAL date as her wallpaper bc if anyone asks then she can just be like "oh this was a bomb ass osso bucco i had one time" but secretly she knows its basically a pic of her girl!!

on the topic of anonymity the only time sophia has ever sent "spicy" photos of herself they were all faceless (literally harmless bikini pics!! "purple one or red one?" she simply asked and manon replied w a photo of herself literally on the floor in middle of her apt like 30s later.) manz knows that sophia had them faceless bc she's obsessed w the concept of her anonymity and prob wanted to just tease her, but manz found a loophole bc she wants to flex her hot ass woman! gets the pic printed on a HOODIE and adds the playboy logo to be stupid and it becomes her go-to hoodie for leaving games 🤭🤭 sophia sees it on her instagram feed and ppl are commenting "NEEEEED THIS HOODIE DESIGN WHERE DID SHE GET IT" and sophia is LIVID (but not that mad bc she's possessive and likes that her gf flexes her in subtle ways yessir 🙂‍↕️)

lots of little things that only they know tbh! very "private but not secret" except for sophia it deadass is secret she lowkey ignores manon in public lmao ❤️ but manon is like "nope all good i'm still matching my shoelaces to the color of ur tie during press conferences bc im sprung like that i got us shorty dw 😌"

#☆ﾟ AAA thoughts.#☆ﾟ maphinz thoughts.

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viennajoell · 1 hour ago

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All The Right Support

Jack Hughes x Nurse!Reader

Summary: Jack Hughes tags along as his girlfriend prepares for her first nursing job, helping her shop for scrubs and Hokas.

Word Count: 1,104

Warnings: none :)

Jack Hughes had a love-hate relationship with early mornings. He hated waking up early, but he loved waking up with you. Especially when you were already out of bed, padding around in fuzzy socks and humming some indie playlist while brushing your hair in the mirror.

Today, you were officially one week out from starting your new job at the hospital.

Your first nursing gig. Full-time. Real badge, real hours, real nerves.

“I don’t get why you’re this excited to go scrub shopping,” Jack muttered sleepily from the bed, rubbing his eyes as you rifled through your purse for your keys.

“Because it’s real now, Jack. My first real nursing job. And I want to look cute while getting screamed at in the ER,” you grinned, finally finding your wallet under a rogue granola bar.

Jack smirked. “You already look cute. I don’t think color-coded scrubs are gonna change that.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed him a hoodie. “Come with me.”

“I didn’t even say I was going yet—”

“You were going to.”

“…True.”

- -

Jack dragged his feet into the store, immediately hit by the sea of color-coded uniforms. He blinked at the wall of scrub tops, trying to figure out the difference between "Caribbean Blue" and "Teal Spark."

“Do I even get a say in this?” he asked, trailing behind you as you grabbed a basket.

“You can be the judge of which color doesn’t make me look like a highlighter.”

He grinned. “God, I love supportive roles.

You started picking out some essentials like navy blue for trauma days, ceil blue for rotation, a couple of soft grey ones for clinic days.

“You know what?” Jack said suddenly, holding up a lavender scrub top with a proud grin. “This one. You’d kill in this one.”

You squinted. “Jack, that’s the maternity cut.”

He dropped it instantly, cheeks going pink. “Okay—well—how would I know?! They don’t label them big enough.”

“They literally say MATERNITY in bold letters.”

Jack mumbled something about design flaws and started rummaging through the men’s compression socks section instead.

Eventually, you settled on four sets of scrubs, and Jack ever the perfectionist when it came to your comfort insisted you get a backup pair.

“For when you’re too tired to do laundry,” he said, giving you that gentle look he saved for serious talks. “Don’t burn out, babe. You’ve waited too long for this.”

You softened. “Okay. One more set.”

“And make it lavender,” he added with a wink. “Non maternity this time.”

Stop 2: Hoka Store

“This is the part I am excited for,” Jack admitted, stretching as you both walked into the sneaker store. “You know I’m a shoe guy.”

You laughed. “You’re a sneaker snob.”

“No. theres a difference.”

He took his role very seriously, inspecting the soles, the ankle support, the breathability. If he could have run a biomechanics test in the middle of the store, he would’ve.

You tried on a pair of all white Hokas and bounced slightly. “Ooh. These feel good.”

Jack frowned. “You’re gonna be on your feet twelve hours a shift. Try the Bondi 8s. More cushioning.”

“You know the model names?”

He smirked. “I’m literally a pro athlete, baby.”

You threw a sock at him.

After twenty minutes of testing insoles, heel drops, and debating between blush pink and cloud grey, you made your pick. Jack even got the cashier to throw in an extra pair of compression socks.

“Trust me, she’s gonna thank me at 3 a.m.,” he said.

Later That Night

You sat cross legged on the living room floor, tags still on your scrubs and your Hokas neatly lined up by the door. Jack was scrolling on his phone from the couch, half watching New Girl reruns.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted quietly.

He looked up instantly. “Why?”

“I don’t know… This is everything I wanted, and now I feel like I’m gonna mess it up.”

Jack got up, walked over, and sat down beside you. “Hey. You’ve been studying for this, working night shifts, surviving clinicals. You didn’t just get this job because you looked good in ceil blue.”

You laughed through your nose. “You think I look good in every color.”

“Not true,” he teased. “There was that one chartreuse pair—”

“Never happened,” you cut in.

Jack leaned in, kissing your temple. “You’re gonna be a damn good nurse. You care too much not to be.”

You leaned into his side, letting yourself believe him. Letting his quiet confidence in you replace the self-doubt.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” you said softly.

