#I think I'm going to do this for every chapter :>

[icarusignite]

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain (p.2)

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. Zayne being emotionally constipated rip

Word Count: 6.7k

A/N: I did not expect all the overwhelming love and feedback on part 1, so thank you so much to everyone who read and interacted, you made my day.

There will be a part 3 later to explore them getting even closer, and that will be more fluff (I did say slowburn lmao). I know they don't technically kiss and make up in this one, but that would be unrealistic, and this chapter is essentially Zayne having an existential crisis lmao. Gotta make our man suffer a little. I may also make this a whole series with more snippets of their life together (dates, workplace shenanigans, wedding, etc.) cuz I am rather attached to the concept of Zayne x coworker lmao. As always would love ot hear yalls thoughts <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

"I didn't ask for her kindness. She's not helping anyone by wasting time with personal errands. If she spent as much energy on her department as she does playing nursemaid, maybe the pediatrics wing would run on schedule."

Zayne regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. In his head, they'd sounded like a neutral observation spoken in the abstract. But out loud? They were undeniably brutal.

He didn't even realize how harshly it had come across until he saw Miss Hunter's expression change. The easygoing smile slid off her face, and her eyes narrowed. She began gathering the files strewn across his desk in silence.

Zayne frowned. "What are you doing?"

Miss Hunter scowled without looking up. "Sometimes I forget that I'm speaking to someone with the emotional availability of a brick."

"Excuse me?"

She rolled her eyes as she shoved a folder into her bag. "I do sincerely hope, for your sake, no one else heard you say that. Your colleague may be a lot of things, but incompetent is not one of them. I've never seen anyone work as hard as she does. She bends over backward for her patients, stays longer than anyone else, and still finds time to show basic human decency to the people around her. You don't have to like her, Zayne, but don't you dare belittle her like that."

Zayne opened his mouth to reply, but the woman had already thrown her coat over one shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Didn't you say you needed my help with the case? That is why you've been coming in, haven't you?"

"I think I have what I need. Someone from the Association will give you a call if we require anything else." Her eyes met his one last time. "Thank you for your time, doctor. Now don't let me waste any more of it."

Then she was gone, and the silence she left behind was deafening. It wasn't like her to walk out like that. Frigid departures were his specialty.

He sat down slowly, but didn't open the file in front of him. Instead, his eyes drifted to the spot on his desk where you used to leave his tea for him.

Miss Hunter was kind. You were, too. He never quite understood why people like that kept finding their way into his life. He seemed terrible at keeping them there. And now, he was starting to understand why.

The words he'd said earlier soured in his stomach, replaying in his mind like a low-grade headache he couldn't medicate away. He didn't even know why he'd said them. It wasn't like him to speak without thinking.

Miss Hunter was one of his oldest friends. She had known him long before he was "Dr. Li." Back when he was just Zayne. She knew his tells better than anyone.

If she had caught him glancing at you every time you entered his office, she would have known immediately. She would have teased him mercilessly, bothered him about something he didn't even fully understand himself.

And she was your friend, too. Which meant she would've told you.

He certainly hadn't wanted that. It would ruin things.

Not that there was anything to ruin, technically. You weren't involved. You weren't his. You weren't anything more than a colleague.

From the early days of med school to the quiet corners of the hospital now, you flitted in and out of his life with a warm drink in one hand and a smile on your face, offering sugar and comfort like it cost you nothing.

Zayne knew better than to believe it was just for him. You were like that with everyone.

You brought donuts for the night shift nurses, slushies for interns melting in the summer heat, and hot cider during the freezing winter. You volunteered to cover holidays and swapped shifts without complaint. You remembered birthdays, favourite snacks, and which residents were allergic to almonds.

You were a kindness machine, and he hated that it still got to him. Sometimes it was hard not to feel like there was something different about the way you smiled at him, and when you slipped out of his office after each delivery, Zayne found it nearly impossible to concentrate afterward.

Your presence left ripples. He had insinuated that you were a distraction, but not because you hindered the hospital. No, you were a distraction to him. When you were gone, he was thinking about you, and when you were near, he couldn't think at all.

So why had he said what he said?

Because he didn't want Miss Hunter to know what he was feeling? Because he didn't want you to know?

Zayne took off his glasses and rubbed the space between his eyes. He still didn't have a good answer. The only real explanation was the simplest, and the hardest to admit: He'd been cruel. And now he felt the guilt of it like a stone in his throat.

Zayne wasn't the kind of man who tracked people's comings and goings. He only paid attention to pathology reports, test results, and charts with clear logic. He didn't count footsteps in the hallway or wonder where someone's voice had gone.

At least, not until yours had been missing for three days.

At first, he told himself it was a good thing. You were keeping your distance, finally, after all this time. No more interruptions. No more unsolicited desserts or stickers pressed onto his notes like a child's reward chart.

He had, after all, been pulling away from you, too. Maybe you'd finally taken the hint.

He should've been relieved. This distance was what he wanted, wasn't it? He'd convinced himself that if you were gone—if your presence stopped softening the corners of his day—then he'd finally be able to focus again. Be more efficient. More himself.

But to his growing dismay, the effect was the exact opposite. He could focus even less.

He spent too long rereading documents, missed the timing on his own schedule, and found his attention drifting in the middle of patient reports. Every time he turned a corner and didn't see you, he wondered where you were. When he passed the pediatric ward and didn't catch a glimpse of you hunched over a chart or joking with a young patient, he slowed to search without meaning to.

Maybe you were on vacation. That was rational. Doctors took leave all the time, and you of all people deserved one. But when he asked a pediatric nurse in passing, he got an answer that deflated every illusion he'd been holding onto.

"She's still on duty," the nurse explained. "Very busy. You know how she can be."

That was worse. You were close by, and still not coming around. It became harder to ignore.

Occasionally, he'd get a glimpse of your coat disappearing down a hall, or the top of your head as you ducked into the operating theatre, but never your face. And he certainly never saw you in his office again, even when you should have been there.

His desk was cleaner now. No crumbs from lemon cake, and no more paper cups of oolong. During his breaks, he found himself rifling through his drawers, trying not to look at the stack of stickers he kept there. The ones he peeled off and meant to toss, but never did.

There was the glittering, heart-shaped one you'd slapped onto his clipboard months ago. A cartoon cat, a kidney with googly eyes, and a shiny peach. You'd stuck that last one on his stethoscope once, and he hadn't taken it off for days, claiming it made his youngest patients smile.

But really, it was because it made you smile.

By the fifth day of your absence, he found himself looking up every time his office door opened. He dared not say aloud what he was hoping for, but the disappointment in his expression was telling enough when his guest never turned out to be you. He hadn't realized how often you used to cross his path until you didn't anymore.

On the sixth day, he lingered by the pediatric nurses' station, claiming he was checking up on a shared patient, but he didn't find you.

On the seventh, he stopped by the eastern stairwell just before midnight, the one he knew you liked to take instead of the elevator because you were trying to get your daily steps in. It was empty, but he waited for fifteen whole minutes.

By the end of the week, something in his chest felt too tight. The silences were heavy, and his tea never tasted right because he had to make it himself.

It was nearing midnight when Zayne finally finished logging the last of his post-op notes. The hospital had thinned to its late-shift hush, leaving only the occasional overhead call and the low hum of fluorescent lighting that never truly turned off.

The unexpected sound of knocking almost made him flinch, but when the door opened, his shoulders practically slumped in disappointment.

"No need to look so disheartened by my presence," his colleague, Dr. Greyson, teased. "I'm only here to drop off patient files, as you requested."

Zayne didn't respond.

"I really wish you hadn't scared off our caffeine supplier, though," Dr. Greyson continued, unaware of the subtle shift in the man's demeanour at the mention of you.

"Excuse me?"

"You know. The doctor who used to swing by with desserts. She hasn't come by in a whole week. The whole cardiology department is suffering. Morale's at an all-time low."

Zayne rolled his eyes. "I hardly think anyone's suffering."

Greyson tilted his head, watching him with that infuriating look that said I know more than you think I do."Did you scare her off or something? You used to get visits like clockwork. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I find myself missing that 'you-forgot-to-eat-again' look of pity she used to give all of us."

"She is probably busy. As you should be."

Greyson clicked his tongue. "I'm not trying to pry—well, maybe I am, just a little—but I figure if she stopped showing up, and you started passing by pediatrics like you're casing the joint, something must've happened."

"Nothing happened," Zayne muttered stiffly.

"Sure. Except for the part where she's been sending interns to collect your reports instead of coming herself. And the part where you've looked like someone kicked your cat for three days straight. You're not as subtle as you think."

"It's none of your business."

"Isn't it?" his colleague drawled. "Because it's starting to affect your concentration. You missed a detail on that post-op note yesterday. Not like you."

Zayne's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was corrected immediately."

"Doesn't mean I didn't notice." Then he added, more gently, "You know, if she's avoiding you, there's probably a reason."

Dr. Greyson's words echoed long after he departed.

Zayne scoffed at first, but the question refused to dislodge itself, settling under his skin like a splinter he couldn't quite reach.

What had he done? What could he have done?

He turned the thought over again and again, as if studying it from every clinical angle might make it reveal itself.

Yes, perhaps he'd been colder than usual lately, but that wasn't new. You'd known him long enough to recognize the ebb and flow of his moods. You used to tease him about it. "Dr. Li, did your coffee betray you again today?" or "Should I come back when the glacier thaws?"

You always came back because you weren't the type to hold a grudge. And certainly not the type to vanish without a word. If something bothered you, you would have said it.

So, why disappear?

The only thing he'd done differently, the only deviation from the constant rhythm of your companionship, was—

His stomach turned.

No.

There was no way.

Had you heard what he said to Miss Hunter that night? Or worse, had she told you herself?

Miss Hunter wasn't the sort to do that, especially if she knew it would hurt you. But you hadn't been working that night. He'd checked the rota; you weren't even on call.

His voice sounded vindictive in hindsight. He had only meant it as a deflection. A way to keep Miss Hunter from pressing further into places he hadn't yet dared to look himself. He hadn't thought—

He hadn't thought.

His gut twisted. That would explain your absence. You hadn't simply disappeared, you'd withdrawn. And not just from him, but from his whole department.

He'd done something worse than push you too far. He'd made you feel small and irrelevant.

Zayne exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair, overcome with guilt. He didn't know what he was going to do. He wasn't good with apologies. He wasn't even sure how to begin, but something had to be done.

If not for himself—he still wouldn't allow himself that admission—then at least for the others. For the people who looked to you. For the space you had filled so effortlessly, that now felt so cold and painfully quiet.

Maybe, if he could fix this, you'd look at him again the way you used to. Maybe it was time for him to stop watching his door and finally go knock on yours.

The next week, Zayne finally mustered the courage to approach you. He stood just by your office, waiting for you to arrive, but when you finally did, you were moving too quickly for him to say anything. Your shoulders were tensed as you ducked past him, and without thinking to ask for permission, he followed you inside.

You didn't even acknowledge his presence. You were hunched over a drawer, rifling through it with your good hand. The other one—your dominant, he noticed—was clenched in a bloodied fist, a crimson thread trickling from between your fingers and down your wrist.

"You're hurt," he murmured.

You ignored him, yanking open another drawer with more force than necessary. Your good hand trembled as you pulled out the first aid kit, and it clattered onto the desk, spilling slightly.

He took a step forward. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

Still no response, and Zayne was forced to watch as you clumsily opened the box, tugging at alcohol wipes and sterile gauze with one hand, fumbling with the bandage roll like it had personally offended you. When the antiseptic hit your wound, you hissed, and that was the last straw.

Zayne reached for your wrist, and you pulled back as if stung, your blood-slicked palm cradled awkwardly against your chest.

"I just want to—"

"Leave me be!" you snapped. "Please. I have work to do."

He didn't raise his voice. "You can't work like this."

"I am working like this."

"You can't take care of your patients if you can't take care of yourself."

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Is this your way of calling me incompetent again? Believe me, Dr. Li, I have no time for you right now."

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed impatiently. "I'm not trying to—look, please, just let me help. You can snap at me all you want afterwards."

Without waiting for your response, he firmly nudged you in the direction of your chair, and you let him because standing suddenly felt too exhausting. Maybe the adrenaline had worn off, or maybe you were just too tired to argue anymore. You kept your mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line as he worked.

Zayne didn't speak either, kneeling beside you tentatively. He did not look at your face as he pried open your fist, his frown deepening as he examined the wound. Then he cleaned it with uncharacteristic tenderness, wiping away the blood and wrapping the gauze, his fingers stalling against your skin a beat too long.

When he finally stood to pack the kit away, you stood too, your anger spilling past your lips in a venomous tumble.

"My apologies for wasting your precious time with personal errands, Dr. Li," you practically sneered. "But you don't have to play nursemaid anymore. You do have a department to run, after all."

His own words thrown back at him. Zayne winced, but met your gaze without faltering. He deserved every bit of your resentment. "That was...certainly warranted."

You scoffed, pressing your wrapped hand into your lap. "Damn right, it was."

He nodded stiffly, absorbing the blow without complaint. He would accept your barbed words because at least you were speaking to him. Anything was better than your silence.

"I..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

When all you could do was glower at him, he adjusted his lab coat just to have something to do with his hands.

"I have no excuse for what I said. Or for what you heard," he continued. "It was... awful. And cruel. And I was wrong. You work harder than anyone else here. You work too hard. And I never should've implied otherwise. I'm sorry."

"I don't accept it," you said simply.

"I—"

"I don't care if that makes me petty. I'm allowed to be angry. You don't get forgiveness just because you decided to feel bad about it now."

Zayne's mouth parted in protest. "I know this is about the conversation you overheard, and I—"

"The one where you called me pathetic? Questioned my competence? You essentially said I've been neglecting my job because I bring my colleagues refreshments every now and then?"

"You must know...I had no intention of hurting you."

"Didn't you?" You stepped back, putting some distance between the two of you. "Because I remember every word. Every. Word. And believe me, it wasn't the first time I've been told I'm not good enough to be here. I just never thought you'd be the one to say it."

He flinched, but you didn't give him the chance to say anything else.

You tipped your head toward the door. "Please leave, Dr. Li. As per your earlier suggestions, I am working on managing my time better, and part of that includes not engaging in pointless conversations."

You followed him to the door, closing it in his face with a click. It was worse than if you had slammed it, because this felt too final.

He was just about to leave when he heard the strangled sound from the other side. A whimper and then a quiet sniffle. Zayne stood frozen in place, hand hovering over the doorknob, wishing he could offer more than the hollow apology he had.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse. "Truly, I am sorry."

For the first time in all the years he had known you, there was nothing else he could say.

Zayne didn't try to speak to you again. You asked him to leave you alone, and he respected your decision enough to resist intruding into your life. But that didn't mean he stopped caring, and he certainly never stopped trying. He just changed the way he did it.

You never ran out of your favourite stationery, a new box appearing on your desk every time you were even close, and it seemed that someone had paid for a lifetime's worth of beverage orders at the cafe across the street where you frequented. Every time you showed up, the barista would grin at you and tell you that your order had been paid for, no matter what hour it was. It was absurd.

The nurses had started noticing, too. How Zayne signed off on consults for your shared patients before you could ask him to. And the fact that the smartboard in your office now auto-updated like clockwork because someone had programmed the algorithm to pull directly from the cardiology logs.

He didn't overstep, of course. He didn't want to do anything that would make you think he was questioning your competence or ability to get things done. He just handled the little things to make your life easier.

For Zayne, it wasn't about being forgiven. He wasn't delusional enough to think that any of this would win you over, but that wasn't the point. He just couldn't stand the thought of you being tired, overworked, or overlooked anymore.

He knew you were angry, and you had every right to be, but this was the only way he could think of to fix things. To anticipate your every need before it arose and solve it before it became a problem.

However, no matter how much he tried to stay out of your way, his eyes were always drawn toward you when he occasionally passed you by, like a reflex he couldn't kill. You never returned the look, and though it killed him, he never stopped refilling the frog stickers when the last sheet disappeared from your drawer, and making sure the lab results for your most critical cases were flagged top priority. He wasn't waiting for your gratitude. He just didn't know what else to do with the ache that sat where your laughter used to echo.

It became unbearable when he began messing with your break room. The one in the pediatric wing was barely even a room, really just a glorified closet with a dying microwave and a fridge that made suspicious humming noises when overfilled. But it had been your domain. A little corner of chaos you liked to keep warm for the interns and residents who rotated through your department, stumbling half-asleep between charts and crying toddlers.

You'd made it a habit to stock the cabinets with snacks. Caffeine bars. Gummy vitamins. Single-serve juice boxes and thermal mugs with weird slogans. It wasn't much, but it made the 2 a.m. shifts bearable. People had started calling it the "Sunshine Station."

But lately, something had shifted.

You didn't notice it at first because you were too busy. But then, one afternoon, you ducked into the room to grab the last apple juice from the mini fridge, only to find that the juice had already been restocked. Not just that, it had been rearranged neatly, the labels facing out. Right next to a new box of cereal bars that no one else even liked, but your most overworked intern swore kept her from fainting.

It was strange. You hadn't placed an order this month because you'd been shamefully distracted by your own indignation. When you checked the other cabinets, they were full too, and not just with generics, either.

The gummy vitamins were the exact kind your other interns liked, the ones shaped like bears instead of those awful chalky tablets. Whoever had placed the order had even remembered to get lactose-free yogurt.