“I’m proud of you,” he replied, without hesitation. “Even if I had to witness a pastel purple scrub top meant for expectant mothers.”

“You picked it!”

“And I stand by my choice. For… like, five years down the line.”

Your head snapped up. “Five years?”

Jack smirked, standing up and offering you his hand. “Let’s just focus on getting you through your first week, Nurse Y/N.”

You took his hand, smiling so hard it hurt.

#jack hughes blurb #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jackhughes #jack hughes #jhughes #jh86 #nhl hockey fic #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl players #nhl #nhl hockey #new jersey devils

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bluenerdtastemaker · 24 hours ago

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Summer is Ours

YUKI x PIERRE X ESTABEN | RATE G | 2.2K WORDS | DOMESTIC AU

Hello, everyone it has been months since I posted anything, been a bit busy, started a new semester and had a whole ride, now I am here, enjoy!

The sun over Geneva is kind and golden, not too hot, just the way summer should feel.

The windows are thrown wide open at Esteban’s place—an airy, modern home tucked away in a quiet neighborhood by the lake, the kind of house with just enough charm and too many mugs. Somewhere in the background, a French playlist hums on low, blending into the chirping birds and the soft scrape of a knife against a cutting board.

Yuki hums as he dices garlic.

He’s barefoot, wearing Pierre’s old AlphaTauri shirt that’s far too big for him and shorts that hang low on his hips. There’s flour on his cheek and a pan heating on the stove. He isn’t rushing. There’s no schedule, no race weekend looming, no media day waiting. Just a slow August morning, his boyfriends sleeping upstairs—probably tangled up together like always, stealing his spot.

This break couldn’t have come sooner. The season so far had been rough—especially for him and Pierre. The pressure, the crashes, the headlines. They'd barely had time to breathe between flights and interviews, their quiet moments snatched in the backs of team motorhomes or through whispered phone calls at midnight. There were even online rumors suggesting they weren’t close anymore, speculation flaring every time a camera caught them standing apart in the paddock. But it was all noise. All surfaces.

Now, finally, they had a full month. No suits. No cameras. No cold looks from pit walls. Just soft sunrises in Esteban's Geneva home, warm hands, and the quiet promise of peace. Here, in this house, everything slowed down. Here, they were whole again.

From behind, claws click against the kitchen tiles.

“Good morning, Simba,” Yuki says, without turning around. The little toy poodle gives a soft bark and sits at his feet like a loyal sous-chef. “You want egg or chicken today?”

And then, from the stairs, comes Esteban’s voice, still hoarse with sleep.

“Don’t spoil him, Yu. He already thinks he owns the place.”

“I do too,” Yuki replies sweetly, without looking up.

He hears the grin in Esteban's voice even before the tall Frenchman pads over and wraps his arms around Yuki's waist from behind, warm chest pressed to his back. Yuki hums, tilting his head slightly as Esteban kisses the crown of his hair.

Despite the chaos of the season, Esteban seemed to be the one of the three having a relatively decent year with Haas. It wasn’t perfect—no season ever was—but compared to the tension that weighed heavy on Yuki and especially Pierre, Esteban’s path felt more steady. He'd managed a few strong weekends and seemed more at ease lately.

Yuki and Pierre were genuinely proud of him. Pierre, in particular, couldn’t help but beam every time Esteban made it into Q3 or finished in the points. Even if he was still stuck in the devil team—Yuki's exact words for Alpine—the affection and relief in his eyes for Esteban's little wins were undeniable.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Yuki replies. “Go brush your teeth. You smell like sleep.”

Esteban laughs and pinches his side. Yuki swats at him with a wooden spoon. Simba barks like he wants to help, tail wagging furiously. The sudden sharp yap makes all two of them burst into giggles, the kitchen momentarily filled with the sound of joy echoing off tiled walls. Yuki shakes his head fondly.

---

Pierre appears next, freshly showered, smelling like Yuki's favorite shampoo. He’s in Esteban’s hoodie, sleeves too long, hair still damp. For someone who’s always late to everything, showing up barely twenty minutes after Esteban is practically early. He doesn’t say anything, just sneaks up behind Yuki and kisses the back of his neck. Yuki startles, almost drops the egg in his hand.

“Pierre!”

“Couldn’t help it,” Pierre mumbles into his skin. “You smell like heaven.”

Esteban raises a brow from the dining table. “That’s my hoodie, by the way.”

“I know.” Pierre smirks, clearly not sorry.

Yuki sighs but doesn’t push them away. He leans into both of them, letting Esteban nuzzle into one cheek while Pierre kisses the other. Simba jumps and whines until Yuki picks him up with one arm.

“You two are needy today.”

“Summer break. No media. No engineers. Just us,” Pierre says. He pouts dramatically, inching closer to Esteban and rubbing his face against his shoulder like a needy cat. “After the hellish season I’ve had, at least let me be clingy.”

Esteban giggles, startled by the unexpected gesture, but leans into it fondly. “You’re like a big golden retriever.”

Pierre beams. “Your golden retriever.”

Yuki shakes his head, watching them with that small, knowing smile. He often wonders how they manage it—how they’re able to switch so seamlessly into neutral expressions in the paddock, burying everything tender and real beneath layers of professionalism and PR smiles. He’s not sure how they've kept this hidden from the world, from the media that always watches too closely. Maybe it’s years of practice. Maybe it’s the fear of losing something fragile. Or maybe, it's because moments like this—Pierre pouting against Esteban’s shoulder, Esteban giggling like a schoolboy—are too precious to share with anyone else.

---

By noon, they’re out on the back patio, under a striped umbrella, eating brunch off mismatched plates. Yuki made tamagoyaki and rice, grilled some salmon, and roasted tomatoes. Pierre tried to help and was banned from the kitchen after putting cinnamon in the wrong bowl. Esteban washed the dishes without being asked.

At some point, Pierre starts tossing bits of leftover salmon to Simba, pretending it's a game of fetch—even though Simba clearly has no idea what's happening and just runs in circles yipping with joy. Esteban joins in, grabbing a napkin and tying it around Simba's neck like a cape, declaring him “Captain Bark.” The two burst into laughter, rolling on the grass as Simba barks excitedly, chasing after Pierre's fingers.

Yuki watches from the table, barley tea in hand, head shaking slowly but eyes fond. “You two are absolute menaces,” he says, voice dry.

Iris, Esteban’s sleek black cat, slinks through Yuki’s legs before leaping up onto the table like a queen. No one tells her off. She settles in Yuki's lap and purrs.

Eventually, the French duo settle down, breathless from laughter, and finally make their way to the table to eat. Pierre dramatically flops into the chair next to Yuki, while Esteban leans down to press a kiss to Yuki’s cheek before sitting on the other side.

They eat slowly, talking about everything and nothing. Pierre flicks a grain of rice at Esteban and gets a tomato back in retaliation. Yuki watches them with fond eyes, sipping cold barley tea.

“This is nice,” Esteban says, leaning back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over Yuki’s shoulders. “We should do this every break.”

“We should move here,” Pierre adds, brushing his lips against Yuki’s temple. "It’s calmer than Milan. Less paparazzi. We could breathe more."

“You just want lake views,” Yuki teases.

“I want you.”

Esteban leans in to kiss Yuki slow, while Pierre takes his turn pressing kisses to Yuki’s neck. It’s a warm, soft tangle of affection that doesn’t rush anywhere. Just being together is enough.

---

Afternoons are lazy. Esteban and Pierre curl up on the couch with matching controllers, yelling at each other over some co-op game. Yuki nestles between them, stretched out like a cat, head in Pierre’s lap and legs tangled with Esteban’s.

“Stop stealing my kills,” Esteban groans.

“Stop dying so much,” Pierre shoots back.

“Children,” Yuki mutters, yawning.

Simba snoozes next to him, belly-up. Iris is curled like a loaf on the windowsill, tail twitching.

When the game ends, Yuki shifts up and kisses both their cheeks, then their mouths. Pierre melts under it; Esteban pulls Yuki into his lap and kisses him like he missed him, even though he hasn’t gone anywhere all day. Yuki giggles between kisses, squirming slightly as their affection gets playful. “Stopppp,” he laughs, cheeks flushed and bright. But he doesn’t really mean it—not when he's smiling like that, buried between the two people who know how to hold him just right.

---

By evening, they’re a warm, sleepy pile on the sofa. Yuki’s wedged in the middle, head resting against Esteban’s collarbone, one of Pierre’s arms thrown over his waist. Iris is sprawled across Esteban’s chest; Simba is pressed up against Pierre’s side.

Someone put on a movie, but no one’s watching. The subtitles play quietly. Yuki lets out a happy sigh and murmurs, “I don’t want to go back.”

Pierre presses a kiss to his forehead. “Then let’s stay.”

Esteban threads his fingers through Yuki’s. “At least until the leaves turn.”

And Yuki smiles, eyelids fluttering shut, surrounded by love and pets and peace.

Summer is theirs. The season is still going, short and precious, but in this house—with its soft rugs, open windows, and too many mugs—time stretches just enough. Here, there's no work, no paddock tension, no rivalries creeping in between them. Only soft laughter, the occasional kiss, and the comfort of knowing they are safe and wanted. And for a little while, the world is just this—warm skin, soft breathing, and the quiet rhythm of hearts at rest.

---

Later that night, they find themselves sprawled across Esteban’s absurdly large Alaskan king bed, limbs tangled beneath soft sheets and loose pajamas. The moonlight pools across the duvet, catching the curve of Pierre’s grin as he gossips animatedly about another driver’s ridiculous Instagram post.

“He really posted that with no shame,” Pierre says, laughing. “The caption was worse than the picture.”

Esteban snorts. “I still can’t believe you follow him.”

“I need the content,” Pierre says with mock-seriousness, then immediately yelps as Yuki throws a pillow at him.

“Shut up and come cuddle,” Yuki demands, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Pierre flops dramatically into the middle, arms reaching to drag both Esteban and Yuki close. Esteban obliges with a smile, pressing a kiss to Yuki’s temple before settling behind Pierre, looping an arm around his waist.

They fall into quiet talk again, voices lowered with the comfort of night and closeness. The air is still, and for a moment, the only sound is the rustle of sheets as Yuki stretches a little and murmurs, "Maybe I’ll bake something tomorrow. Melonpan, maybe. If I can find the right flour."

Esteban perks up instantly, eyes flicking open. "I’ll help," he offers, earnest and eager, even though everyone knows he’s better at eating than baking.

Pierre shifts beside them, his head propped up on a pillow, and smirks. "I’ll supervise," he announces with faux importance.

"You’ll what?" Yuki scoffs.

"Supervise," Pierre says again, stretching the word like it’s noble labor. "I’m a crucial part of morale."

Esteban snorts. "You’re banned from the kitchen after the cinnamon incident."

"It was an accident!" Pierre defends himself with a dramatic groan, throwing an arm across his eyes. "A vision, misunderstood in its time."

Yuki rolls his eyes and chucks a pillow at him, nailing him right in the face. "Stay out of my flour."

"Rude," Pierre mumbles from beneath the pillow, but the smile tugging at his lips is fond and soft.