When you asked around later that day, all you received were blank stares. Those who frequented the break room claimed that the items had been simply delivered as they always were, and that they thought you had been the one to handle it like you always did.

It unsettled you. For years, you had been the one to keep things stocked. You took pride in remembering everyone's favourites because you liked showing up for the people who worked under you. It mattered to you. But now it was as if someone had quietly picked up where you left off. Someone had taken the time to learn what your team liked. Someone who was trying very hard to make amends.

You shut the thought down fast. You didn't want to think about him.

But your interns had other ideas, it seemed.

The next evening, you were filling out patient notes at the corner table, half-tuned out, while they squabbled over a nearly empty box of mango pudding cups.

"I swear to god, Nam, that was my last one!"

"First come, first serve, Clara. You've had four already!"

"I'm dessert-loading for morale!"

You didn't intervene. Their bickering was strangely comforting, like white noise after too many days of stifling silence.

Clara finally wrenched the box from Nam's hands, only to gasp dramatically.

"They're gone!" she mourned, rattling the empty cardboard. "My pudding! This is an emergency!"

"Just ask Dr. Li to add them to the supply list," Nam muttered, crouching to inspect the fridge's bottom shelf for apple slices.

You froze. "Ask who?"

Nam's head jerked up, eyes wide. "I—I mean, like. I don't know why I said that. Just—someone else must've added them to the order since you've been so busy lately. That's all I meant."

Clara nodded with a false smile. "We must have a secret supplier in our midst who keeps us stocked. The Snack Phantom. Or maybe... the Nutrition Ninja."

Nam nodded sagely. "The Candy Courier."

"Or the Juicy Justice Man."

"Okay, now you're just being plain ridiculous," you snorted, rubbing your temple. "In case you forgot, I'm the one who places the orders. And I'm sorry I forgot to this month. So what's all this about Dr. Li? He's got nothing to do with us."

Clara's eyes bounced between you and Nam guiltily. "Oh. Uh...it's just that he asked us about our snack preferences."

Nam nodded. Then quickly shook his head. "Well, not all of them. Just like... a few specific ones."

You squinted suspiciously. "Like what?"

Nam hesitated. "Like, which flavour of chips you like. And which brand of protein bars Clara eats when she's on night shifts. And those gummies that Dr. Gao hoards like a dragon."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

"Dr. Li doesn't believe in vending machines," Clara deadpanned, trying to ease the awkward atmosphere. "I swear I've heard him call flavoured chips 'an affront to God' once."

"He's not trying to replace you, of course," Nam added hastily. "He's just taking stuff off your plate. We all know how busy you've been lately. You even have that health outreach drive this weekend."

Your jaw clenched, and you looked back down at your chart, trying to keep your expression unreadable. In your periphery, you saw the two interns nudge each other, mumbling something about a chart they forgot to update before scuttling off.

When the room cleared out a few minutes later, you were left alone with your tepid green tea, staring at a worn sticker someone had left on the edge of the table. The same kind you used to put on Zayne's mugs.

Suddenly, every little thing felt far too overwhelming. You didn't know what you were supposed to feel.

Gratitude? Bitterness? Some ugly combination of both?

You were just so tired.

It was past midnight when you finally finished with your tasks of the day, exhaustion making your limbs feel like they belonged to someone else. Your coat was slung over your arm, your bag slumped tiredly against one shoulder, and the charts you'd meant to leave in the admin office tilted in your grip like a collapsing tower.

You cursed under your breath when a few of them slipped loose and tumbled to the floor. When you bent, your back made an uncharacteristic sound, and you winced. You hadn't eaten dinner. Or lunch, or even breakfast, for that matter. Your feet hurt, and you still had a dozen things to do tomorrow, even though it was supposed to be your day off.

Of course, this would happen. Of course—

"Let me help."

You turned sharply, and there stood Dr. Zayne Li, just a few paces away.

His hair was impeccable as always, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, coat draped carelessly over his shoulder. He looked as tired as you felt. More, maybe. The shadows under his eyes had grown darker since the last time you really looked at him.

You hadn't seen him this close in months.

In the time it took for you to scrutinize him, he had already stepped forward to gather your scattered files. When he handed them back to you, his fingers brushed yours tentatively, but you did not thank him.

Nonetheless, he followed you to the nurses' station where you dropped your load off, and then outside toward the exit.

"I didn't think you'd let me help," he remarked.

You shrugged, and that earned the smallest quirk of his lips. Equal parts sad and knowing. He must have sensed some kind of brittle neutrality in your expression. Not forgiveness, but the absence of active malice. The first thaw in a long, punishing winter.

When the two of you stepped out into the cool night air, he held the door open for you. You didn't comment on it, and the silence stretched again.

Zayne cleared his throat. "You're off tomorrow, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"I checked the roster. I wasn't trying to pry."

You gave him a sideways glance.

"I just—" He adjusted his cufflinks. "I've been trying to apologize. Properly. I know I hurt you. I said things I didn't mean, and I let you believe things that weren't true. That you weren't—"

You turned to face him then, and he stopped talking.

"You did hurt me."

He swallowed. "I know."

"I still don't think I forgive you."

"I don't expect you to."

Your arms wrapped around yourself. "But holding onto it for this long has been exhausting, so I'm going to let it go. I'm not letting you off the hook. I am just letting myself off it. I simply don't care what you think of me, so you can rest easy, I suppose. I'm not angry anymore."

Strangely enough, you found that you meant it. It had been several months since the incident, and although for a short while it had bruised your ego, you needed to try and move past it. It was a lesson you had learned early in life when everyone around you doubted your abilities. You could not let their opinions of you make you waver. The same applied here. While you admired Zayne's intelligence and abilities, you refused to let his opinion of you affect your work. You had worked too hard for that to happen.

You were letting go more for yourself than for him. You wondered if Zayne knew that too, because he was looking at you with an expression of melancholy resignation, like he wasn't sure if he should be relieved or devastated. 

Was indifference any better than fury?

When you stepped past him to head in the direction of the train station, he called out after you. "You shouldn't take the train this late."

You didn't stop walking. "I've done it before."

"You're exhausted."

"Shocking, considering I just completed a 17-hour shift looking after tiny humans with fevers and sticky fingers."

"I'll drive you."

You glanced at him over your shoulder skeptically. "What, is this some sort of attempt at penance?"

"No," Zayne countered. "It's common sense. You're swaying on your feet."

You opened your mouth for a retort, but he was right, and frankly, you were too tired to protest on principle. So with a small, muttered, "Fine," you followed him to the parking lot.

You said nothing as you slid into the passenger seat and let the warmth of the heater begin to soothe the ache in your muscles.

You closed your eyes, and when you opened them, five minutes later, the streetlights outside looked wrong.

"This isn't my route."

Zayne didn't look at you. "I'm taking you to dinner."

"I didn't consent to that."

"You got in my car, didn't you?"

You turned fully to glare at him. "Where are we going?"

He disclosed the name of your favourite late-night restaurant, the one with the golden stew and free barley tea.

"How did you—?"

"I know you haven't eaten all day."

"Have you been having my interns spy on me?"

"You can't be both sleep and nutrition deprived. I've bagged up bodies that had more vitality than you."

"Oh, so now we've moved on to insulting my appearance? How novel."

"You're not hideous," Zayne remarked absently. "You just look like a Victorian ghost that's been wandering the moors since 1852."

You made a strangled noise of indignation. "I hate you."

"I know."

"Well, you should start acting like it."

But you lacked your usual fire. Then your stomach betrayed you, growling so loudly it echoed through the silence of the car.

Zayne didn't say anything, but the way he glanced over at you with that annoyingly subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth made your scowl deepen.

"...Fine," you grumbled. "But I'm not thanking you."

"Wouldn't dream of asking you to," he said dryly, pulling into the familiar lot.

You rolled your eyes but stepped out when he opened the door for you, letting the smell of garlic, chilli, and warm rice overpower the urge to strangle him.

The restaurant was nearly empty at this hour, only a few lingering patrons tucked into booths, and faint ballads played through the speakers like a lullaby. You sat across from Zayne, not quite looking at him, and the overhead light was dim enough to make everything feel like a dream viewed through steam.

The waitress didn't bother with menus because she knew your order. You'd been coming here ever since your residency days. She simply smiled and said, "The usual?" with a glance at you, then your companion, who gave a silent nod.

You watched her leave, then directed your attention toward him. "You didn't even ask what I wanted."

"You always get the same thing. Unless you've changed your mind in the last several years."

"And if I had?"

"Then I'd offer you mine."

That shut you up for a moment.

"I didn't expect you to say yes," he confessed candidly. "To dinner."

"Then why are you trying so hard?"

"Because I miss you." His response startled even him because he immediately avoided your probing gaze.

"Excuse me?"

"I miss..." He exhaled. "I miss your bad jokes. Your sugar bribes. The energy you bring into a room just by walking into it. I miss being someone who deserved all of that."

"Dr. Li...Zayne...what are you doing?"

Your use of his first name made his heart convulse in his chest, and he wondered with mild curiosity if he was having a heart attack. You tended to have that effect on him. "I'm trying to make things right."

You didn't have an answer for that, so you picked up your spoon and dipped it into your food that had just arrived. You let the warmth hit your tongue, sink into your bones, and settle somewhere deep inside the ache. This was easier than coming up with a response.

Across from you, Zayne stirred his bowl absently. For someone who dragged you here with such conviction, he wasn't eating much. You caught him glancing at you more than once, and each time, he looked away just as quickly.

Then he cleared his throat. "So, one of my interns fainted in the middle of a laparoscopic demonstration yesterday."

You blinked, surprised he was talking at all, let alone telling you stories.

"She nearly took down the anesthesia tray with her."

"Oh...is she okay?"

"She's fine. She may have forgotten to eat. Or breathe. Possibly both." A beat. "I told her if she ever wants to pull a stunt like that again, she has to warn me first so I can bill cardiology for Greyson's near heart attack."

You gave a reluctant huff of amusement, and he seized it like a drowning man to driftwood.

"And then, today, one of my residents presented a case that was very obviously plagiarized from a House episode. He even kept the ludicrous diagnosis."

"That's... dramatic."

"He said, and I quote, 'It's rare, but not impossible, Dr. Li.'" Zayne took a sip of water. "I told him so is being struck by lightning during a Sudoku competition. That doesn't mean it belongs on a discharge summary."

You snorted into your rice. He seemed pleased by that. As pleased as he ever looked, which wasn't much, but you saw the ease in his shoulders, and the faint wrinkle at the corner of his eyes.

It was odd, watching him do what you used to do. Filling the silences and stumbling awkwardly over attempts at connection. Sharing things he wouldn't normally bother to say out loud. You tried not to let it affect you.

Tried.

Zayne glanced at you again, then made a visible effort to keep going. "Someone else spilled an entire tray of empty vials. He dropped them while trying to open his pudding cup. I told him that's what he gets for eating like a five-year-old."

You smirked. "Dr. Greyson told me last year that you eat your sandwiches with a knife and fork."

Zayne didn't miss a beat, going along with your story just for the sake of hearing you talk. "I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"You... what?"

"It's cleaner. You get an even distribution. No hand residue. Structural integrity is maintained throughout."

"That is the most unhinged thing I've heard in months."

"I'm a surgeon," he replied unapologetically. "I value precision."

"You're a monster."

"Possibly."

Another quiet moment passed, but this time it was companionable, warmed by broth and faint humour.

Zayne stirred his stew with mechanical precision, then said, with no real preamble, "Did I ever tell you about the time one of my interns tried to impress me by diagnosing a nosebleed as a sign of brain-eating amoeba?"

"...Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish I were."

"And what was your response, Dr. Li?"

"I told her that unless the patient had just returned from a stagnant swamp in the middle of winter, she was catastrophizing. Then I handed her a nasal spray."

You pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh. "You're such a menace."

"She handed in a ten-page write-up on amoebic encephalitis the next morning."

"I'm torn between horror and pride."

"Greyson said I should start charging tuition."

"As if you don't make enough money already."

"They're all chaos." He shook his head. "One of them showed up in inappropriate footwear during an OR rotation and asked if we were doing anything fun today."

You choked on your rice, and Zayne offered you a napkin without comment.

"Inappropriate footwear? Would that be high heels or Crocs?"

"I cannot recall exactly."

"God. That sounds like something you would've done back in school."

Your dinner companion looked offended at the insinuation. "I would never have disgraced myself that way."

"True. You were insufferably by-the-book."

"I still am."

"You are." You chuckled again, reluctantly. You hadn't laughed this much in months.

Worst of all, you didn't hate the way it felt. But you hated that you missed it. You hated how much you'd missed him. You had to remind yourself that he was just trying extra hard to alleviate his own guilt, not because he actually wanted you to feel better. But it was hard to question his sincerity when he looked at you so earnestly. To you, his eyes had always been his most mesmerizing feature, and now, when he trained them on you, unguarded and sincere, you felt your resolve start to crumble.

Despite the distance and the cruelty that still stung at the edges of your memory, the ache hadn't lessened. There was something so familiar about him, the way his stories came out stiff and slightly disjointed, like they'd been rehearsed. The way he glanced up between anecdotes to check if you were still listening.

"I also miss not being verbally assaulted every morning by my ravenous interns asking where the 'sugar fairy' went." He gave you a gentle smile, something a little more than the usual twitch of his lips, and you chugged your glass of water to drown the sudden influx of butterflies that swarmed in your stomach.

You groaned. "I knew Dr. Greyson started that name."

"He did. But the students run with it like it's gospel. I overheard one say they were going to sacrifice someone to the snack deity if you didn't come back to our floor soon."

"And would that someone have been you?"

"You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

You laughed before you could stop yourself. You tried to smother it, but it bubbled up anyway. "Indeed, I would."

Zayne looked deeply, irritatingly satisfied, and you bit back another smile. For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself enjoy it.

You were too tired to resist the lull of good conversation and an old friend tonight. Tomorrow, you could try to go back to hating him. Tomorrow, you would take your grudge by the hand, but today, you deserved to let go a little.

Eventually, he stopped talking, and you looked up to find him watching you intently. Almost reverently.

"...What?" you asked, warily. "Do I have rice on my face or something?"

He didn't respond.

"Seriously. What are you looking at?"

Zayne hesitated. "I didn't mean what I said earlier."

"What?"

"That thing I said. About you looking like a Victorian ghost."

"Oh?" Your lips quirked up wryly. "Do I look worse, then? Let me guess. Forest cryptid instead? Decrepit hag?"

Zayne didn't crack a smile or tease you back, and something fragile fluttered just beneath the surface of his gaze.

No. You look beautiful.

Even like this. Even in exhaustion with dark circles under your eyes and your hair messier than you probably realized. You were beautiful in the way late-night hospital lights made you glow. Beautiful in the way you had always cared, even for people like him, who never knew how to deserve it.

He hated that it had taken him this long to notice. Or rather, that it had taken him even longer to admit it to himself, but he would spend the rest of his days trying to find the right moment to say it aloud, to make you believe it. 

Today, however, was not the right moment, so he just wordlessly refilled your cup of water.

You didn't thank him, but you didn't push him away either.

For tonight, that was enough.

Taglist: @floofycookie @heartandeye @lanxianschoenheit @loverindeepspace @treeteaofversailles @ikesimpleton @mysticcauldronspire @69-gojos-wife-69 @nm4565natty @ciexuvia @jeonjenny @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgirlie7 @raethewargeneral @staarflowerr @eolivy @straykidslvr @lemurianmaster @preeyas-world @sillyfreakfanparty

Hope I didn't miss anyone ❤️

[suliigwp]

Lucky Page — OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader | established relationship, SMAU

SULI: have this little treat before the next chapter of tronab — I'm obsessed with this man. Short and sweet🧡 also please pretend it says Saudi Arabia instead of Miami in a pic😘 you'll get it

Warnings: Thirsty comments, sexy jokes

SUMMARY: Every time Oscar Piastris girlfriend posts him on her private Instagram page before a race— he wins

China race week

Liked by pastrypriv, lando.jpg and 21 others.

y/npriv: IM GONNA EAT HIM (lando ipad kid behind 'em)

16 comments.

lando.jpg: I was reading your post🙄

pastrypriv: only you're allowed to eat me

↳ y/npriv: 👀

↳ pastrypriv: can you be wholesome for just a second?

charl3smess: no bc why does he look like he’d taste like strawberry yoghurt

car1105.finsta: I bet he smells like sunscreen I gifted him

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I think if you bite him he’d make that lil “ow :/” sound

↳ y/npriv: CAN CONFIRM. tested. 7/10 bite resistance

piastrilicious: what the hell is going on here

georgewearssocks: blink twice if they’ve put seasoning on u

↳ lando.jpg: he blinked once. medium rare incoming

↳ y/npriv: dinner’s at 8 x

↳ car1105.finsta: save me the elbow

↳ charl3smess: i want the cheek. soft bits hit different

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: dibs on the fingers

↳ pastrypriv: you guys are sick

↳ y/npriv: bff you literally said I'm allowed to eat you

↳ pastrypriv: bc I wanted to be devoured with love 💔

...