Esteban chuckles, leaning over to steal a kiss from Yuki’s cheek. "We'll find you the right flour," he promises.

"And cinnamon-free supervision," Yuki adds pointedly, laughing when Pierre dramatically groans again.

Their chatter drifts off into hums and lingering touches, the room wrapped in affection and laughter low enough to feel like a lullaby. In the quiet that follows, their hands find each other again—fingers brushing, interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they’ve done this a thousand times in dreams before ever daring to believe it was real.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with gratitude. Yuki exhales slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, "We’re so lucky."

Esteban presses a kiss to his shoulder. "I think about that every day."

Pierre’s hand settles over both of theirs. "We were a mess. Remember?" he murmurs, soft with a laugh. "God, poor Liam and Charles. Witnessing the melodrama."

Yuki snorts. "We made them suffer."

"All the pining. The jealousy. The months of miscommunication," Esteban adds, mock groaning. "Pierre sulking after every race like you betrayed him personally."

Pierre rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth in his voice. "You ghosted me after Monaco!"

"Because you kissed me in a hotel hallway and then vanished for two weeks!"

"Because I thought you were in love with Yuki!"

Yuki muffles a laugh against the pillow. "You were both idiots. And so was I. I thought neither of you wanted me."

They fall into a moment of shared, breathless laughter—equal parts embarrassment and disbelief.

"Well," Pierre says, shifting to press a kiss to Esteban’s knuckles, then to Yuki’s temple. "At the very least, we can promise this now: to never take it for granted."

"Not a second of it," Esteban agrees, voice rough with emotion.

"We made it," Yuki murmurs. "And now we get to have this. To just... be happy."

Eventually, the teasing dissolves into long kisses and warm skin under cool sheets, into fingers brushing through hair and whispered I love you’s passed from one mouth to the next—each one a prayer of thanks, of knowing how close they came to missing it all. But they didn’t. They chose each other. Again and again.

And in the silence that follows, full of breath and peace and limbs wrapped close, they sleep in the comfort of their greatest blessing—this love, hard-won and utterly theirs.

When the silence finally settles, it’s full of contentment. Three hearts, beating in sync.

The summer is short, but it’s theirs.

And tonight, they sleep wrapped in it.

#yuki tsunoda #f1 imagine #pierre gasly #f1 #f1 fanfic #esteban ocon #yuki x pierre x esteban #221031 #yukierresteban #yukierre #pierresteban #yukiestaban #trouple #poly fic #pierre x yuki #yuki x esteban #pierre x estaben

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imhalfplastic · 2 days ago

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some stories aren’t yours

⊹ overview - pairing: wonwoo x mingyu x f!reader | short fic genre: love triangle (but the love interests end up with each other) · fluff

themes: emotional detachment, mutual pining (just not for you), third-wheeling cw: implied past flirtation, gentle romantic rejection

summary: a love triangle where the girl doesn’t get the guy. or the other guy. instead, both fall for each other. slowly and awkwardly while she watches it all unfold like a plot twist she accidentally directed.

from kai: my first request! someone asked me to write something inspired by those reverse trope writing prompts with minwon and this one felt like it fit them the best. i really loved writing this silly little story! i had so much fun with it, even though i struggled to find a song that really matched the vibe (still not sure i chose the right one). any recs? i’m all ears.

now playing: can i call you tonight? - dayglow

so technically, you were supposed to be the main character.

it made sense.

mingyu was clearly into you.

he always texts you first. a random meme, followed by a “this reminded me of you” that makes you stare at your screen a little too long. he's all sunshine and chaos and way too much cologne. but he listens when you talk and remembers the tiniest things. he once showed up at your door with your favorite snack after a rough week, like it was no big deal. it kind of is.

you think: this could be something.

but then there's wonwoo. quieter. more subtle. he sends you playlists instead of memes, walks you home when it rains, doesn’t say much but always says the right thing. he remembers your cat’s name. asks how your mom is doing. texts like he means every word.

you think: oh. maybe it’s him.

and for a while, it’s both.

they’re also your friends. which complicates absolutely everything.

and so the joke becomes... not a joke. not really.

just something you all keep circling around. drinks on a friday night, someone goes “okay but if this were a rom-com...” and someone else immediately groans. mingyu buys you coffee. wonwoo texts you about that weird movie you said you liked. they both show up when you need help moving your couch.

you flirt. a little.

they flirt back. more than a little.

you’re not immune.

but you’re also not delusional.

so you’re in the middle, two equally attractive but emotionally unavailable men gravitating toward you like it’s netflix and you’re the plot device.

people ask. so, who’s it gonna be?

and you honestly didn’t know.

mingyu makes you laugh until your stomach hurt. wonwoo makes you think about things you didn’t know you cared about. both of them make you feel like something might be about to happen.

and you are happy. because it does feel a little like a love triangle.

you're the common denominator.

the center of gravity. you’re not leading anyone on.

you’re just… seeing where things go.

and they’re both going. toward you. clearly. until they’re not.

it’s not like it's obvious. you’re just… extremely observant.

and maybe a little too aware of patterns.

like how mingyu starts showing up in photos with wonwoo’s cat. like how wonwoo starts driving mingyu home without being asked. like how they start arguing about trivial things like what kind of soy milk is superior and it sounds suspiciously like foreplay.

you don’t say anything. you just watch.

you shift from romantic lead to honorary producer. this is your rom-com now, just not in the way you expected. you get front-row seats to whatever this slow-motion pining is.

and honestly? it’s hilarious. especially when neither of them seems to realize it’s happening.

so you start keeping mental score.

wonwoo shows up with coffee for mingyu like it’s instinct: +1

mingyu tells wonwoo he looks good in blue: +1

they argue over who gets the last dumpling and then split it like an old married couple: +4

mingyu calls wonwoo “darling” by accident (you think): +10

at some point, it just becomes entertaining. you’re just sitting with the audience with popcorn, waiting for the kiss scene.

and then there’s the hoodie situation. wonwoo wears one that looks suspiciously like mingyu's. oversized, dark gray, fraying a little at the cuffs. you say something about it, just to test the waters. and wonwoo freezes for half a second before going “uh. laundry day.”

“sure.” you say, sipping your drink.

“just make sure your boyfriend gets it back.”

wonwoo, without missing a beat says:

“it's not from a boyfriend. just from mingyu.”

mingyu just shrugs.

the best part is how natural it is after.

you thought it might sting. it doesn’t. you thought it might get awkward. it doesn’t.

if anything, it gets funnier. they’re still idiots. just idiots in love now.

they drag you to brunch like nothing’s changed. still text you memes at 2am. still call you when they’re fighting about whether or not a hotdog is a sandwich.

you get used to seeing them shoulder to shoulder. used to watching mingyu tug the hood of wonwoo’s sweatshirt up when the wind picks up, then keep talking like nothing happened. used to wonwoo smiling at his phone like he’s reading poetry when it’s just mingyu’s “u up?” text with eight typos.

you start making bets with yourself about how long until they go fully official. (you win when mingyu soft-launches a couple photo and captions it: i guess i’m the boyfriend now.)

months later, someone asks if you ever had feelings for them. if it was hard watching them fall for each other. you think about it for a second.

about mingyu’s terrible jokes. wonwoo’s deadpan delivery. the way they bicker like an old sitcom couple and still always end up sharing dessert. about how you never really wanted to be the center of the story, just close enough to see it unfold.

you smile. “nah...” you say. “it was honestly the best seat in the house.”

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oceannote · 2 days ago

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Seventeen's Reaction—Him saying 'I love you' for the first time. (Maknae Line)

Note from author: Heavily request part two is here, my loves. Hope you will enjoy🤍🤍 Summary: OT13's saying I love you for the first time in their relationship. Warnings: Established relationship

1️⃣ DK:

His schedule had been absolutely insane lately, not just with the usual dance practices and vocal lessons, but meetings, fittings, recordings, and back-to-back commitments that made his days look like a game of Tetris gone wrong. He was so busy he’d actually scheduled blocks in his calendar just to eat. You’d seen it with your own eyes: “Lunch–11 mins,” written between two overlapping events.

So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when you opened the door to his apartment and were met with silence. Not the warm kind of silence either, no music playing, no comforting hum of the TV in the background. Just the hollow tick of the wall clock filling the space with each passing second.

You stepped out of your shoes quietly, even though no one was home to disturb. Tonight was supposed to be your Lego date night, not just any set, either. It was the massive Hogwarts castle you’d been talking about for weeks. You’d reminded him three separate times, marked it on the little magnetic calendar on his fridge, and even texted him this morning. But now, nearly forty minutes past your scheduled time, the unopened Lego box sat by the door like an awkward guest who’d shown up alone.

You didn’t feel angry, honestly, you’d half expected this. You’d been dating for a few months now, and while his schedule had always been unpredictable, you never doubted his heart. You knew how deeply DK cared. His affection wasn’t loud declarations or elaborate gestures, it was showing up to your late-night calls even when he could barely keep his eyes open. It was remembering your coffee order when you didn’t even ask. It was sincerity in every little thing.

So instead of sulking, you rolled up your sleeves and got to work. His apartment looked like it had been hit by a creative tornado, clothes tossed across the floor, empty water bottles on the coffee table, and the kitchen sink overflowing with cups and spoons that you were sure multiplied on their own.

You played your usual playlist as you worked, humming quietly to yourself. The cleaning wasn’t out of resentment, it was love in motion, a silent kind of care. You knew he'd feel better walking into a calm space, even if he didn’t realize it.

Nearly an hour later, you were curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone when you heard the door unlock. The click echoed across the apartment, and you turned your head just in time to see DK step in, his body slouched with fatigue, hair damp with sweat.

His gaze landed on the unopened Lego box by the entrance. He froze. You could practically see the realization hit him like a physical blow.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud. His sneakers were half off his feet as he scrambled down the hallway.

“Baby?!” he called, rushing into the living room like someone had pressed fast-forward on his body. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I was at practice and I…I completely forgot we had date night. I swear, I had it in my head, but then I stayed late to run through the choreography again and….”

You sat up as he dropped to his knees in front of you, grabbing your hands like he was anchoring himself.

“Babe, it’s okay,” you said gently, squeezing his arms. “I know you’re drowning in schedules right now. I really don’t mind.”

“But… you cleaned?” he asked, looking around the room like it had magically reset itself. His eyes lingered on the freshly fluffed pillows, the shining kitchen counter, and the now-visible floor.

You shrugged. “Just tidied up a bit.”

He blinked. “But why?”

You gave him a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Because I figured coming home to a clean space might help you breathe a little. I know everything’s overwhelming right now. I thought maybe… this would make it a bit easier for you to rest.”

He stared at you, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get the words to cooperate. His eyes glossed over, and he looked away for a moment, like he needed to gather himself.

Then he looked back up — and this time, everything in his face shifted.

“I don’t think words can really explain how I feel,” he said, voice low and quiet. “But… I love you.”

The air shifted. You blinked. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t dressed up in some perfect romantic moment. He looked exhausted and messy and still half out of breath, and yet, in that exact moment, it was the most genuine thing you’d ever heard.