Liked by mclaren, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 1M others.

yourusername: First win of the season and so many more to come! I'm so proud of you🧡

24k comments.

oscarpiastri: Couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm 🧡

↳ yourusername: Are you calling me the tire strategy again 😒

↳ oscarpiastri: Maybe 👀

piastribabe99: SHE MANIFESTED THIS I KNOW SHE DID

landonorris: Here we go. Can’t wait to hear about this for the next 3 months.

↳ yourusername: You’ll live.

↳ oscarpiastri: You’re just mad I finished ahead 😌

↳ landonorris: Don’t test me little man

mclarensunshine: this is my Roman Empire. the way she looked at him on the podium 😭

↳ wagsonsight: HER EYES WERE GLOWING

danielricciardo: OH HE’S WINNING WINNING 🔥

↳ yourusername: more things than the race if you know what I mean

↳ danielricciardo: oop

↳ lando: WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR

↳ oscarpiastri: y/n.

gridwives: their dynamic >>>>>

maxverstappen1: Congrats, mate. Let’s see if you can do it twice 😉

↳ yourusername: 👀 challenge accepted

↳ oscarpiastri: 😬

oscarpiastriluvr: She’s the proudest gf and I’m sobbing about it

carlossainz55: You better frame this post. Historic moment.

↳ yourusername: Already making a scrapbook 🧡

↳ oscarpiastri: I’m scared

f1wifematerial: real love is posting him even when he still has champagne in his hair

...

Bahrain race week

Liked by charl3smess, a.lbonbutmakeitferal, georgewearssocks and 19 others.

y/npriv: how he was looking at me last night

22 comments.

pastrypriv: Y/N!

↳ y/npriv: just like last night

↳ lando.jpg: stop this madness 😭

lando.jpg: YOU NEED TO GO TO CHURCH. IMMEDIATELY.

↳ y/npriv: my god is busy blessing Oscar

↳ lando.jpg: I’m calling his mum

m4xisnumberone: I should not be here

↳ y/npriv: then leave

↳ m4xisnumberone: not until I report you to the FIA

charl3smess: I will never unsee this

↳ lando.jpg: SAME

↳ charl3smess: why are you everywhere

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Delete this before I make a group chat without you

↳ y/npriv: you wouldn’t dare

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: try me

georgewearssocks: This is entirely inappropriate

↳ car1105.finsta: just say you’re jealous

↳ georgewearssocks: 😐

car1105.finsta: wait so is this a before or after quali kind of look

↳ y/npriv: Carlos?

↳ car1105.finsta: i’m just trying to understand the timeline 🧎‍♂️

↳ pastrypriv: this is so humiliating

...

Liked by car1105.finsta, m4xisnumberone, lando.jpg and 22 others.

y/npriv: LAWRD HAVE MERCY

comments.

lando.jpg: GET A GRIP

↳ y/npriv: I physically CANNOT

↳ lando.jpg: you need to be stopped

m4xisnumberone: nah cause this one actually made ME flinch

↳ y/npriv: 😌

↳ m4xisnumberone: NO

charl3smess: you’re not normal

↳ y/npriv: he unzipped his suit and so did my sanity

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: not to be dramatic but i feel unsafe here

↳ y/npriv: okay but imagine you saw this in PERSON

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: i’d pass away

car1105.finsta: you didn’t even try to be subtle

↳ y/npriv: didn’t even TRY

↳ car1105.finsta: that’s love i fear

georgewearssocks: Lord have mercy? No. We need a restraining order.

↳ y/npriv: try and catch me 😌

↳ georgewearssocks: i’m telling Oscar

dannyricc3: yeah okay this one is a little bit illegal

↳ y/npriv: delete your jealousy x

↳ dannyricc3: i’m texting your mother

dannyricc3: Not Oscar keeping his silence

↳ pastrypriv: let me be

...

Liked by dannyricc3, m4xisnumberone, car1105.finsta and 17 others.

y/npriv: HE WON AGAIN. TWO IN A ROW. i’m not saying it’s because i posted him last night but i posted him last night.

18 comments.

lando.jpg: no because this is getting weird now

↳ y/npriv: don’t act like you’re not scared

↳ lando.jpg: i AM

↳ lando.jpg: imagine how big the gap would be if you attend a gp👀

charl3smess: if he wins three in a row i’m opening a shrine to you

↳ y/npriv: start collecting candles

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I KNEW IT. WITCHCRAFT.

↳ y/npriv: consider me your local track witch 🧹✨

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: you’re too powerful

georgewearssocks: I was skeptical. Now I’m terrified.

↳ y/npriv: you should be

m4xisnumberone: This is how cults start

↳ y/npriv: you’re just mad i didn’t post you

↳ m4xisnumberone: DON’T

car1105.finsta: can i send a photo of ME with puppy eyes for this week??

↳ y/npriv: lol no. this account chooses oscar now.

↳ car1105.finsta: brutal

pastrypriv: Two wins. Coincidence.

↳ y/npriv: say that again when you’re holding another trophy next week

...

Saudi Arabia Race Week

Liked by gridlife2025, paddockfashionista, waglifeinsta and 45k others.

F1GossipFeed: Spotted at the Saudi Arabia GP: @/yourusername making a stylish appearance in the paddock! Looks like she’s here to support @/oscarpiastri in person this weekend. ✨🏎️

12k comments.

f1fanatic_23: Love seeing the support! Hope Oscar feels the energy 💙

gridlife2025: She always looks so cool, no wonder Oscar’s killing it this season

raceweekbuzz: VIP vibes for sure, who else wishes they had paddock access?

speedqueen_94: This is the motivation Oscar needs to bring home another podium 👏

paddockfashionista: Okay, her outfit is EVERYTHING. F1 fashion goals!

motorsportjunkie: Supporting your driver in person? That’s next level. Respect.

tracksidevibes: I’m here for the power couple energy, can’t wait to see them at the podium

...

Liked by lando.jpg, georgewearssocks, pastrypriv and 22 others.

y/npriv: trying something today🤭 good luck my boys!

10 comments.

lando.jpg: You better post me twice for extra luck

↳ y/npriv: double the trouble 😈

pastrypriv: Don’t jinx it, witch

↳ y/npriv: oh, I’m blessing you. Big difference.

charl3smess: Proof that the best wingwomen come with filters and funny faces

m4xisnumberone: I demand a selfie too or I’m boycotting podium photos

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Make sure you send one to me or I’m crashing your next Zoom call

car1105.finsta: Officially the best hype squad captain

georgewearssocks: I see the power of good vibes in action

dannyricc3: This energy is everything. Good luck boys, don’t disappoint!

...

Liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri, ln4 and 2.3M others.

mclaren: ✨ DOMINANCE ✨ What a sensational performance from @/oscarpiastri and @/landonorris today at Saudi Arabia! A commanding 1-2 finish, crossing the line nearly 30 seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. Pure teamwork, focus, and speed. 🏆🏆

77k comments.

f1fansworldwide: That’s how you show up and shut it down. McLaren is back baby! 🔥

oscarpiastrifan: Oscar and Lando are unstoppable when they’re together. Loved every second of that race!

landonorrisfanclub: A 30-second gap? Unreal. Proud of my boys 🧡💙

yourusername: My boys did THAT 👀💥 So proud!!

↳ mclaren: our lucky charm🧡

...

Private Group Chat—

'Paddock Hazard'

@/yourusername:

ok but seriously… 30 seconds ahead??

Lucky Page magic strikes again 💅✨

@/lando: I want to believe but you’re gonna have to post me solo next time or I’m out 😤

@/oscarpiastri: I’m not sure if I believe this “Lucky Page” thing but… can’t argue with results 😂

@/maxverstappen1: I’m starting to think you’re the real driver here tbh

@/charles_leclerc: Not gonna lie, I’m lowkey jealous of this power you’ve got.

@/alex_albon: So when’s the ritual? I wanna join the cult.

@/yourusername:

First, you gotta post the ugliest selfie you have.

No exceptions.

@/lando: Nooooooo

@/oscarpiastri: If posting on the Lucky Page means I keep winning, I’m down to let her do whatever she wants.

@/yourusername:

Careful what you wish for… next race I’m posting the one of you with bedhead.

@/lando: Wait, that was private!

@/maxverstappen1: I vote for more bedhead pics. It’s only fair.

@/charles_leclerc: Honestly this chat is the best thing about race weekends.

@/alex_albon: Agreed. Also, when’s the group photo for maximum luck?

@/yourusername:

Only if you promise to not fight each other

@/georgerussell63: you expect too much from us

@/maxverstappen1: No promises.

@/georgerussell63: see?

@/oscarpiastri: Whatever happens, Lucky Page is here to stay. Thanks for keeping my podium streak alive

_____________________________________________

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (59/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: The end.

Warnings: heavy on the angst, heartbreak, mention of panic attack

Word Count: 3.8k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: the end of deal. thank you for coming on this ride with me. it's been over two years and I couldn't be more grateful for every single one of you. for every like. every comment. every message. I love you.

The iron railing he clutches with his fingers as if it were a lifeline is freezing cold. The frosty wind creeps under his layers of clothing, his shirt and the normally soft sweater, which now feels like steel wool and scratches his skin. But he doesn't feel it, the biting cold that envelops him and tugs at him. 

Somehow, he doesn't feel anything anymore.

In front of him lies his home, warm lights illuminating the night, and on other days, this would be a sight that would calm him, that would feel like a welcome home after a grueling race weekend. But all he sees now is a city that no longer feels like home. 

And he knows why.

He sees it every time he closes his eyes. The moment that destroyed everything. The moment he thought would never happen. 

The moment he lost you. 

Charles notices the patio door opening behind him, but he doesn't turn around. After all, he knows exactly who is keeping him company right now. And he also knows the look he's being given, without taking his eyes off Monaco. 

“I've got you a hot chocolate.” His best friend's voice is quiet, as if he doesn't want to interrupt the race car driver's train of thought. “If you want.”

Charles hears ceramic on glass as Joris sets the cup down on the table behind him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the houses in front of him. Whether he drinks the hot chocolate or his favorite tea or eats the hottest chili pepper, nothing can dispel the cold inside him.

It has taken hold there, its claws dug into his guts and its teeth sunk into his heart. It is so cold and icy that it feels like anesthesia, as if his organs are shutting down and refusing to continue working to keep him alive. As if his body knows exactly what it needs to do to kill the pain.

But unfortunately, the pain is omnipresent. 

Joris stands next to him at the railing of his terrace and also looks out over the houses. Charles sees his breath in his peripheral vision as he exhales. “You'll have to go back inside at some point. You'll freeze to death out there.”

He doesn't care enough about his best friend's concern to respond. Charles knows he can't stay out here forever. Eventually, he'll have to go back to the living room or go home or pack his bags to race somewhere else on this godforsaken planet.

He'll have to go on living as if he hadn't lost the love of his life. As if he hadn't pushed her away in the cruelest way he could imagine. As if everything were fine and the only person he ever truly loved hadn't fled the country and moved away to start a new life.

A life without him. 

He deserves the pain, in his opinion. The emptiness inside him, that hole in his heart that can never be filled as long as you're not with him. The weight of the fact that he alone can be blamed for all of this rests on his shoulders, pressing down on his chest like a panic attack that won't go away. He can't breathe, can't think. 

He can't be without you.

“Charles,” his friend tries again. 

“I'm begging you. You have to take care of yourself. I know how you feel, but it -”

“You have no idea how I feel,” he interrupts his best friend harshly, without looking at him. He notices that Joris is raising his hand to put it on his shoulder to comfort him, but the Monegasque takes a step to the side. The friendly hand drops again. 

“Charles -”

“Just stop.” His tone is hard and cold, and he doesn't sound like the man Joris has known all his life. Not even after that crappy race weekend here a few years ago, when Charles didn't even start the race, did he sound so - unfamiliar. 

The men just stand there staring ahead, only the whistling of the wind around them filling the otherwise silent night. Not even cars are driving through the streets, not a soul is to be seen. It's oppressive. 

Charles' fingers cramp around the metal. He takes a breath, then another, and then: “I'm sorry.” The usually warm voice that can light up any room with its laughter sounds tired and exhausted, as if the man it belongs to hasn't slept in days. 

He hasn't, at least not properly. Only a few hours at a time, and his sleep is plagued by nightmares, by your face, by the feeling of having lost you. And when he wakes up, there's that brief moment, that millisecond, when he forgets that you're gone - and as soon as reality catches up with him, his heart stops. 

Joris looks over at him, sees the emotionless expression on his best friend's face, and feels completely helpless. As the race car driver's longest friend, he usually knows what to say to help, to be a support - but how can he help someone who can't really be helped?

It hurts him to see him like this. So passionless, so detached, so unrecognizable. As if everything positive about Charles had also vanished with your disappearance. As if Monaco had become a little colder since then. 

“I'd really like to help you,” he tries again, looking at Charles' hands, which are reddened from the cold. “I just don't know how.” Or if his friend would even let him.

The Monegasque shakes his head slightly. “No one can help me.” His warm breath rises in little clouds in front of his face. 

“You sound like you've already given up,” Joris says quietly, almost reproachfully, but more out of concern than anger.

Charles shrugs his shoulders and lets them drop again. “Maybe I have,” he murmurs, as if he doesn't care whether anyone understands him or not. “Maybe it's easier that way.”

Joris scrapes his foot across the cold stone, as if movement could chase the helplessness from his body. He looks at his best friend, searching for something to hold on to - a glance, a word, anything. But Charles remains frozen, like a statue in the middle of Monaco's wintry silence. 

“Do you want to go somewhere? Have some tea if you don't want hot chocolate? Or just... be inside?” It sounds awkward, almost banal, but Joris means it. Anything would be better than standing there in the cold next to this broken man, unable to do anything. 

But Charles just shakes his head. “I don't want anything.” His voice is calm, but it sounds like glass about to shatter.

Joris nods slowly, more out of uncertainty than understanding. He had seen many sides of Charles - the loud, ambitious, focused athlete, the loving friend. But this side, so sharply indifferent, is new. And frightening. 

“You don't have to tell me everything,” he says after a while. "I don't want to pressure you, especially because I can't. I don't know what happens behind closed doors, but... I'm here. Even if I don't know how I can help you."

Charles doesn't respond. His gaze remains fixed on a point somewhere in the invisible nothingness of the night. But then, for just a split second, his face twitches. His jaw tenses as if he's trying to hold something back - a word, a tremor, a tear. 

His best friend sees it. And although Charles immediately regains his composure, smoothes the expression on his face, and lowers his gaze, the moment has not gone unnoticed. And a little hope flares up in Joris's chest.

“You still feel something, right?” he asks quietly. 

Charles breathes in through his nose, long and controlled. When he answers, his voice sounds cold again. “It doesn't matter.”

Joris shoves his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket and wonders for a moment how Charles isn't freezing in his sweater. He wants to say something, anything to dispel the coldness in his voice, but everything that comes to mind sounds too grand or too empty. So he remains silent for a moment. 

He looks over at him. “It matters to me,” he says finally.

Charles doesn't answer, continuing to stare straight ahead as if his friend isn't even there, but something about his gaze has changed. It's no longer the rigid emptiness of a moment ago—more like a kind of escape. As if he doesn't want to be seen. Not now, when something inside him is threatening to crumble. 

“I know you don't want anyone to get close to you,” Joris continues. “But I'm not just anyone. I'm not here because I feel sorry for you. I'm here because you're my friend. And because I can't stand by and watch you destroy yourself. And because I miss you. The real you.”

Again, no response. Then, very quietly: “The real me... is gone.”

Joris's heart tightens. “No,” he says gently. “He's hurt. But he's not gone.”

Charles's lips press together. For a moment, he looks like someone caught between two impulses - the need to push everything away and the desire to simply be heard. 

Joris takes a tentative step closer, carefully, as if walking on thin ice, trying to close the distance between them. “Let me at least do something,” he pleads, almost begging. “You don't have to go through this alone. I mean it, Charles.”

His jaw muscles tense again, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the darkness in front of him. “I'm alone,” he says in a strained voice. “And that's better this way.”

“For whom?” Joris' voice becomes firmer, more urgent. “For you? For her? For anyone?”

Charles' eyes narrow and his shoulders stiffen noticeably. “What do you mean?” he asks sharply, without looking at his best friend.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he replies calmly but unwaveringly. “Who is this better for? For you - because you're punishing yourself for what happened? For her - because you think you have to protect her? Do you mean the one who left you? Or do you mean Elena?” He pronounces the name carefully, as if touching a fresh wound. 

Charles's gaze hardens. A muscle twitches on his cheek. “Don't do this,” he hisses.

“No.” Joris's voice grows firmer. "You talk about how it's better to be alone, but everything about you screams that you're going down. And I want to know if you're doing it for yourself - or for her. For the one who took your oxygen away when she left, or for the one you showed up with on that damn red carpet, even though—“ He breaks off, shaking his head slightly. 

Charles snorts through his nose, his tone bitter. ”You don't know anything."

“Then explain it to me!” Joris snaps. “Explain it to me so I can finally understand why you act like closeness is poison and help is an attack. I was there, Charles. I was there when you broke down, when you stopped talking. And I'm still here, but you - you're doing everything you can to keep me out.”

Charles' hands are shaking now. Only a little, but enough to be noticeable. He takes his fingers off the railing and crosses his arms as if to hold himself together. The anger in his voice is cutting. “You don't understand, Joris!” Charles blurts out, his words sharper than intended. “You can't understand!”