You smiled, heart melting as you leaned down to press your forehead to his.

“I love you too,” you whispered, letting your hands run through his hair. “Even when you forget date night. Even when the sink is full of spoons.”

He laughed, that bright, sunshine laugh that only DK could pull off even while nearly crying, and wrapped his arms around your waist tightly.

“Next time,” he said against your shoulder, “I’m building that castle and making dinner too. Just wait.”

2️⃣ Mingyu:

“Oh my god, you are so overthinking this.” Seungkwan sighs dramatically, arms crossed, as he watches Mingyu pace a hole into the floor just in front of the apartment door.

Mingyu is clearly spiraling, his hand is halfway to his mouth, his eyes darting like he's about to face a firing squad rather than his girlfriend.

“But what if I make it, like… too big of a thing?” Mingyu mutters, nibbling at his nail again. “What if she gets awkward? What if she doesn’t say it back? What if…”

Seungkwan lets out a loud groan and throws his head back. “She’s your girlfriend, Mingyu. You’ve been dating for months. You like her, she clearly likes you back. You’re supposed to love her. That’s, like, the literal job description.”

Mingyu pauses his pacing only to start circling in the opposite direction, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, but I don’t want it to sound like… pressure. Like it’s this huge, dramatic moment that’ll scare her.”

Seungkwan kneels down to put on his shoes, rolling his eyes. “You’re insane. Just say it when it feels right. Stop trying to write a K-drama scene in your head.” He stands, brushing himself off. “Just tell her like it's a truth, not a performance.”

And then, right on cue, the front door opens with a soft click.

You step into the apartment, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, grocery bag in one hand. You freeze at the sight in front of you, Mingyu mid-spiral, biting at his fingers like his life depends on it, and Seungkwan standing there like he’s been babysitting a toddler all afternoon.

“…Um. Hello?” you say, blinking, eyebrows slightly furrowed. The room feels thick with unspoken tension.

Mingyu jolts like he’s been struck by lightning. “Hey, baby!” he says, voice cracking slightly as he rushes forward and grabs your bags like they’re on fire. “Here, let me get those. You must be tired, how was work? Was traffic okay?”

You raise an eyebrow, suspicious but amused. “Hey, Y/n,” Seungkwan says with a too-sweet smile, walking past you and giving your arm a warm squeeze. “I’m just heading out. Someone’s clearly got a lot on his mind.” He throws a meaningful look over his shoulder at Mingyu.

You catch it. It’s the kind of look only Seungkwan can give, half scolding, half “get it together, you idiot.”

He mouths something quick, you think it might’ve been “just say it”, before pulling the door closed behind him.

The apartment falls into silence.

You slip off your shoes and coat, giving Mingyu another look. “Everything okay?” you ask gently.

“What? Yeah, yeah! Everything’s fine!” he says a little too fast, voice pitching high again.

Your eyes narrow a little. “Mingyu… babe. Your finger is bleeding.” You point at the pinky he's still absently gnawing on, and he looks down at it like it belongs to someone else. Sure enough, there’s a tiny drop of blood on the nail bed.

“Oh. Shit,” he mutters, finally letting go of it.

You walk over, pulling his hand toward you with both concern and amusement. “You’ve got to stop doing this. You’re gonna chew your entire hand off one day.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he watches the way your fingers carefully inspect his, the way your expression softens as you reach for a tissue.

You’re so gentle with him. So real. And somehow, all the nerves in his chest shift into something quieter. Clearer.

“Y/n?” he says, voice steadier now.

You look up. “Hm?”

He swallows. “I love you.”

Your hands freeze, just for a second, still holding his. Your eyes widen a little, surprised, but not shocked. Then your lips part in the smallest smile.

“You do?”

He nods, and this time, it’s calm. “Yeah. I really do.”

You let out a small breath, like you’ve been holding it in all day. “…Good,” you whisper. “Because I love you too.”

His shoulders relax for the first time in hours. He pulls you into a soft hug, not dramatic, not over-the-top. Just real.

On the other side of the apartment door, Seungkwan grins to himself and walks away with a satisfied, “Finally.”

3️⃣ Minghao:

You were in your favourite place in the world, curled up in Minghao’s arms, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder, the two of you half-watching a YouTube video that had been popping up on your feed for days. It featured a group of ballerinas during an early morning practice, their delicate movements syncing effortlessly with the soft piano in the background.

The faint hum of the laptop filled the quiet apartment, and so did the comfort of his warmth behind you. Your back was pressed into his chest, your legs tangled underneath a shared blanket, the scent of his shampoo still lingering from his evening shower.

You and Minghao had been officially dating for two months now, though it never quite felt new. There was a familiarity in your connection that went beyond the label. After all, you’d known each other for two years, ever since he started frequenting the salon you worked at. You’d shared quiet smiles, snarky banter over hair dye choices, and eventually… one fateful late-night colour correction appointment turned into three hours of ramen, spilled secrets, and an unexpected confession.

He had looked at you, cheeks tinted pink from the steam, and told you, awkwardly, honestly, that he liked you. And to his relief, you’d liked him too.

You shifted slightly now as the ballerinas floated across the screen, lean bodies flickering across the soft studio light. Without missing a beat, Minghao mumbled against your ear, “They look so tiny.”

You tilted your head, still watching the screen. “Yeah,” you said softly, “I can imagine they’re on pretty intense diets. The kind that rewires how you even think about food. I mean, they have to maintain a certain body type to move like that, right?”

Minghao hummed in agreement, his fingers slowly tracing over the back of your hand before lacing with yours. His touch was always gentle, like he was always checking if you were okay with it, even after two months of being this close.

“Isn’t it weird, though?” he said after a pause. “How far people go just to look good in other people’s eyes?”

You turned your head slightly toward him, your voice thoughtful. “Yeah… I guess it’s a little messed up. I don’t feel that pressure the way you do, but I can imagine it becomes like… second nature for you. Always needing to look polished, flawless, even when you don’t feel like it.”

Minghao let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It just comes with the job. The image. The branding. People don’t always see you as a person. Just a version of you that they like.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, his profile illuminated by the screen’s soft glow. He looked relaxed, but you could feel that small weight in his voice. The part of him that didn’t always feel seen.

“I know,” you said gently. “But I think what people don’t realize is how much discipline it takes. It’s not just talent that gets someone where you are. It’s the hours, the control, and the consistency. It’s… kind of brutal.”

He didn’t respond right away. His thumb ran over your knuckles, back and forth. Then he said it. Quietly, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out:

“I love you. Every part of you.”

You blinked. Slowly. Your breath caught, not because you were shocked, but because something about the way he said it made your chest tighten in the best way.

He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it hang there, delicate, but steady.

“I didn’t plan to say that,” he admitted, his voice a little lower now. “But I meant it. I love how you speak your mind and how you try to understand things. How you always see the real side of me, even when I don’t show it.”

You turned fully in his arms now, resting your forehead against his. Your lips curled into a soft smile as your hands slid up to cup his face.

“I love you too,” you whispered, finally.

4️⃣ Seungkwan:

“Yah, double standards are fucking insane!” Mingyu explodes, flinging an empty paper coffee cup straight at Seungkwan’s head.

Seungkwan ducks just in time, the cup bouncing harmlessly off the mirror behind him. “It’s not! Your situation is totally different!” he huffs, glaring like Mingyu just insulted his entire bloodline.

“How is it different?!” Mingyu fires back, flailing his arms like he’s trying to swat away his frustration. “You gave me endless shit for stressing over how to say it, what words to use, what tone, and now look at you! You’re spiralling over literally the same thing.”

“Yeah, but…!” Seungkwan stutters, hands gesturing uselessly in the air before he gives up. “It’s you, Gyu. You could sneeze and make it sound poetic. Me? I say ‘I love you’ and suddenly I feel like I’m gonna faint and throw up at the same time.”

Mingyu snorts. “You're overthinking it more than you even realize. Just say it. Say it like you’re saying anything else. You already love her, what’s the difference?”

Seungkwan crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “The day I take romantic advice from you is the day I throw myself off this practice room balcony.”

“There is no balcony…”

“Exactly,” he deadpans, flipping him off.

There’s a beat of silence before Seungkwan exhales dramatically and starts pulling at his hairline. “I’m so stressed I think I’m growing a white hair. Right here. Look.”

Mingyu squints. “That’s just the lighting.”

“Lighting my ass. I’m dying.”

“When is she coming?”

Seungkwan glances at the clock on the wall. “Like… 30 seconds.”

As if summoned by fate, the door swings open.

There you are, gym bag slung over your shoulder, hair a little messy from the wind, wearing that warm, effortless smile that Seungkwan swears could end all wars. He straightens up like he wasn’t having a meltdown two seconds ago, arms instinctively opening.

“Hey baby,” you greet, walking into his hold like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, my love,” he murmurs, hugging you tight and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. His voice softens instinctively in your presence. “How are you?”

“Good! I brought you guys sticky mango rice.” You open your bag, pulling out two neatly packed containers. You hand one to Seungkwan with a gentle smile and then toss the other to Mingyu, who catches it with too much excitement.

“Y/n! You’re the real MVP. I loveeeeee sticky rice!” Mingyu exclaims, dragging the word out dramatically. He gives you an exaggerated bow that makes you chuckle. “Right, Seungkwan?”

You turn to look at your boyfriend, eyebrow slightly raised at Mingyu’s sudden sticky-rice enthusiasm. “What’s going on?”

Seungkwan is frozen.

Totally stiff.

Like a deer caught in headlights, looking from the box of sticky rice to you, then to Mingyu, who is giving him the most obvious say it, now face.

Your eyes flicker between the two. “Babe?”

He swallows. Loudly. His face turns a deep shade of red, and for a second, you wonder if he’s about to sneeze or pass out.

“I…” he stammers, eyes locked on yours now, wide and nervous. “I love you, okay?! There. I said it!”

The words come out fast, like he’s releasing a tightly held breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

You blink. The room goes quiet.

Then your lips slowly curl into a smile. One of those real ones. The kind that starts in your eyes before it even reaches your mouth.

You step closer, cradling the side of his face gently. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “But I love you too.”

5️⃣ Vernon:

You were curled up on the couch, your body tucked comfortably against Vernon’s side, his arm draped loosely around your shoulders. The TV flickered in front of you, playing what had to be the fifth episode of Friends in a row, though neither of you were really watching.

Vernon absentmindedly played with your fingers, tracing the lines of your palm, occasionally lacing your fingers with his. His warmth, the low hum of the TV, and the quiet rhythm of rain tapping against the windows wrapped around you like a blanket.

You glanced up at him with a small smile. “Isn’t it nice? You finally have two whole days off without a schedule.”

He let out a deep sigh, shoulders rising and falling slowly. “Yeah…” he murmured. Then, after a beat, he added, voice quieter: “I kind of feel bad, though. That you’re spending your weekend like this, inside. With me.”

You turned your head slightly, sensing the weight behind his words. “What do you mean?”

He gave a half-laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I feel like I’m not that fun to be around when I’m like this. Just… staying in. No plans. No energy. Not exactly weekend material, you know?”