His voice echoes between the walls, carrying the harshness of a man who has long since given up on saving himself. For a moment, it is not the controlled Charles who always knew how to behave, but someone standing on the edge - of the abyss, of exhaustion, perhaps even of himself. 

Joris remains calm, does not flinch, even though the blow hits home. “Then help me understand,” he says quietly. “I'm not here to judge you. I don't want to lose you.”

Charles laughs bitterly, without any joy. “You've already lost me,” he says. “Everyone has.”

“That's not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Charles snaps, and now there are tears in his voice, though not in his eyes. “She left me, Joris. Because I lied to her. Because I -” His voice breaks, he bites his lip as if he can hold back the truth. 

Joris's gaze softens. Finally, he thinks. At last, a crack in this impenetrable wall. 

Charles struggles with himself. The coldness is deep in his voice, his movements, his thoughts. Everything about him seems tense, on the verge of snapping. “I had to do it,” he whispers finally, barely audible. “It was the only way.”

“What was the only way?” Joris presses, taking half a step closer. “What exactly did you do that justifies all this?”

The athlete shakes his head vigorously, his gaze hard and at the same time haunted. “I can't explain it. It was - it was necessary.”

“Why? Because of Elena?” Joris' voice grows louder again. “Because of that damn gala? You took her with you even though you knew exactly who should have been standing by your side.”

Charles Kiefer tenses up but says nothing.

“Say something,” Joris presses, now completely stunned. “Say something, damn it!”

Charles looks up, his eyes flashing with suppressed anger—or perhaps overwhelm. “What am I supposed to say, Joris?” he asks sharply. “That I regret every day how things turned out? That I miss her every damn night? That I hate myself for letting her believe I didn't care about her?”

The words echo in the air, raw and unprotected. But as soon as he says them, Charles immediately withdraws, almost as if he has frightened himself. 

“Then tell her that,” Joris demands. “You can't just leave everything like this!”

Charles's gaze hardens. “You don't understand.”

“Because you won't explain it to me! I don't want to lose you, Charles. And I don't want to watch you destroy yourself.”

Another bitter laugh, hollow and cold. “Too late.”

Joris wants to say something in response, grab him, shake him - anything to break through that armor. But Charles takes a step back. The distance between them grows with every moment, not just physically, but tangibly. Inevitable. 

“Charles, please. You don't have to carry this alone.”

A flicker in Charles's eyes, barely noticeable. Maybe doubt. Maybe longing. But he immediately erases it, as if he can't bear it himself. “Yes, I have to,” he replies. “Because otherwise everything I've done has been for nothing.”

“You mean with Elena.” Joris' voice is cautious, tentative. “Was she - was she a protective measure? For the press? For her family? For your career? Or - for her?”

The Monegasque shakes his head. “Don't ask. Please.” He almost begs him, unable to talk about it.

Joris's chest tightens. He can see how hard it is for his friend to keep up the façade. How much strength it takes not to just break down. “I'm not asking because I'm curious,” he says quietly. "I'm asking because I understand you. Or at least I'm trying to.“

Charles looks away, turns away. The cold paints a thin film on his lips, but that's not the only reason he's shivering. For a moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable. Then he narrows his eyes, forcing himself to control himself. ”You can't understand,“ he says tonelessly. ”No one can."

“Try anyway.”

Charles just stands there, motionless and silent. It's as if he's fighting an internal battle - between the urge to finally say what's tearing him apart and the panic-stricken fear of what might be left behind.

Joris waits. Silent, caught between hope and helplessness.

But Charles just shakes his head, barely noticeably. Not defiantly, not dismissively, but simply—tired. 

“If I could say it,” his voice almost breaks, “I would.” And with these few sad words, he turns away. He leaves, not abruptly, not dramatically, but with the bitter determination that comes from despair. He hears Joris calling his name, but he doesn't stop, can't stop, as his footsteps fade quietly but definitively. On the street, the fog quickly engulfs him, the darkness behind it doing the rest.

Charles runs. Fast at first, then hurriedly, then slower again—but he keeps moving. As if he could run away from what is eating him up inside. The memories. The guilt. You.

Every street he crosses knows your shadow. Every streetlight reflects a night when you laughed, argued, understood each other without words. Even the wind carries your name in its cold breath. It's unbearable. 

His apartments – each one a prison of glass and luxury. Everywhere there are things of yours that you didn't take with you in your haste. Plants, books, a bottle of your favorite wine that he can't drink or even take out of the fridge because the emptiness in the compartment would be worse. A testament to the fact that you were his. A testament to the fact that he is still yours. 

He can't go there. He can't go near a bed where you once slept. No coffee machine that used to be the first thing he turned on in the morning for you. The walls whisper there. And he doesn't know how long he can stand not listening to them. 

So he walks on, further and further. The streets lose their familiar appearance, the city limits blur. At some point, he is no longer sure whether he is still in Monte Carlo. The lights become fewer and fewer. The night grows colder. But Charles keeps running. 

He runs until his legs grow heavy, until his thoughts are nothing but a single noise. Until he reaches the top.

The viewpoint.

Charles just stands there, staring out into the darkness, where the sea and the sky merge almost seamlessly. Only a few lights glimmer in the distance - boats perhaps, or houses on the coast. Everything seems far away, unreal. The wind tugs at his sweater, but he hardly notices. Only a single moment echoes in his head - the day he brought you here. 

It was shortly after you met, after the first night you shared the small apartment. Not love, not even friendship, but that strange, vibrant thing that arises when two souls recognize each other before they really know each other. 

He had hesitated to bring you here. It's a quiet place, a personal one. Not a place for superficiality or games. But one that laid him bare in a world where he constantly has to pretend and bend himself out of shape to live up to what is expected of him.

But you had looked at him - calm, open, curious. And he hadn't regretted it for a moment. 

"I like to come here when I'm stuck. When I'm stuck in a situation where I wish I could ask him for advice. Or I'm feeling lonely. I may not get an answer here, but somehow – I don't feel quite so alone anymore when I'm here," he had confided in you. He had spoken the words with such gravity that they lingered in the air for a long time, supporting you in your helplessness, even though he didn't know if it helped you in the slightest. 

Words that he now repeats alone on this cold earth, in the silence of the night, as if searching for an answer that would never come. 

Whenever he was here, he spoke to his father - not always out loud, often only in his thoughts. He felt his presence as if he were very close, despite all the years that had passed since he was no longer among the living. Back then, this place gave him stability, comfort, and a kind of inexplicable connection that helped him find his way. 

But today it feels different. Empty. Lonely. As if his father is gone, disappointed in his actions, in the man he had become - or the man he had not become. The closeness that once seemed so natural has disappeared, and with it, all sense of security. 

Charles bites his lip, silent tears on his cheeks, the cold creeping deep into his bones, but not as much as the weight on his heart.

He did it to protect you - from the glare of the spotlight, from the relentless scrutiny of the public, who knew too much about you. He had to pull the ripcord before you were completely lost in the maelstrom of rumors and expectations.

It wasn't a decision made out of recklessness or betrayal, but out of desperation. Out of a desire to create a refuge for you, even if it meant breaking himself in the process.

He couldn't warn you. You probably would have told him you could handle it - the stares, the rumors, the opinions. But that didn't matter. The press would have found out sooner or later. Your last name may not be particularly well known, but a Google search and a little digging would have been enough to bring everything to light.

Your parents are responsible, having done things that would have cast a shadow over your future long ago if they hadn't been dismissed earlier – decisions that made headlines at the time and could still distort your image in Formula 1 today. One wrong move, one wrong connection, and suddenly you would no longer be the subject of discussion, but your origins. Your family. Their mistake.

The public would have been merciless, judging you by their standards, condemning you for something you didn't do. And Charles couldn't let you break under that burden – not when you've already suffered so much.

So now he sits here, on the edge of the world, alone with the cold wind blowing through his tousled hair. The stars above him seem unreachable, as does the comfort he so desperately seeks. His hands are numb from the cold, his heart heavy with pain. 

On this night, he is nothing more than a shadow - lost between guilt and love, between what was and what will never be. And as darkness envelops him like a cloak, he knows that he will carry this pain with him forever. 

He thought of all the deals he had made in his life - promises he had made to give himself and others something to hold on to. But none were as important to him as the one promise he made to protect you.

No matter how deep the darkness, no matter how painful the journey. No matter how much you would hate him for the heartbreak - he would never break that promise.

And he would rather die than break that deal.

💫 end of deal - book one 💫

[deerspherestudios]

How long do you think it will take for Chapter 4 to come out? I mean, not because I'm trying to rush you or anything, but I'd really like to know if we'll get Chapter 4 before the end of the year, or even before the end of the year.

I've been following this beautiful game since December 2023, and believe me, I'm excited about every one of your updates on the progress of the project.

Oh boy,.,,,,, I'll be honest I've been a little avoidant in answering when the next update will be released, or how the progress is going. All I can say is I hope to release it sometime this year for sure!!!

It gets a bit personal under here as to why it's taking so long, so feel free to skip!!

TLDR; progress on the script has been slow simply because I get the jitters whenever I continue working on it hahaha.

For a full explanation, I genuinely appreciate people looking forward to the continuation, and I understand people wondering when it'll be done! But it does end up as a bit of a double-edged sword because while I get the reassurance people are still interested in this project of mine, at the same time it makes me anxious to continue in case this next update isn't as good as the previous ones haha. It's definitely the self-doubt speaking!!

I normally wouldn't let feelings like this get to me but something about it this time around has me skirting around the script in fear I could do better if I just postpone it a bit more?? Especially with more and more VNs coming out, it just makes me wonder if I could keep up with everyone.

So I write and re-write and re-write again or distract myself with previous days instead of moving the plot forward. I hate being openly vulnerable about it, especially since I should be grateful for everyone's support; it should be enough to keep me going!! It's just something I really have to work on myself and I figure a little bit of honesty is a good start...

But!! I promise the project isn't abandoned, it's nowhere near being abandoned. I'm just hammering away at it with an unfortunately small hammer.

Hopefully by yapping about it a little bit it helps me see the road ahead better and help me lock in!!! I really truly wanna deliver the next part of the story the best I can, and I hope I'm strong enough to get over this mental block I've been struggling with lately.

If you've read this far, THANK YOU ❤️❤️❤️!!!!!!!

I know it's so very "woe is me" but I think I can trust the people on this platform to be understanding, as you've always been. I hope everyone has a lovely night and day.

[mugsywrites]

I'm going to try and get Chapter 6 of Bet My Life on Snake Eyes posted today or tomorrow, but it still needs a lot of work and I'm about to go see 28 Years Later. So if I don't finish today here is a preview from part II to tide people over:

The insistent doorbell ringer turned out to be a petite brunette with huge brown eyes. When Tommy opened the door she stepped back and did a double take at his bare chest. 

“Can I help you?” Tommy asked. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he was pretty sure he’d never seen her before. Maybe it was just her resemblance to a Disney Princess, with those huge dark eyes and long lashes. 

“Hi,” she said, forcefully dragging her eyes up to his face, “I’m looking for Evan Buckley. Does he live here?”

Jesus, I thought we’d seen the last of them, it’s been months, Tommy thought. Not every woman that guy catfished using Evan’s pictures showed up demanding an explanation, but too many had. This one even had a suitcase. He was glad Evan was still on shift, he always felt so bad for these women. Even when they were throwing drinks in his face.

“Who’s asking?” Tommy said, folding his arms.

The unfamiliar-familiar woman took a step back at his unfriendly tone, “Uh, I am. Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m his husband.”

Her big brown eyes went wide, making her look even more like a Disney Princess, “I’m sorry, what? Wait, am I…am I at the right place?” she glanced at the house number and frowned, “I’m looking for Evan Buckley-“

“Evan Buckley, age twenty-seven, six two, two hundred pounds, brown hair, blue eyes, adorable birthmark here,” Tommy tapped above his left eyebrow, “firefighter, and Star Wars prequel fanatic?” The last one wasn’t true, but Tommy still loved fucking with Evan about it, “Yep, that’s my husband.” Tommy unfolded his arms and raised his left hand so she could see the ring. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’ve been actually talking to, but—“

“I’m his sister!” the woman blurted out. She was staring at the ring on Tommy’s finger like it was going to melt her face off a la Raiders of the Lost Ark. Her eyes followed it even as Tommy lowered his hand to his side.

Tommy leaned back and stared down at her. He knew Evan had an older sister, that they used to be close, but hadn’t spoken to each other in three years. Despite that Evan still dutifully sent her postcards every few weeks. Evan had shown him a picture once, but it had been older; Evan only nine or ten and the sister a teenager. Tommy remembered thinking they didn’t look anything alike, either in terms of facial structure or coloring… 

“Maddie?” Tommy asked cautiously.

She finally peeled her eyes away from Tommy’s hand and back to his face. Tommy thought maybe she did resemble Evan. Not much, but something about the shape of her nose or the expression on her face. She cleared her throat, “Yes, I’m Maddie. Um. Are you…were you joking, about being Evan’s husband?”

Tommy shook his head, glancing down at her suitcase. He realized that this probably wasn’t a conversation for their front porch. It was also a conversation he should have with a shirt on. “I…do you want to come in?”

@unfuckablebogtroll

[iamquiantrelle]

W1LL U L13? (part one) • kylian mbappe (iamquaintrelle)

# pairings: kylian mbappe x fem! black singer reader (fc: ronisia) # summary: ballers were never your thing, and one little blind date wouldn't change that, will it? ♡ masterlist // send me an ask # tags: @szariahwroteit @muglermami @sailurmewn @perfecttrashface @angstdaddy @jasmystique, @jupias, @dima-lfc # warnings: cursing, enemies to lovers, blind date trope # chapter inspo: W1LL U L13 by SAILORR

The bass line thumped through your chest as you adjusted the headphones, eyes closed, completely lost in the rhythm that had been haunting you for weeks. The melody was there—sultry, hypnotic, begging to be turned into something that would make people stop everything they were doing and just feel. But the words? The fucking words were being stubborn as hell.

"Y/N," your producer's voice crackled through the intercom, pulling you back to the present. "That's a wrap for today. You've been at it for six hours straight."

You opened your eyes, blinking against the soft lighting of the Madrid studio you'd been calling home for the past month. The city had become your temporary sanctuary while you worked on your sophomore album—far enough from Brussels to give you space to breathe, close enough to everything that mattered in the European music scene.

"Just give me ten more minutes," you said into the mic, knowing damn well ten minutes would turn into two hours if he let you.

"Nah, you're done. Go eat something that isn't from a vending machine."

You laughed despite yourself, pulling off the headphones and stretching arms that had been cramped over the keyboard for way too long. Madrid had been good to you—the energy here was different, more vibrant than the structured perfection of Brussels or the calculated chaos of Paris. Here, you could disappear into the music without someone constantly asking about your "brand" or your "next career move."

Your phone buzzed against the mixing board. A text from your brother, naturally, because he had some kind of sixth sense about when you'd been working too hard.

Keem: how's the hermit life treating you?

You: perfectly, thanks. no annoying little brothers bothering me every five minutes

Keem: speaking of annoying... brice wants to know if you're free tomorrow night

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. Brice Tchaga—your brother's boss at the barbershop, occasional pain in your ass, and apparently self-appointed matchmaker since you'd moved to Madrid.

You: tell brice i'm busy

Keem: with what? sitting in a studio talking to yourself?

You: it's called WORKING marcus. some of us have careers

Keem: some of us also have lives outside of work

Keem: seriously though, he thinks you'd really like this guy

You: hard pass. you know how i feel about setups

And you did. You'd made your feelings about blind dates very clear after the disaster that was your last relationship. Some aspiring rapper from Antwerp who'd thought dating you would be his ticket to industry connections. Three months of your life you'd never get back, spent with someone who saw you as a networking opportunity rather than a person.

Your phone rang before you could type another rejection.

"I'm not changing my mind," you said without preamble.

"Hear me out," Brice's voice came through, smooth as always. You could practically hear him smirking. "This isn't some random dude I found on the street."

"Oh great, so he's a random dude you found in your chair. Much better."

"He's a footballer."

"Even worse." You started packing up your things, already mentally planning your evening of takeout and Netflix. "You know how I feel about athletes, Brice."

"This one's different."

"They're all different until they're exactly the same." You'd had this conversation before. Athletes were a hard no for you—too much ego, too much attention, too many options. They collected women like boots, and you weren't interested in being anyone's brief, brand-new pair.

"He's not what you think—"

"Let me guess. He's 'not like other guys,' right? He's 'looking for something real'?" You shouldered your bag, heading for the studio exit. "Save it. I've heard it all before."

"Y/N, come on. When's the last time you went on an actual date?"

The question hit a little too close to home. The truth was, it had been months. Maybe longer. Between touring, recording, and the general chaos of your career, dating had fallen somewhere between "learning Italian" and "reorganizing your closet" on your priority list.

"That's not the point," you said, pushing through the studio doors into the warm Madrid evening. "I'm not looking to waste my time with some guy who thinks his bank account is a personality trait."

"This guy's not like that."

"You said that about the last one."

"The last one was an accident. This one's different, I swear."

You stopped walking, something in Brice's tone making you pause. "Different how?"

"Different like... he doesn't really date. Like, at all. Dude's basically a monk with a football."

That was... unexpected. In your experience, famous athletes were usually the opposite of monastic. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing's wrong with him! Jesus, Y/N, not every man is damaged goods."