You sat up a little, just enough to face him properly, your hand still resting in his. “Hey,” you said softly, brushing his hair back from his face. “Don’t say that.”

His eyes met yours, uncertain and a little tired.

“I wouldn’t want to spend my weekend any other way than being here with you. Seriously. I don’t need fireworks or plans or parties.” You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his for a moment. “This? Just this? It’s perfect.”

His features relaxed, his shoulders losing some of that quiet tension he carried around. A small, grateful smile pulled at his lips.

“Okay then,” he said, voice lighter. “How about this, you pick the movie, I’ll order us something good, and later we can battle it out in Uno. The loser has to do all the dishes for the next date nights.”

You laughed, already nestling back into his side as he pulled you in. “Deal. I was thinking maybe we could watch Harry Potter or something moodier. It kind of matches the rainy weather, right?”

He hummed in agreement, his chin resting on the top of your head. You felt his chest rise and fall beneath you, but then he stilled.

A pause stretched between you, comfortable but charged.

Then he shifted slightly, just enough to look at you again, his voice quieter this time. Steady, but laced with something deeper.

“Hey…” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I love you.”

He said it like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for a while now, like he’d finally let go of a thought he’d been turning over quietly in his mind.

“Just thought you should know.”

You blinked, surprised but not startled, because somehow, it felt like the words had been there between you for a while. Waiting. Soft, inevitable.

Your heart thudded a little louder in your chest as you looked at him, seeing the vulnerability behind his relaxed expression, the unspoken I mean it in his gaze.

You smiled, eyes warm. “I know.” You paused, leaning in close enough that your forehead nearly touched his again. “And I love you too.”

Vernon exhaled slowly, the corners of his lips curving up into a smile that was all relief and quiet joy. He pulled you closer, holding you like the words had just made something even more solid between you.

6️⃣ Dino:

Your Saturday night wasn’t going the way you had hoped. Instead of being on a cozy dinner date with Chan, wrapped up in conversation, you were curled up on your couch, watching a painfully bad reality TV show, picking at sushi that had long since lost your interest. The silence of your apartment only made everything feel worse.

Last night was supposed to be the beginning of a weekend just for the two of you, no work, no distractions, no scheduling around Chan’s back-to-back commitments. Just time. Real, uninterrupted time together. But things went south. Fast.

You had made a lighthearted comment, a small joke, about what it might be like if you ever moved in together. You thought it would make him smile. Instead, it was like a switch flipped. His shoulders tensed. His smile faded.

The joke snowballed into a full-blown argument: you accusing him of running from commitment, him snapping back that you were pushing things too hard, too fast. You hadn’t spoken since you stormed out of his apartment last night, tears of frustration in your eyes.

And you definitely weren’t going to be the first to break the silence.

Not until the doorbell rang.

The sound jolted you out of your daze, sushi container in hand. You blinked, registering it with mild confusion. A package? This late? You walked over, still half on autopilot, unlocking the door and cracking it open.

Only to find Chan standing there.

He looked tired. Disheveled. Hair a mess, hoodie thrown on like he didn’t think much about it, eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept much, or at all. His hands were in his pockets, but he looked like he’d been pacing outside your door for a while.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the door. “…What are you doing here?” you asked quietly, not stepping aside.

“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, eyes searching yours as he tried to nudge the door gently.

You didn’t move.

“I said, what are you doing here, Chan?”

He sighed, clearly fighting the instinct to say something defensive. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and dropped his gaze briefly. “Y/n,” he said softly, glancing around the hallway, “Please don’t be like this.”

“I’m not being like anything,” you replied. “I just don’t get why you’re here.”

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, then leaned against the wall beside your doorframe and looked straight at you. His voice was lower now, sincere. “I came to apologize.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Apologize for what?”

“For last night,” he said, his jaw tightening like he was trying to hold everything else back. “I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. It was… it was a dick move. I was projecting, and I knew it even when I did it.”

You blinked at him, the words not quite settling in. “…Projecting what?”

Chan looked down for a second, his hand dragging across his face in frustration, not with you, but with himself. “I’ve been feeling like crap lately, Y/n. Like a bad boyfriend. I’ve been everywhere but here with you, physically, mentally… I’ve been distracted, buried in work, and I know you’ve been picking up on that.”

He met your eyes again. You saw the guilt swimming there. “So when you made that joke about moving in together, it hit me harder than I expected. Because I realized how unfair it’d be. You’d be alone in a place that’s supposed to feel like ours, and I wouldn’t be around to help make it feel like home. It scared me. Not because I don’t want that future, but because I do, and I’m terrified I’ll mess it up.”

You felt the tension in your fingers soften as your grip on the door loosened. “…You should’ve just said that.”

“I know.” He let out a breath, stepping forward slightly. “I was overwhelmed, and I pushed you away instead of letting you in. I hate that I made you feel like what you wanted, what we want, is too much. It’s not. Not with you.”

There was a long pause. One where you felt your chest loosen just a bit.

“I mean it when I say…” he took another step closer, eyes locking onto yours, “I love you. I really do. Not just when it’s easy or convenient. Even when we argue. Even when I’m scared. I love you.”

Your heart fluttered, but not in that giddy, new-love way. It was deeper than that now, heavier, grounded in everything you’d already seen of each other.

You opened the door wider. Just a little. “…I love you too, Chan.”

He let out a breath that sounded like relief. His shoulders dropped. “Can I come in now?” he asked, this time with the hint of a smile.

#seventeen reactions #seventeen #svt x you #svt reactions #svt dino #mingyu #minghao #dokyeom #dk #seungkwan #vernon #reactions

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