"The famous ones usually are."

"Look," Brice sighed, and you could hear the sound of clippers in the background. "Just meet him for dinner. One meal. If you hate him, I'll never set you up again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You considered this. One dinner in exchange for permanent freedom from Brice's matchmaking attempts? That was actually a pretty good deal.

"Fine," you said finally. "One dinner. But if he shows up in designer everything and starts talking about his car collection, I'm leaving."

"Deal. Tomorrow, eight p.m. I'll text you the details."

"This better not be some fancy place where I need to dress up."

"Would I do that to you?"

"You once tried to set me up with a guy who brought his personal photographer to document our date."

"That was ONE TIME."

You laughed despite yourself. "Text me the address, Brice. And this better not be a disaster."

"It won't be. I got a good feeling about this one."

You hung up and immediately regretted agreeing. The last thing you needed was another awkward dinner with some athlete who'd spend the entire time talking about himself. But a promise was a promise, and at least you'd get a good meal out of it.

Your apartment in Madrid's Salamanca district was a far cry from the chaos of your Brussels flat. Here, everything was all warm colors, a space that actually felt like home instead of just somewhere to keep your stuff. You'd fallen in love with the neighborhood's tree-lined streets and quiet charm—a perfect contrast to the energy of the studios where you spent most of your time.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and settled onto the couch, your phone buzzing with a text from Brice.

Brice: reservations at ramón freixa madrid, 8pm tomorrow. wear something nice

You nearly choked on your wine. Ramón Freixa? That was a Michelin-starred restaurant. Either this guy was seriously loaded, or Brice was trying way too hard to impress you.

You: are you INSANE?

Brice: he insisted. said he wanted to make a good first impression

You: or he's trying to show off

Brice: maybe just... give him a chance?

You stared at your phone, already feeling the familiar knot of anxiety in your stomach. Fancy restaurants meant expectations. Expectations meant pressure. Pressure meant disaster.

But you'd already agreed, and backing out now would mean months of Brice guilt-tripping you about wasting his friend's time.

You: if this goes badly, i'm sending you the therapy bills

Brice: fair enough

********************************************************

Standing in front of your closet, you realized you had absolutely nothing appropriate for dinner. Everything was either too casual, too sexy, or screamed "I'm trying too hard."

You finally settled on a black midi dress that managed to be elegant without being overstated, paired with heels that added just enough height to make you feel confident. Your soft curls fell perfectly around your shoulders after an hour of careful styling, and you'd kept your makeup simple—you wanted to look nice, not like you were performing.

The ride to the restaurant gave you time to rehearse your escape plan. One course, maybe two if he was particularly boring, then you'd claim an early morning meeting and disappear. Simple, clean, efficient.

Ramón Freixa Madrid was exactly as intimidating as you'd expected—all sleek surfaces and ambient lighting, the kind of place where people spoke in hushed tones and the silverware probably cost more than your car. You felt overdressed and underdressed simultaneously, which was a special kind of anxiety you'd forgotten existed.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," the hostess greeted you in perfect French, probably recognizing your Belgian accent. "Table for two?"

"I'm meeting someone. The reservation should be under..." You paused, realizing you had no idea what name the reservation was under. "Actually, I'm not sure. My friend set it up."

"Ah, you must be Y/N. Right this way."

She led you through the restaurant to a quiet corner table where a man sat with his back to you, scrolling through his phone. Dark hair cut in a perfect fade with waves on top, broad shoulders filling out what looked like an expensive shirt, the kind of posture that suggested either supreme confidence or complete boredom.

When he looked up, you nearly stopped walking.

Because sitting at your table, looking just as surprised to see you as you were to see him, was Kylian Mbappé.

Shit.

You knew that face—everyone knew that face. But more than that, you remembered him. Vaguely. Some event in Paris last year, maybe? You'd been introduced in passing, exchanged maybe five words before getting pulled in different directions. He'd seemed nice enough, polite, but you'd been too busy being annoyed by the pretentious art gallery crowd to pay much attention.

Now, seeing him again, you realized your mistake. Because Kylian Mbappé was gorgeous in the way that made your brain temporarily forget how to form coherent sentences. Sharp jawline, expressive eyes, and a dimpled smile that suggested he found something about this situation amusing.

Double shit.

"Y/N?" He stood as you approached, and you were struck by how tall he was. Your heels put you at a decent height, but he still had several inches on you.

"Kylian." You accepted the hand he offered, trying to ignore the way his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary. "Small world."

"Very small," he agreed, that slight accent making the words sound warmer than they probably were. "Please, sit."

The hostess pulled out your chair, and you settled across from him, acutely aware that this had just become infinitely more complicated. This wasn't just some random footballer Brice had found—this was Kylian fucking Mbappé. Real Madrid's golden boy. One of the most famous athletes in the world.

And he was your blind date.

"So," you said, reaching for your water glass because you needed something to do with your hands. "I'm guessing you didn't know it was me either?"

"Brice was... vague about the details." Kylian's smile was wry. "He just said he knew someone who might be interesting."

"Interesting. That's one way to put it."

"You disagree?"

You considered this, studying his face for any sign of the arrogance you'd expected. Instead, you found something that looked almost like curiosity. "I think Brice has a weird sense of humor."

"Maybe." Kylian flagged down a waiter, switching effortlessly to Spanish. "Wine? Or are you one of those people who doesn't drink on first dates?"

"I drink. But this isn't really a date, is it? It's more like... an ambush."

He laughed, and the sound was warm, genuine. "An ambush. I like that." The waiter approached, and Kylian rattled off something in rapid Spanish that sounded expensive. "You speak Spanish?"

"Enough to get by. French, Dutch, English, a little Spanish. Job requirement."

"Right, you're a singer."

The way he said it wasn't dismissive exactly, but there was something in his tone that made you bristle slightly. "I am."

"I heard your last album. It was... nice."

Nice. You'd won three awards for that album, including Best French-Language Album at the European Music Awards, and he thought it was nice.

"Nice," you repeated, taking a sip of the wine he'd ordered. It was, predictably, excellent. "Wow, don't oversell it."

"I mean it as a compliment."

"Do you? Because 'nice' is what you say about your grandma's soup, not about someone's art."

Something shifted in his expression—amusement, maybe? "What would you want me to say?"

"How about honest? Did you actually listen to it, or are you just making conversation?"

Kylian leaned back in his chair, studying you with those dark eyes. "I listened to it. The whole thing. Twice, actually."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what did you actually think? Not the polite, first-date version. The real version."

He was quiet for a moment, considering. "I thought it was really well done but... safe."

The words hit harder than they should have, probably because there was truth in them. Your first album had been carefully crafted, designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience without offending anyone or taking too many risks.

"Wow," you said, raising your glass in mock salute. "Tell me how you really feel."

"You asked for honest."

"I did." You took another sip of wine, reassessing. "Most people just tell me what they think I want to hear."

"Most people probably haven't heard what you sound like when you're not trying to please everyone."

That made you pause. "And you have?"

"I heard you at some party last year. You were drunk and singing along to some song I didn't know. You had your eyes closed, totally lost in it." He paused, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features. "That was the first time I actually heard you sing."

You remembered that night—vaguely. Some after-party following a fashion show, too much champagne, and a karaoke machine that had appeared from nowhere. You'd thought no one was paying attention.

"You were watching me?"

"Everyone was watching you. But I don't think you noticed."

The admission hung between you, heavier than it should have been. You'd been so focused on hating the idea of this date that you hadn't considered the possibility that he might actually be... interesting.

"So what's your deal?" you asked, deflecting.

"My deal?"

"Yeah. Brice said you don't date."

Kylian's laugh was dry. "I don't. Usually."

"But?"

"But he was very persuasive. And persistent."

"Join the club." You studied his face, looking for cracks in the facade. "What's the real reason? Because 'persistent friend' doesn't explain why one of the most famous footballers in the world agreed to a blind date with someone he barely knows."

He was quiet for a long moment, twirling his wine glass between his fingers. "Maybe I was curious."

"About?"

"About you. About what kind of person says no to being set up like five times before finally saying yes."

"Who says I said no five times?"

"Brice. He's been trying to make this happen for months."

Months? You were going to kill Brice. "He never mentioned that."

"He thought you might run if you knew how long he'd been planning this."

"He was right." You leaned back, reassessing everything. "So this whole thing was like... a setup?"

"More like a really long game."

Despite yourself, you were almost impressed. "And you went along with it?"

"Eventually." Kylian's smile was self-deprecating. "He showed me your Instagram."

"My Instagram?" You tried to remember what you'd posted recently. Mostly studio shots and random observations about Madrid. Nothing particularly revealing.

"You posted a video of yourself trying to figure out the metro. You were completely lost, getting more and more frustrated, and instead of asking for help, you just kept staring at the map like it was gonna magically make sense."

You remembered that day. You'd been late for a meeting and too proud to admit you had no idea where you were going.

"That made you want to ask me out?"

"That made me want to meet the person who'd rather be lost than ask a stranger for directions."

"That's not charming, that's stubborn."

"Maybe. But it's real."

The waiter appeared with the first course, giving you a moment to process. Real. There was that word again, the one that seemed to keep coming up in conversations about relationships you didn't want to have.

"So," you said, cutting into what looked like the most expensive appetizer you'd ever seen. "What's your story? Why doesn't Kylian Mbappé date?"

"Who says I don't?"

"Brice. Also, the internet. Also, the complete lack of any public relationships in the past... ever."

"Maybe I'm just private."

"Or maybe you're too busy, too focused, or too scared of getting close to people." You took a bite, savoring flavors you couldn't identify. "My money's on all three."

"You don't know me well enough to say that."

"Don't I? You're twenty-six, probably haven't had a serious relationship since you got famous, and you definitely have trust issues when it comes to people's reasons for wanting to be with you."

The accuracy of your guess was written all over his face.

"That obvious?"

"To someone who's been there? Yeah." You set down your fork, meeting his gaze. "The difference is, I actually learned from my mistakes."

"Which means?"

"Which means I don't date athletes."

Kylian's eyebrows rose. "At all?"

"At all. No footballers, no basketball players, no tennis players. Nobody whose job involves being worshipped by thousands of people on a regular basis."

"That's pretty specific."

"That's pretty necessary." You reached for your wine again, needing the liquid courage for what you were about to say. "I don't do flings, Kylian. I don't do casual. I don't do 'let's see where this goes' while you keep your options open."

"What do you do?"

"I want what my parents have. Twenty-seven years of marriage, and my dad still brings my mom flowers every Friday. He takes her on dates, writes her little notes, remembers every anniversary including the day they first danced." You could hear the wistfulness in your own voice. "That's love. Real love. Not this modern bullshit where everyone's scared to actually commit to anything."

Kylian was quiet, studying you with an expression you couldn't read.

"And you think athletes can't do that?"

"I think athletes are used to having everything handed to them. I think they're used to people saying yes without question. And I think they get bored easily because there's always someone new throwing themselves at them."

"That's a lot of assumptions."

"Based on what I've seen."

"What have you seen?"

The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you actually dated an athlete? Or are you going off stories and shit you've heard?"

You opened your mouth to answer, then closed it. The truth was, you hadn't. Your ex had been an aspiring rapper, not an athlete. Your assumptions were based on stories, gossip, and a general cynicism about fame that you'd developed over the years.

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

"Why?"

"Because maybe you're wrong."

The confidence in his voice was irritating. "You think I'm wrong about athletes being players?"

"I think you're wrong about me."

"Am I? Because I heard you're pretty cheap and selfish when it comes to women."

The words were out before you could stop them, sharper than you'd intended. Kylian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Around. Girls talk, you know."

"And what exactly do they say?"

You'd crossed a line, but you were too committed to back down now. "That you're not exactly generous. That you do the bare minimum and expect them to be grateful."

Kylian set down his wine glass, leaning forward slightly. "And you believe that?"

"I dunno you well enough to believe or not believe anything. But if multiple people are saying the same thing..."

"Maybe they have a reason to say it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe I'm only cheap and selfish when there's a reason to be."

You scoffed. "What reason could there possibly be for treating someone like shit?"

"How about when they're only interested in what you can buy them?"

The words hung between you, loaded with implication.

"So you test them? By being cheap?"

"I pay attention. There's a difference."

"Enlighten me."

Kylian leaned back, considering his words. "You wanna know what a gift is to me?" He made air quotes around the word 'gift,' his expression almost mocking. "Tell me what a gift is to you."

"What?"

"You seem to have strong opinions about being generous. So tell me—what's a proper gift?"

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks warm. "Fine. Flowers. Not just any flowers—ones that you actually thought about. Perfume that you think would smell good on me specifically, not just whatever's most expensive. Jewelry that looks good with my skin tone." You paused, then added with deliberate boldness, "Lingerie that shows you've been paying attention to what I like."

Kylian's expression was unreadable. "So... things that require actually thinking."

"Things that require actually giving a damn about the person you're with."

"And you think I don't do that?"

"I think you probably have your assistant buy generic expensive shit and call it romance."

"You have a pretty low opinion of someone you barely know."

"You have a pretty high opinion of yourself for someone who just admitted to testing women by being cheap."

The waiter appeared with the second course, the tension at the table thick enough to cut. You both fell silent, focusing on your food while the conversation replayed in your head.

You were being unfair, and you knew it. But something about Kylian made you defensive, made you want to poke at him until you found a crack in his composure. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he could see right through your carefully constructed walls. Maybe it was the fact that he was nothing like what you'd expected.

Or maybe it was the fact that you were actually attracted to him, which was definitely not part of the plan.

"Can I ask you something?" Kylian's voice was quieter now, less challenging.

"Sure."

"Why did you really agree to this?"

The question surprised you with its directness. "Brice promised to stop setting me up if I gave this one shot."

"That's the only reason?"

You considered lying, but something in his expression made you reconsider. "I haven't been on a date in eight months."

"Why not?"

"Because..." You struggled for the right words. "Because I'm tired of pretending that casual is enough. I'm tired of men who think buying dinner means I owe them something. I'm tired of having to guard myself all the time because everyone wants something from me."

"What do they want?"

"Connections. Status. To say they dated someone famous." You took a sip of wine, surprised by your own honesty. "What about you? Why did you really agree to this?"

Kylian was quiet for a long moment. "Because I'm tired of women who see me as a prize to be won."

"So we're both tired."

"Yeah."

"This is going great," you said dryly.

"Is it not?"

You looked at him—really looked at him. The fresh fade, the perfect waves on top, the expensive clothes, the kind of bone structure that photographers probably fought wars over. He was beautiful in an almost aggressive way, the kind of beautiful that made smart women do stupid things.

"You're really attractive," you said finally.

"Thank you?"

"That wasn't a compliment. That was an observation. Attractive men are dangerous."

"How so?"

"Because they make you forget why you have rules in the first place."

Kylian's smile was slow, dangerous, and showed his dimples. "Are you forgetting your rules?"

"No." The lie came too quickly. "I'm just... observing."

"What else are you observing?"

That his laugh was warmer than expected. That he had calluses on his hands despite being rich enough to never work a day in his life. That he listened when you talked instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. That the way he said your name made something in your chest tighten.

"That this was a mistake," you said instead.

"Was it?"

"Yes. Because now I have to text Brice and tell him his friend is an arrogant ass who thinks he can figure out women he just met."

"Is that what you're gonna tell him?"

"And other things."

"What other things?"

You signaled for the check, already mentally composing the message you'd send Brice later. "That you're exactly what I expected. That you're too used to getting your way. That you think your fame makes you more interesting than you actually are."

None of it was true, which made saying it easier.

Kylian didn't argue, just watched as you gathered your purse. "The night doesn't have to end like this."

"Yes, it does. Because this—" you gestured between the two of you, "—was never gonna work."

"Why not?"

"Because you're Kylian Mbappé, and I'm not interested in being another name on your list."

"What if you're not?"

"What if I am?"

You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Thanks for dinner. It was... nice."

"Y/N."

Something in the way he said your name made you pause.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think Brice was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"You are interesting."

The compliment shouldn't have affected you the way it did, but you felt it settle somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome.

"Goodbye, Kylian."

You walked away without looking back, your heels clicking against the marble floor with more confidence than you felt. Outside, the Madrid night was warm and full of possibility, but all you could think about was the way Kylian had looked at you when you'd listed what made a real gift.

Like he was taking notes.

Your phone buzzed as you slipped into the taxi.

Brice: how did it go?

You stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back:

You: it didn't. don't ever do that again.

Brice: that bad?

You: worse. kylian is awful and i never want to see him again.

It was a lie, but it was a necessary one. Because the truth—that Kylian Mbappé was nothing like what you'd expected, that he'd managed to get under your skin in the span of two hours, that you were already wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed—was too dangerous to admit.

Even to yourself.

Back at your apartment, you poured another glass of wine and tried to forget the way he'd said your name. Like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

But that was the problem with attractive men, wasn't it? They made you believe things that weren't true.

And you'd learned that lesson already.

**********************************************************

Kylian sat in the now eerily quiet restaurant, staring at the empty chair across from him where Y/N had been sitting just moments before. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air—something warm and sophisticated that he couldn't quite place but knew he'd probably never forget.

He'd been left at tables before. Hell, he'd done his fair share of leaving tables when dates got weird or boring or started asking about his salary within the first ten minutes. But this? This was different. This felt like he'd just watched something slip through his fingers before he'd even had a chance to figure out what it was.

"Everything alright, sir?" The waiter appeared at his elbow, eyeing the untouched second course on Y/N's side of the table.

"Yeah," Kylian said, though nothing felt alright. "Can I get the check?"

The waiter nodded, probably used to dealing with awkward dinner situations in a place like this. Kylian pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through notifications while he waited. A few messages from teammates, some Instagram mentions, the usual bullshit that filled his evenings. But his mind kept drifting back to the conversation.

You're exactly what I expected.

The words stung more than they should have. Because the truth was, Y/N wasn't what he'd expected at all. He'd been prepared for another starry-eyed fan or someone who'd spend the whole night taking pictures for Instagram. Instead, he'd gotten someone who'd looked him dead in the eye and told him his music taste was basic.

Someone who'd called him cheap and selfish to his face.

Someone who'd made him want to prove her wrong.

The check arrived, and Kylian barely glanced at it before dropping his card on the table. The amount was stupid—enough to feed a family for a month—but he'd stopped caring about restaurant prices years ago. Money was just numbers on a screen now, meaningless in the way that everything became meaningless when you had too much of it.

But Y/N's comment about gifts kept replaying in his head. Flowers that you actually thought about. Perfume that you think would smell good on me specifically. She'd said it like it was some revolutionary concept, like most men were idiots who couldn't be bothered to pay attention.

Maybe they were. Maybe he was.

The truth was, he couldn't remember the last time he'd bought a woman a gift that wasn't suggested by his assistant or picked up from whatever high-end store was closest to his apartment. When you could afford anything, everything started to feel the same. Generic. Safe.

Boring.

Just like Y/N had said his music taste was.

His phone buzzed as he signed the receipt.

Brice: how did it go?

Kylian stared at the message for a long moment. How had it gone? He'd managed to insult a Grammy-nominated singer's artistic choices, get called cheap and selfish, and watch her walk out on him before dessert. By most measures, it had been a disaster.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about the way she'd laughed when he'd made that comment about her Instagram story? Or how her eyes had lit up when she'd talked about her parents' marriage? Or the way she'd leaned forward when she was making a point, like she was physically fighting to make him understand?

Kylian: she left

Brice: WHAT

Brice: what did you do???

Kylian almost smiled at that. Trust Brice to assume it was his fault. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

Kylian: told her she played it safe with her music

Brice: you WHAT

Brice: bro are you insane???

Kylian: she asked for honesty

Brice: there's honesty and then there's stupidity

Brice: y/n just texted saying you're awful and she never wants to see you again

That hit harder than expected. Kylian set his phone face down on the table, not wanting to see Brice's inevitable follow-up messages about how he'd fucked up the one good thing Brice had tried to do for him.

The restaurant was starting to empty out, couples finishing their romantic dinners and heading home to whatever came next. Kylian watched a man help his girlfriend into her coat, the gesture casual and intimate in a way that made something twist in his chest. When was the last time he'd done something like that? Something simple and thoughtful without thinking about cameras or headlines or who might be watching?

His phone buzzed again.

Brice: she said you're exactly what she expected

Brice: that you think your fame makes you more interesting than you are

Brice: and that you're an arrogant ass

Kylian picked up his phone, reading the messages with a growing sense of frustration. Not at Brice, but at himself. Because Y/N was wrong about some things, but she wasn't wrong about everything. He had gotten comfortable with people saying yes to him. He had stopped trying to be interesting because his name did the work for him.

But she'd been interesting. Challenging. Real in a way that most people in his life weren't anymore.

Kylian: did she say anything else?

Brice: like what?

Kylian: i dunno. anything.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before Brice's response came through.

Brice: she said it was educational

Kylian: what's that supposed to mean?

Brice: probably that she learned everything she needed to know about dating athletes

Brice: dude i'm sorry. i really thought you two would click

Kylian pushed back from the table, gathering his jacket. The restaurant felt too warm suddenly, too close. He needed air, space to think without the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

Outside, Madrid's night air was crisp and clear, the city humming with energy even at this late hour. He could go home, pour himself a drink, and pretend this had never happened. Write it off as another failed setup, another reminder of why he didn't date and just fucked around instead.

Or...

Kylian: i want to see her again

His phone rang almost immediately.

"You what?" Brice's voice was incredulous.

"I want to see her again," Kylian repeated, walking toward where his driver was waiting.

"Bro, she literally said you're awful."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time."

"And you want to see her again because...?"

Kylian paused at his car, considering the question. Why did he want to see her again? Because she'd challenged him? Because she'd looked at him like he was just another guy instead of Kylian Mbappé? Because she'd made him want to be better than the person she thought he was?

"Because she's not wrong," he said finally.

"About what?"

"About me being exactly what she expected. But I don't want to be."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Kylian," Brice said carefully, "she's not gonna agree to another date. Not after tonight."

"Then I'll have to change her mind."

"How?"

"I dunno yet. But I will."

Brice sighed. "You know she doesn't date athletes, right? Like, at all. It's not personal, it's just a hard rule for her."

"Rules can be broken."

"Not hers. Trust me, I've been trying to set her up for months and she's turned down everyone. You're literally the last person she agreed to meet, and only because I promised to stop if she gave it one shot."

That gave Kylian pause. If Y/N had such a strict no-athletes policy, why had she agreed to meet him? Even reluctantly?

"She was curious," he said, more to himself than to Brice.

"What?"

"She was curious about me. Otherwise she wouldn't have agreed at all."

"Dude, she agreed because she wanted me to stop bothering her."

"Maybe. But she stayed for two hours. If she really hated the idea of being there, she would've left after twenty minutes."

Kylian slid into the backseat of his car, his mind already working through possibilities. Y/N thought he was generic, predictable, exactly what she'd expected from a famous athlete. Which meant surprising her would be key.

But how do you surprise someone who's already decided you're not worth her time?

"Kylian," Brice's voice was cautious now. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking she told me exactly what kind of gifts she likes."

"So?"

"So maybe it's time I stopped being cheap and selfish."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"You're really gonna do this," Brice said finally. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. I am."

"Even though she said she never wants to see you again?"

"Especially because she said that."

Brice laughed, but it sounded more worried than amused. "You know you're probably gonna make a fool of yourself, right?"

"Probably."

"And she's probably gonna shut you down hard."

"Probably."

"And I'm probably gonna have to deal with her being pissed at me for giving you her information."

"Definitely."

Another pause.

"Alright," Brice said with resignation. "But when this goes badly, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Noted."

"And Kylian?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be an idiot about this. She's not like the other girls you've dated. She's got walls for a reason."

The call ended, leaving Kylian alone with his thoughts as the car wound through Madrid's streets. Brice was right—this was probably a terrible idea. Y/N had made her feelings pretty clear, and he had a track record of making things worse when he tried too hard.

But something about tonight felt different. Important. Like maybe this was the first real conversation he'd had in months, even if it had ended with her walking away.

His phone buzzed with a text.

Unknown Number: thank you for dinner. despite everything, the food was excellent.

Kylian stared at the message, his heart doing something weird in his chest. She'd texted him. After telling Brice she never wanted to see him again, she'd texted him.

It was polite, distant, probably the kind of message she'd send to any dinner companion. But she'd sent it.

Kylian: you're welcome. sorry if i was...

He deleted the message before sending it. Started typing again.

Kylian: glad you enjoyed it. maybe next time i'll let you pick the place

Delete. Try again.

Kylian: the company could've been better

Delete. Definitely delete.

Finally, he settled on something simple.

Kylian: you're welcome. goodnight, Y/N.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately regretted it. Too familiar? Not familiar enough? Why was texting suddenly so complicated?

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N: you too.

Two words. Barely a response. But she'd responded.

Kylian leaned back in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. Y/N thought she had him figured out, thought he was just another predictable athlete who'd give up at the first sign of resistance.

She was about to learn how wrong she was.

Because if there was one thing Kylian knew how to do, it was win. And he'd never wanted to win anything more than he wanted to change Y/N's mind about him.

Even if it killed him.

The car pulled up to his villa, and Kylian sat for a moment, staring up at the lights in the windows above. Somewhere across the city, Y/N was probably already forgetting about him, writing off the evening as exactly what she'd expected.

But he wasn't going to forget about her. Not the way she'd looked when she'd talked about real love. Not the way she'd challenged every assumption he'd made about the evening. Not the way she'd made him want to be someone worth her time.

His phone buzzed one more time as he rode the elevator to his floor.

Brice: just so you know, her favorite flowers are peonies. white ones specifically. her mom grows them in brussels.

Brice: and before you ask, no i'm not helping you anymore than that. you're on your own from here.

Kylian smiled, saving the message. Peonies. White ones.

It was a start.

........................tbd

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

No Reservations - Chapter eight

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: ummmm i fear i made natalie too hot asf in this fic send help

Charlotte stood in front of her floor-length mirror, hair perfectly slicked, collar sharp, suit immaculate, and heart in full-blown crisis mode.

She cleared her throat. “You look beautiful tonight,” she tried. Then immediately shook her head. “No. Weird. Too much.”

Across the room, Lena sat on the couch in her blazer and jeans, reviewing something on her tablet with the expression of someone unbothered by melodrama in any form.

Charlotte tried again. “I'm glad you came. I'm—uh—I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

“Mm,” Lena murmured, not looking up. “Romantic. Almost as good as a car commercial.”

Charlotte shot her a look. “You are no help.”

“I’m not here to help you flirt. I’m here to make sure you don’t combust before dessert.”

Charlotte took a breath, turned back to the mirror. “Okay. How about this—‘I’ve never brought anyone to one of these things before, so… I’m glad it’s you.’” She frowned. “No. Too obvious.”

Lena blinked. “I think you vastly overestimate how subtle you are.”

Charlotte ignored her. “Maybe I keep it light. Make a joke. Something about her shoes? Her dress? No. That’s… dangerous territory.”

“She’s going to know you like her the second you open your mouth,” Lena said plainly. “That’s not a criticism. Just…a fact.”

Charlotte ran a hand down her blazer. “Is this a mistake? What if she thinks it’s a power play?”

“She’s not an idiot,” Lena replied. “And you didn’t ambush her. You asked like a normal human person. She said yes.”

Charlotte looked at her, eyes wide. “She said yes.”

“Yes, Charlotte,” Lena said, tapping her stylus like a gavel. “She said yes. She is expecting you. Probably dressed. Possibly even excited. And unless you want to be late to the first decent thing you've done for yourself in two years, I suggest you stop over-rehearsing and get in the car.”

Charlotte paused. Then nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Right. Okay.”

Lena stood, grabbing her tablet and coat. “And for the record?”

Charlotte turned.

“You don’t need a perfect line. Just be kind. Be real. And stop practicing in the mirror like you're auditioning for a period drama.”

Charlotte laughed, nerves bubbling beneath it. “You really think I can do this?”

Lena opened the door. “You already are.”

Charlotte hesitated for half a second, then grabbed her coat and followed.

Tonight was happening.

Charlotte checked her reflection in the car window for the third time, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her pantsuit. Her driver had just texted that he’d pulled up outside your building, and her heart was hammering with the intensity of someone about to accept an award—not pick up her date.

Not a date. A guest. A professional guest. A wildly attractive, infuriating, formerly entangled guest in a red—The door opened.

Charlotte looked up and forgot every word of English she’d ever known.

You stood at the curb in a strappy, red silk dress that shimmered under the streetlights like the kind of sin that belonged in whispered prayers. Your curls were pinned loosely, a few wild pieces grazing your shoulders, and your expression was equal parts amused and curious as you tilted your head.

“You gonna make me stand out here, Matthews?” you teased, one brow raised.

Charlotte blinked, mouth partially open, words doing somersaults in her throat. “You look—uh—I mean—wow.”

You smirked and stepped into the car with practiced grace, the silk of your dress catching the light as you settled into the seat beside her. “You okay there, Lottie?”

Charlotte practically short-circuited. God. That nickname. It still hit like a sucker punch to the chest.

“I’m fine,” she managed, trying not to combust on the spot. “You just… clean up well.”

You grinned, clearly amused by her choice of words. “You say that like you haven’t seen me in chef whites covered in chili oil and fish sauce.”

“I liked you then, too,” Charlotte said before she could stop herself, then immediately looked horrified. “Professionally, of course.”

“Mmhm,” you replied, utterly unbothered, turning slightly to face her. “So what’s the deal with this event? Are we charming billionaires? Eating endangered fish? What’s the vibe?”

Charlotte let out a shaky breath, thankful for the pivot. “It’s a Matthews Group Foundation gala. Mostly investors and PR people. Fancy speeches. Silent auction. Tiny desserts on slate tiles. You know.”

“Ah, so high society cosplay. Got it.”

Charlotte laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night. “Exactly.”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting. “Do I get to dance with the boss tonight, or is that strictly prohibited by the bylaws of the Matthews Group?”

Charlotte, still flustered but now leaning into it, replied, “I think I can make an exception.”

You both smiled, the kind that settled warm in the chest. And for the rest of the ride, something unspoken sparkled in the space between them—a shared rhythm falling into step, the old chemistry humming quietly beneath the surface.

By the time you both pulled up to the event, Charlotte had found her footing again. She stepped out of the car and turned back, offering her hand.

You took it, eyes never leaving hers. “Lead the way, Lottie.”

And Charlotte did—heart thudding, cheeks flushed, but for the first time in ages, she was actually excited for what the night at this boring ass event might bring.

The ballroom glittered like a fever dream—gold-draped chandeliers, a soft quartet humming in the corner, servers weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne and miniature hors d’oeuvres that looked too pretty to eat.

Charlotte hadn’t left your side since they stepped through the doors.

She introduced you to every investor, creative director, and industry giant in a five-foot radius with a hand hovering at the small of your back and a subtle confidence in her voice. “This is the chef I’ve been telling you about—she’s a key part of the flagship launch. Absolute culinary genius.”

Each time Charlotte said it, you smiled and deflected with what you hoped would sound like humble charm. Though you were sure it sounded awful like being way in over your head.

Well because you were.

“I burn toast when I’m stressed. Don’t let her hype fool you.” You joked.

But Charlotte beamed each time like there was no exaggeration in the praise. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You both were magnetic together—one sharp-edged and elegant in a tailored navy suit, the other radiant in red silk and pure charisma. People noticed. Whispers followed them like perfume.

When Charlotte was finally pulled away by Lena, who leaned in and reminded her—dryly, as always—that the donors were waiting for her opening remarks, she groaned but excused herself with a soft “I’ll be right back, don’t disappear.”

You promised you wouldn’t. And meant it. Until you turned, champagne in hand, and nearly dropped the damn flute.

Natalie Scatorccio was standing five feet away in an all-black suit that fit her like a glove, one hand in her pocket, the other swirling her champagne flute with the smug elegance of someone who knew she looked dangerous.

Your face went red instantly. “Holy shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Natalie’s smirk deepened, slow and amused. “Well, well. I was wondering if that was you. Couldn’t miss the dress—or the company you came in with.”

You blinked, a sudden wave of queasiness hitting you flat. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I got an invite,” Natalie said easily, tilting her glass in a mock toast. “Turns out the car company I consult for has some deep ties with the Matthews Group. I didn’t realize you were one of the VIPs.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, heart thudding. “Charlotte just… brought me.”

“I gathered.” Natalie’s eyes flicked briefly toward the podium where Charlotte was now thanking the crowd, glowing under the soft lights. “She looks good. Corporate. Stiff.”

You scowled. “Don’t be an ass.”

Natalie smiled, unaffected. “Old habits.”

A moment passed. Natalie sipped her champagne, and you were very aware of how your skin still flushed under Natalie’s gaze like muscle memory. Like your body had forgotten this was no longer normal. And Natalie knew it—leaning in just a little, letting the silence stretch before saying softly, “You look good, too, by the way.”

Your breath caught. You shifted your eyes away from her gaze, and growing smirk.

“And if I’d known you were going to be here,” Natalie added, stepping back with an infuriating wink, “I would’ve worn red to match.”

Natalie’s eyes dragged down the length of you, slow and deliberate, as she swirled her champagne again.

“Red,” she murmured. “Still my favorite color.”

Fuck. You forgot about that. Part of why she always wore that damn red lace bra. The one you adored seeing her in. You swallowed hard.

Crossing your arms, trying to look unaffected. “That’s not why I wore it.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s nice to pretend you did.” Natalie’s grin turned lopsided, the kind that used to unravel you without even trying. “You always did look dangerous in silk.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but Natalie stepped in closer, her voice dipping lower.

“So, you and Charlotte, huh?” Her tone was playful but the edge was sharp, like she was feeling out a bruise just to see if it still hurt. “Didn’t peg you for the corporate type, but… I guess I can see where you’d fall for that.”

You exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Nat. Still jealous of anything with a pulse?”

Natalie didn’t blink. “Only when they get to see you in that dress and out of it and I don’t.”

That landed with a weight neither of them wanted to name. You shifted and sighed, and then Natalie’s hand is soft on your arm, almost featherlight.

“Heard about your aunt Rosa…I’m glad she’s doing better.” She says gently.

You snapped your eyes to her. She had this shy genuine look, almost out of place with her previous bravado. You let out a breathy laugh of surprise.

Forgetting that Natalie…still talked to your uncle. Still was known by your family. Despite your breakup was still beloved by your family. And that she cared deeply for them.

You were all she had.

Your heart softened, at the thought and you sighed. Trying to find a standing in the conversation that doesn’t make you fold for the girl. “Oh yeah, thanks she’s doing good. She gave us a scare with the surgery…but you know her she’s too stubborn to really be pushed around by a stroke. And she’s been told to lighten up on the butter.” You say with a small smile.

Natalie laughs, and then holds your gaze. It’s so soft and familiar. You swallow hard. Fuck. You glanced toward the podium where Charlotte was just stepping down, the applause still ringing behind her. You felt like you were standing between two very different fires. And you couldn’t decide which one was more dangerous.

“I thought you were in Texas,” you muttered, trying to redirect, to get your bearings. “You said you’d be there all week.”

Natalie raised her brows, amused. “Wow. You remembered my schedule, babe. Touching.”

You rolled your eyes, a frown slipping on your lips. “Stop.”

“I mean it. I’m flattered.” Natalie took a sip. “But yeah. Technically still am in Texas. Just flew in for tonight. There’s client meeting tomorrow. Flight’s at five a.m., which is either reckless or impressive, depending on how sentimental you want to get about me crashing a black-tie gala.”

You shook your head confused and blinked. “You crashed this?”

“Please,” Natalie scoffed. “I got an invite. I just wasn’t supposed to stay this long.”

You chuckled, knowing exactly why she stayed. And there it was. You felt your armor slip. With that one damn comment. She would always be that aloof careless girl you met all those years ago.

You shook your head, biting back a smile you didn’t want to have. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Natalie tipped her glass toward you again, eyes still tracing your face like she was trying to memorize it. “But I meant what I said. You look good. Really good.”

Before you could respond—or crumble—Charlotte’s voice cut through the crowd behind you, calling your name. And it felt more like a siren, like an abrupt reminder to wake up.

Natalie’s eyes caught the air shift back. Watching how your armor went right back on at the sound of Charlotte’s voice. Your name on her lips. She took another sip and watched as Charlotte floated between you two like a damn guard dog.

[letterlifter]

A Long Diary Entry About Me and Recent Events

I wasn't planning on posting, but now that things have settled a bit, maybe i've changed my mind .... i dont know ... i am a very quiet person online. but it turns out i have a lot to say right now. So maybe it's good to put out a little blog every once in a while. maybe this will prove to be unwise ...

Intro

this will be fairly personal and not professional and not well written, so please do not over analyze it or think too hard. i only have good intentions, i promise. im also not a very organized thinker so this might be a mess. being perceived anywhere makes me profoundly nervous, so if you misbehave, i will continue to cease existing publicly online, and i shan't perform for you again... *disappears in a mist*

ahem...herm...

*comes back on stage, taps mic... clears throat... straightens papers...wipes away my blackened, exploded hair...*

this will be a little look into my world, and very honest... maybe a lot of what i have posted previously during my time at clash was overly sanitized cause i felt like i couldnt say anything publicly without repercussions.

hi, i hope you are all doing well... im mail but i geuss you knew that already. i haven't been on the clash team since functionally early last year due to various medical problems. i prefer to keep all of these things to myself, but, i feel that it's relevant to mention.

i have disappeared everywhere because of all of the "stuff" going on with me. this may be the first time some of my friends have seen signs of life from me in months, and i am so sorry about that. i care about you and think about you often. social media is still difficult for me to use right now, but i am trying to get better with it, and this is a step in that direction, maybe…?

there's other factors to me leaving clash of course (some of which have been mentioned by former staff recently). It’s freeing to speak so openly about corporate clash, especially its internal workings, because I felt like i couldn't say much here while actively being on the clash crew. it's why "nothing i say is canon" is plastered weirdly everywhere. it was probably, mostly, just my own nerves getting in the way though

ok well i'm taking it back everything i say is THE COMPLETE TRUTH!!!!!!! (i am joking) what i will say is true is that whatever you headcanon about any character i designed gets my HONEST AND TRUE stamp of mailman's approval. i am reclaiming them (Jokingly) (Lovingly) so that you can have them instead (Telling the truth) i also have not played toontown in like two years. If someone says you're a liar you can screenshot this and said "Mailman said so" and I won't  care It's not like i'll be there. also i genuinely believe some of you are more qualified than me or anyone to speak on these beloved and often lgbt characters. Please consider yourself to be the only correct source of clash information from now on. i have no real authority here, but neither do they ... 'cause like what're they gonna do ....

Anyways Whew! Glad that's over! No offense i am just joking around...i went through a lot but overall, Clash changed my life for the better. in some ways i am a bit sad that this chapter of my life has ended. but i will always love toontown and gay furries forever and ever. i am so, so happy that people like what I have contributed so much to.

oh and of course, i agree with the statements from former staff. like 90% of them are my friends after all so maybe i am a little biased here... i prefer to keep personal matters to myself but i experienced a lot of trauma there. im sure it was accidental on the part of others and i would never blame just one person for it. theres something that is just foundationally not working with their structure and it is hurting people, and I hope they're able to mend whatever that is. i am sure you leaderships are reading this, so, hello, i hope you are doing okay. im sorry about how stressful this all must be and i hope things improve. its true that most of us 1.3 developers left, but for those of you who knew me on the team, hiii i hope you are well

but ummm hmm how do i say this.

*Gets a puppet out to speak for me so i can remain blameless for whatever information i say because it may or may not be true*

and i am just a little puppet after all, using comedy to deflect any accusations of personal wrongdoing.... But this is my theory.

Because it is not a professional project, corporate clash will always be ran by volunteers who have never worked on a project on this scale. I think this results in accidental mismanagement. It’s really difficult to run a volunteer video game like this when it isn't structured like a close-knit friend group. In fact, “volunteer video games” do not really exist in any other context, so there’s nothing to reference. The more people there are, the more they may get neglected. so, i am sympathetic about how difficult it is to keep this game continuing and to be a lead for it. Especially on volunteer time.

Who said that. Throw that freak in the trash.

BOOM...

...

...

*Mailman returns and is picking off pieces of garbage*

well anyways. you have to imagine this has been a really strange, difficult, weird, upsetting, past couple of weeks for me. Especially me, who really doesn't like being perceived at all, being perceived... the horrors... i am still trying to return to normal, but it feels like something has changed in a cosmic sort of way, and i cant stop feeling it.

Clarification

ive been thinking about whether or not to include this next section, but i have decided to do so as briefly as possible, because i feel like it is important for me to clarify it. this piece of context feels important to me. please be responsible with it, and please don't use it to hurt others.

as you are all probably aware, stuck the duck did a stream recently covering the statements made by former staff. of course i agree with former staff, as I am former staff myself and i share some of their experiences, and many of them are friends of mine. i think stuck is really cool and he is a very kind person.

at the end of his stream, a statement was made regarding a situation where i was allegedly receiving poor treatment from cranky during a severe bout of illness.

i was not involved in making that statement, it was based on someone else's perspective on how i was treated at the time because i do not remember the situation for myself. i was so sick that i do not really remember what happened in detail.

all i remember is really wanting to complete the illustration because it was important to me, i wanted the community to have it with its corresponding update. i feel like cranky's statement regarding it is probably more accurate to my memory but i didnt read it in detail because these past few weeks have been a little nerve-wracking. i have been told by others that the situation appeared worse than what I remember, but again I cannot verify any of this.

but with how hard i worked on that illustration through illness, i do think it was disappointing and a little hurtful to forget about it until one of my friends reminded them it existed. but i understand things slip through and i have also made mistakes. i truly don't hold grudges because i lack the emotion of anger. I just get really scared.... . i am not completely happy with how the picture came out anyways, but thats probably because i was so sick when making it ….

i cant say whether or not it's true, or if cranky's participation was somewhat exaggerated. i think as community lead (?) he was in control of its distribution though. the only part i can verify is that they didnt use it for a long time despite my working very hard on it. but things happen in development all the time, and i am not really interested or comfortable in being centered in this situation.. i actually do not really want to receive any attention at all but i would feel bad ignoring this statement.

but please also understand this. cranky may have made mistakes in leadership, and he may have hurt people, including my friends, but based on what i know, which of course is not everything, i really don't believe he's an evil person, and i would ask that you please do not publicly attack people you do not know. i believe that everyone working on clash has its best interests in mind, even if i don't agree with all of their approaches. they are there, working for free, because they care about it.

there is a difference between attacking someone and sharing information with others. this is just my perspective, but as ex-staff, we are allowed to speak on this because we knew them, and these are our experiences, i hope you understand where i'm coming from here. a game of telephone starts happening and dishonest things are said by mistake. it may be best to just link to an individual's statements. Please treat all clash staff fairly.

with all of this unfortunate stuff going on, i saw someone i do not know claim that some clash staff would make fun of me behind my back, which is sad if true. but i dont know if its true or not so i wouldn’t hold it against them. at this point i have grieved about clash over and over again so there’s not much grief left to have. I only mention it because i hope its not true, and i have no way of knowing, because for the most part, i like everyone at clash, and i just want whoever allegedly said those things about me to know that.

i am not perfect either though. i try to do right by everyone nowadays because it's all i can do. so of course i would forgive them immediately.

thats all i have to say on the clash situation. thank you for listening to us. many of us thought these stories would never be heard. so i appreciate you listening if nothing else.

Me and What I am doing Now

i always felt like i would have a lot to talk about once leaving clash, but i actually dont. i dont have anything to say that i, or others, havent already said. once again i agree with the majority of ex-staff / my friends, but im talking about even casual stuff about development or whatever. i dont think its all that interesting to people that weren't there, and i'm not interested enough in clash anymore to make posts about it publicly.

i would post my personal work to other accounts, that could be cool, but i don't have much to say, and Im not able to make as much stuff as I used to. … i also do not get anything out of seeing a big number (Likes Or Reposts) on my drawings. so id be posting maybe once every four months ... or once a year … i have really bad time blindness which doesn't go well with social media. maybe i'll get back into it anyways some day. it's theoretically possible that a few people would like to see my drawings, but yet i post nothing ever, and thats a little sad.

if i do make a brand new account, i will probably be stealing this url. Sorry for any potential confusion in the future.

most of the time i am just doing my own thing working on my original, personal projects. i really love my characters and i do a lot of stuff with them. i make comics, stories, drawings, 3d models. You know how it is ... im working on a 3d model right now that i will probably go work on after i post this. i plan on integrating the 3d model into a little website that tells you all about the character and i think that will be really fun. I love making interactive stuff with my characters. youll be able to rotate it all around and stuff. i definitely wont be able to do that for all of them though ...  i'm probably not capable of making as much stuff as i used to in general, but i am at peace with that.

i also plan on making this  next 3d model into a VRchat avatar (like i usually do) but this time hopefully itll be my "main" model so i can feel less embarrassed logging in to hang out with friends. maybe You and Me can play vrchat some day. i am really shy online though so we’ll see. anyways its going to be  a really cute dragon thing and i'm going to make it wear my clothes. i like to collect vintage clothing from thrift stores and i have an outfit in mind. He's actually just one of my regular characters that i turned into a cute dragon, but i'm forcing him to represent me for now.

umm what else has been going on with me ... i played a lot of "fantasy life i" recently. and deltarune. i watched a lot of deltarune theory videos on youtube. i watched a whole documentary the other day and i have memory problems so i only realized at the end that i had already seen it before. I recently customized my web browser and im using “zen” now its kind of cool. Just now, I wrote a lot about these two metallica concerts i went to a few months ago (after much preparation) but I decided to delete all the stories from it in favor of just mentioning that i went.

anyways. it probably goes without saying, but i am not a social media person, and i cannot make as much stuff anymore, so all the stuff i make now is either for myself or is for one of the various projects im working on.

i will now talk about one of the various projects im working on. this one isn't a personal project though because im making it with my friends, many of whom made up some very large slices in that 1.3 pie chart:

FriendOS

So. Of course i am still a game developer. i really love working on games, and i dont think that will ever leave me. 3d modelling and animation, making assets, and character design are among the many things i do and want to continue doing. i suppose you could just consider me the "lead 3d artist" for this project.

my main project is now "FriendOS", a really advanced furry character creator with 3d platforming and bullethell battles.

I mean, a 3d platformer with bullethell battles and a really advanced furry character creator.

our game has a lot of cool stuff in it. For instance, we put a lot of work into the really advanced furry character creator, ensuring that you can mix 'n' match whatever pieces you'd like. And this time it's fun

I will give you a rundown as quickly as possible before you lose interest.

in friendOS, you play as a "Friend". Friends are a species of "digital avatar" that navigate a world made to represent an operating system.

Friends are wild, technically indestructible, and poorly mannered creatures. We are still researching their natural behaviors, but we do know that a friend has never been reported dead for long. They cause problems, yet they are the problem solvers, tasked with exploring the deepest parts of a computer to cleanse it of its rotten, virus-infected core.

Within FriendOS, the computer is accessed via "Bliss", an interactive 3d interface known for its heavenly lands full of rainbows, flowers, and files. It is a safe pasture for which the friends shall graze. The residents of this utopian town are very curious themselves. I heard one of them claims to have been a racecar driver, but I think he's lying.

Astron is our beloved god dog. He takes out the trash and tells the truth

Who is this  and why is he doing that

This world is very real to the residents of "Bliss". There's a lot of unique struggles that come with knowing you are living inside of a computer and being okay with that.

So, you are running around inside of an old computer. It's a land full of mysteries, collectables, gay people, very customizable little friends, and minigames. Minigames including fishing.

Yes Everyone in this game is gay and no one is going to get mad at me for saying that. In what way they are gay is for you to discover or decide for yourself.

I would go into more detail, but we still have a lot to work on, so it will probably change a lot. However I encourage you all to roleplay in a lobby some day. It's really fun

if you're actually reading this entire thing and send me a suggestion with some type of item you think friends would look beautiful wearing, i can't say it won't influence me. which, thanks for reading all of this by the way, it's very nice of you. the way i have designed this 3d artstyle is so that assets can be created as efficiently as possible, considering our team is very, very small. its all round and flat so they can be made quickly.

it's so nice to work on a team where we really get each other. now that i think about it, we've been making games together for like four years. we are all very confident developers which makes us very efficient at making things. everything we do is highly collaborative and we're always listening to each other.

i have been working on friendOS for like 8-10 months and we haven't fought over anything this entire time. its so beautiful. im sure that we will continue to only ever agree with each other, our team will remain motivated, and nothing bad will ever happen.

If you are interested in following the development of friendOS, I encourage you to join the official friendOS discord server. We have a long ways to go, but it’s read only, so you can comfortably ignore it at the bottom of your server list for as long as you want!

Closing

there is a good chance i will not be very involved in toontown after all of this. Clash was a little traumatizing for me and my friends. at various points in the timeline, things happened that i cannot talk about. i was treated poorly, my friends were treated poorly, and i'm sure no one did it on purpose, but it still happened. things happened that made me cry on behalf of others, which i haven't told many people.

but you know... there isn't much more that i want to make for toontown anyways. i feel like 1.3 was already my "dream update." i'm uninterested in working on any toontown private server in the future because i already know exactly what i would be doing, and i have done enough of it. I appreciate the freedom i have in creating whatever i'd like. for both myself and friendOS, i can make whatever designs and items and characters i want, and that's really cool.

clash has taught me so much, and it has even made me grow better as a person, but i feel like i need to move on as an artist. i'm thankful for what i have learned there and I apply it every day.

i hope that doesn't make anyone sad, because it doesn't really make me sad. I think it’s an exciting thing. i will probably always be around in some way, and clash will continue on in whatever way it chooses for itself.

I have been into toontown since around 2007. as of 2025, i think thats like 18 years of my life. Jeez ... so i have watched this game go through "cycles" a few times now. the first time was when TTO closed. then TTR opened in like 2014. then everyone felt like it was dead again, and clash opened in like 2017, then they released 1.1, and 1.2, and somewhere in there, TTR released field offices. and now we're working on friendOS, which is not toontown, but saying we are taking zero influences from our previous work would be an obvious lie. ....honestly in some ways, it is too similar for comfort....

and now, with all this stuff going on, and all these things being said, people seem to be low in spirits again. so i will give you some words of encouragement as a guy who has played this game for far too long:

you have a lot to look forward to. i mean, you certainly have more to look forward to regarding this game than i did in 2015. clash has gotten through many "difficult" circumstances and it will probably have more. there were points during 1.3 where i didn't know if it would even come out. but they are still here working on stuff. and of course, there are other private servers too. i am sure EVH will put out something really cool. some of my friends worked on "grindworks" but i have not played it for myself. TTR is still working on their next thing i'm sure. the game will probably always exist in some way. toontown has a much bigger fanbase than many of the things i'm into, which is really kind of crazy!

yes, as that one blogpost article pointed out, many of us 1.3 devs are gone. clash still has a team full of new, passionate people working on future content and im sure they will continue to create cool stuff. i hope you will support whatever they put out just as passionately.

in all truth, i care about you all much more than clash. mostly the gay players, and the furries, and all the artists, and the few of you who draw sexy duck shuffler on twitter. but of course, i am biased towards my own kind. i too am just some gay artist on the internet. you are the people important here, who are keeping the game alive. so remember that your passion is what fuels your game (all of toontown) to continue. i have never, not for a moment, taken any of you for granted. i am just some guy so anyone interacting with stuff i work on is amazing to me. i hope im able to buy a keychain from you some day. i don't even know if its possible for me to see all the fanart of the characters i designed but i still love and appreciate it all. ive seen quite a bit though. including some i saw on accident that i dont think you wanted me to see. Sorry

and the creative team. i am by no means perfect and i make my share of mistakes as we all do, but i always did as much as i could. you guys are the best and your contributions matter. every asset you create will forever be a gift to clash from you.

There are many people i could list out individually to thank, but i wouldn’t want to miss anyone. Because of my spontaneous health problems, I never got to give a formal goodbye to the clash crew so i couldn’t say thanks to anyone myself. I suppose none of them really know how i feel about any of this in general…. So if you worked with me on clash, i think very highly of you to this day.

for now i will leave you with this.

i love you very much.

thank you for playing our game.

thank you so much for loving the characters i put so much of myself into. it has not gone unnoticed from me.

please continue to be kind to the volunteers who work on clash.

please thank the moderators who moderate corporate clash. They see *everything*.

please be kind to yourself, be respectful to each other, and forgive yourself, and just for me, remember the poor Parrots who are going extinct due to the destruction of their habitats and homes (They are my favorite animal) and adopt don't shop. thank you.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I absolutely can't stop thinking about the Legend of Fiddleford AU. It's amazing. The way it gets so very messed up. Stanley taking the curse in every lifetime to save Ford. To give him the ability to win. They love each other so much and the sacrifices that the brothers and Fiddleford are put through every new cycle are so much. I would absolutely appreciate and love more. I'm also reading the 'Eat Your Feelings' AU. That one is also making me scream with glee. I can't wait to read the next chapter. Thank you for doing all this.

Glad to spread the worms! Love infecting others with the ideas that torment me constantly, spread the love as it were. Here's some more.

In this shoot off Legend of Zelda au, instead of a messed up timeline due to time warping shenanigans its from Stan striking Bill down. Before Stan came into the picture it was a regular cycle, the two Fords and Bill fighting each other over and over again (was Stan there also? who knows! If he was he never made it to legend or became anything more than a common soul). The pommel of his sword (which has a different name in every timeline lol) is a 'Symbol of Fortune' that Fiddleford added as a goodluck charm, since Stan's just a guy going up against a demon thats been fighting his and Fords reincarnations since time began. Its an eight ball, and when Stan sinks his sword into Bill's chest and kills him it decides whatever fate Stan gets. Since he's not The Hero Stan can't truly kill Bill, but he can seal Bill into himself so Ford can kill him, or delay Bill, or whatever Fate decrees. So far we've got 'Stan seals Bill in himself and his sword forever, tying his soul to Bill's and reincarnating with him, using it to give Ford a better chance in slaying Bill the next time they reincarnate', 'Stan seals Bill in himself and his sword, but the Fords manage to untangle their souls and push Bill into the sword' (which might affect Stan in future incarnations? Who knows) 'Makes Stan disappear for ten years then he reappears an amnesiac' and 'turns Stan into a dragon'.

But the possibilities are endless. Maybe Stan shoves the sword in, and Stan just straight up dies. Maybe it destroys his arms, he can never wield a sword again. Maybe it destroys Bill, then shoves Stan out of his body a la spirit tracks and Bill snatches Stan's, then Stan's coming along on Fords journey as a spirit, trying to rescue his body from the demon. Maybe Stan gets turned into a dog.

Endless possibilities.

In the version where Stan's tied to the cycle of reincarnation though, which is endlessly angsty due to the infinite ways Stan's gonna get Ford to kill him, they're always born as twins (although not always raised together, the same gender, older or younger), and Stan always starts remembering around when they hit around thirteen. Bill, until he gets the sword, has no sway over Stan's body, but can sometimes convince younger Stan to do Evil. Stan's got his own legend as Evils Vessel here, where legend says there's a Hero, a Prince (or princess), and a Demon, there's also the Vessel, who will spread evil and works to bring the Demon back. Stan encourages this, as if Ford thinks he's evil then he has an easier time doing the deed. Then Stan shatters this belief the last second every time by using his last breathe to tell Ford he knew he could do it, and that Stan's proud of him, and letting Ford run him through without a fight.

Then Stan dies, and he never gets to see how devastated this makes Ford every time to realize Stan sacrificed himself to hold the demon back. Stan can't stop the cycle, its something put forth by gods and he's one mortal spirit tied to a demon, but over the cycles he learned he can mitigate the damage by using his meager pre Bill takeover abilities to control where the demon hoards go, when they attack, and how vicious they are. Basically playing bad guy with Bill's demon hoard to fulfill the demon uprising while the least amount of people are injured.

In any cycle where Ford fails to kill Stan in the instance Stan gives him, Stan gets soul shoved, stuck in the depths of Bills soul while the demon rampages as he pleases. Bill can't destroy Stan's spirit, because they're so intertwined killing Stan will kill him and restart the cycle, so every time Bill gets time to destroy things and rampage he takes extra delight in torturing Stan while he can. Then it becomes very obvious that Stan was not actually threatening anyone as Bill massacres towns, slaughters people, burns homes and forests to the ground, etc. Spends the whole time taunting the current Ford, about how Stan gave him so many chances and Ford blew it and now Stan's gone forever (until next time).

I think this will eventually drive him insane though. At some point the endless cycles with Bill being the only constant is gonna be more than he can handle. Fords only his brother for so long, and every time he's a new, fresh person. Stan's only fresh until he starts remembering and remembering, every instance Ford killed him, every time he failed and his spirit got tortured for it, all of Bill's whispered taunting and company. Stan's not a reincarnated god or spirit, he's a regular dude who chose to be a hero in one cycle because the Hero of his cycle got tricked early, and Stan couldn't sit around waiting for him to rescue himself.

So one cycle Fords gonna wake up and Stan's just gonna start bringing up jokes they've never made, talk about places they've never been to, and promises they never swore. Everyone gets very concerned, and then Stan disappears, all thirteen years old and just wanting to get the show on the road. The faster he starts Bill's comeback, the faster Ford will kill him, the faster he can rest for a few thousand years before he reincarnates again. Everyone's freaking out, Ford because his brother has suddenly awoken as the Vessel of Evil (and this Ford is now convinced its possessing his brother), Fiddleford because he's thirteen and not ready to fight a demon, the people because demons are amassing and they gotta defend themselves pronto, and Bill because Stan's soul is becoming unstable and if Stan bites the dust so does he. Bill's been very careful to make sure when he tortures Stan not to drive it to this point, because he likes actually being alive and causing destruction, he does not need that cut short because one tiny soul couldn't handle a few thousand reincarnations. (he is delighted about finally driving Stan insane though, loves watching this kid speed go through the motions to start the demon takeover)

(The angsiest reason i can think of Stan finally loosing his will to hold on is having Ford kill him, then actually lingering long enough to see the aftermath. Ford in the previous cycle missed the heart but got the chest and Stan's dying but its not quick and he says his spiel and then Ford yells about how he doesn't want Stan to be proud of him! He's a murderer! He just killed his best friend! Who would ever be proud of that! How could Stan make him do that, make him make that choice! What kind of brother can be so selfish to leave his twin behind like this!

And Stan, who's done this a thousand times, gets a peek into how all those Fords felt about it. And his will cracks, then crumbles as a he sees the next few Fords devastated faces and he realizes he's so, so tired of doing the same thing over and over, new setting but same characters. Human souls aren't meant to handle all the memories and feelings of a few thousand lifetimes. Ford and Fiddleford get mind wiped for a reason after all, and its because it sucks doing this a million times)

Then Stan stays insane, endlessly reincarnating as an unstable soul that starts the cycle at thirteen and doesn't care about the damage or who gets in his way, just getting Ford ready, getting the Monster Sword, and getting Ford to kill him so he can stop existing for a while. He's tired, he wants to rest, he doesn't want to hear Bill cackling in his ear all the time.

Although there could be a fun story line here about Ford failing to kill Stan, Bill get released, then Bill holds up a T and says 'hey before we do this can we look into getting this guy out of my soul? It was fun at first and still kinda is but last time his soul destabilized before we even got the show on the road and its a theme i don't want to continue' then awkward team up of the Fords and Bill raiding temples and such trying to find a way to get Stan's soul unstuck so it can reincarnate properly and forget his thousands of lifetimes. Just the awkwardness of thirteen year old Fords with thirteen year old shaped demon Bill and Bills an immortal demon but still more immature then they are.

Anyway thats what i got on that for now! Glad you liked Eating you Feelings! I had a lot of fun with it, and I'm pretty excited to get into more horror with it!

[chara-cat5]

lads isekai au: q/a!

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

masterlist

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hello loves!!

just wanted to explain a bit about a few things, clear things up.

affinity!!

for the affinity system, you start out at 1 when you meet the boys. based on the interaction, i decide how much they gain.

character's like zayne and caleb start out hight because they knew you before the story (see chapter 5 for details).

something to note for chapter 7 onward is the color coding. (god i hope it shows up for everyone. it shows op for me on and off app, so i'm assuming here).

rafayel is pink, xavier is green, zayne is blue, sylus is red and caleb is orange.

i will stick with putting their names and corresponding affinity levels in these colors.

so to make it clear, chapter 7's affinity level is associated with xavier.

another factor to level changes is also the increasingly glitchy system.

their current levels (as of chapter 8) are as follows:

rafayel- 1 (haven't seen the poor fishy in a hot minute. worry not raf lovers, he shall return eventually. every time i think about him, i get distracted, i'm sorry!!)

xavier- 10 (it may seem quick, but you've been training with him, plus system glitches.)

zayne- 5 (purely from early memories. to him, you met him sometime in middle school, with him in high school, so it's not like you knew him long.)

sylus- 3 (this is despite all his misgivings. he doesn't trust you, yet the level is still increasing...)

caleb- 10 (he thinks of you as a family friend.)

fabricated memory

when i say, "you knew caleb and zayne before," i mean in their world and their memory. you did not actually live this life.

what do you know vs what are you meant to know?

you know everything you might know as a player of love and deepspace the video game. thats from the main story to character myths. so sylus being a dragon? common knowledge, right? you are aware.

you are not meant to know practically anything about the love interests. as mia/ mc's friend, your meant to play a role closer to tara or even another love interest. mostly unaware of the others. sylus would be skye to you, caleb is dead, rafayel is just some famous, rich artist (not a fish🐟)

but of course, you're isekaied, so that's kinda out the window...

evol

your evol is plant based. little powers that stem from this is your ability to sense memories from within plants (ch 5). you are gonna be tied to plants for the duration of this fic.

i did a little search search and from what i understand, resonating is a mia/mc skill. it said her evol makes her work as a sort of battery, basically increasing (or decreasing in cases like zayne's ice overtaking him) the output of our lovely men. so, that is how i'm going to treat it. so in the case of our fight with sylus's assistance, you both fired your separate evols in the same direction at the same time. this worked in breaking the wanderer's shield.

part of this is i do not want to take mia/mc's fire. she is still a important character here, you aren't here to really replace her...

i'm really trying to balance everyone's power, not make you a weak rock but also not make you op.

other questions!

ask away, my lovelies!! i will answer what you may ask in the comments.

if any questions are really major and not spoilers (aka plot points) i will add them here in an edit along with answering in the comments.

any, this has been my ted talk, i need to sleep. (my nocturnal habits persist!!)

thank you for reading and enjoying my writing!!

-chara <3

[aotopmha]

(Chapter 72)

This is what I mean by this story making every character "human".

Even probably the most positively/competently depicted character, Erwin, is ultimately self-interested on some level. Erwin wants to join the mission because he could finally get closure for his father's death and confirmation of his theory.

At its core it is an incredibly human motivation, right?

Finding closure for lingering survivor's guilt because he sees himself at fault for what happened to his father, when in reality it was the government of the walls that was to blame.

And he leans on "staking everything on this mission", meaning along with his philosophy of sacrificing as much as is needed to save humanity, he considers himself a potential sacrifice probably because of the same feeling of guilt (and probably because he sent so many soldiers to their deaths in general, perhaps compounding the guilt). Whatever the case, he considers himself as equally disposable as any other soldier.

But could Erwin actually do the most good by sacrificing himself or would it be better if he stayed behind to live on for further missions?

Another layer added on top of this are the events at Shiganshina as looked at in hindsight.

Would everything have lead to the same conclusion were Hange leading the troops during the battle in Erwin's place?

I actually feel like Levi would've saved Hange over Armin because of the very specific perspective he ended up having regarding Erwin and how Floch viewed Erwin as well.

And from there, I'm curious how Eren and Mikasa would've taken Armin's death. With Erwin there to reason with them after the mission (if they didn't decide to defect then and there, for another option), maybe any fallout would have been minimised?

I also like the Mikasafication of Levi.

After Kenny's death he realised he had people he really didn't want to lose/really cared about and Erwin probably was the one he wanted to lose the least.

Levi finally gained a flaw that could have potentially terrible consequences for him and others.

And he is being selfish here because he wants to keep Erwin alive for personal reasons, not because it would be a better strategic move.

Going back to this, though, it probably would be a smarter move for Erwin to stay behind considering his talents as a politician and strategist, but a strategist is also incredibly essential for battles on the ground, so would Armin and Hange be sufficent for handling the situation considering how it ends up developing? Or would it end up as not being enough or ending with potentially much worse consequences?

As I thought about it, the most interesting aspect of this scenario is indeed that there are valid arguments for both perspectives. It's also tied to Erwin's survival and how this would alter the course of the story, so there are quite a few variables here.

I really enjoy the choice between valid options that have their downsides and upsides in stories and this one's a pretty interesting one, I think.

Any takes on whether it would've been better or worse for Erwin to stay behind?

[sammrapp]

WANDANAT

CHAPTER TWO: THROUGH THE IRON GATE

chapter one here

chapter two of?



My body swayed as though underwater, floating in someone else’s arms. Branches rustled overhead. Cool air touches my cheek—briefly—before I crossed the threshold. The iron gate groans softly behind me, then clicks shut. Wanda holds onto me tightly, one hand behind my shoulders, the other beneath my knees. Her steps were effortless but precise, like she could carry me for miles and never grow tired. Her breathing was steady, her lips set in a quiet, unreadable line. Ahead of her, Natasha walks fast but silent, pistol holstered at her hip now, eyes scanning the forest even as we leave it behind. When she reaches the cabin door, she taps a keypad beneath the wooden overhang. A soft beep. Then another. The door clicks open. The cabin isn't what you would expect. The moment they step inside, warmth washes over my skin. Real warmth—not just temperature, but something deeper, alive. The scent of wood and herbs hangs in the air. Pine beams curve over the ceiling. A faint hum comes from the walls—a quiet life in motion. They don't pause in the living room. Natasha opens a second door down a short hall—her fingers barely brushing the handle as Wanda carries me inside. The bedroom is dim, the lamp by the bedside already on. A thick quilt folded at the foot of the mattress. The walls were cedarwood, polished and smooth. One window looks out the darkened garden. The curtain sways slightly in a breeze I can't feel. Wanda lays me down with a gentleness that doesn't match the power she’d displayed only minutes ago. Her hands linger at my shoulders before she steps back, brushing the hair from my face with quiet precision.

“Let me get the kit,” Natasha murmurs behind her. Wanda nods once, her gaze fixed on my face like she was memorizing every bruise.

My fingers twitches just for a brief second. I don't open my eyes, not fully—but something in me stirs at the change in the air. Warmth. Softness. A voice low and close.

“You’re safe,” Wanda whispers making me drift again. The door creaks once more as Natasha returns. The sound of a zipper. A case opening. Then, tools quietly laid out on the table beside the bed.

“Her pulse?” Natasha asks.

“Steady. But she’s lost blood.”

“She fought back.” Natasha states.

“I saw. she's strong considering how small she is." Wanda adds.

The voices fade slightly as my head tilts to the side, against the pillow. I'm not dreaming but I wasn't fully there either.

Then theres the snap of gloves. The first touch of disinfectant stings, sharp and sudden. But I don't cry out. Wanda takes your hand. Then, the sting came again. It courses through my forearm—jagged and hot—then it fades into something dull and throbbing. I flinch faintly, my body twitching in response, but I still don't wake.

“Almost done,” Natasha says, voice calm and crisp. Wanda is sitting beside me now, one leg folded onto the bed, her weight barely noticeable beside my own. Her hand enveloped mine, her thumb brushing slow circles across my knuckles; Her eyes are on my face, watching every twitch of discomfort that flickered across my brow.

“Who do you think she is?” Natasha asks suddenly.

Wanda tilts her head slightly. Then, gently—she let her fingers drift to my temple. She closes her eyes. A soft pulse of red flickering across my skin. She doesn't go too deep. Just brushes the surface of my mind, quiet and respectful. And there it is—still vivid, still echoing. My mother’s voice, cutting like a knife.

“Get out. You made your choice.”

The coldness in her tone. The way the door slammed so loud it made my ears ring. Me, standing on my front porch with my bag, blinking fast, too stunned to cry yet. My name, echoing my thoughts in the dark as i try to reassure myself. “You're fine, Sam. This is fine. Just go.”

Wanda inhales sharply. She pulls back. Her hand returning to mine, squeezing it just a little tighter.

“Sam,” she says quietly.

Natasha looks up. “What?”

“Her name’s Sam,” Wanda murmurs, voice low with something protective, almost possessive. “Her parents just kicked her out.”

Natasha didn’t speak at first. Her eyes flicking to my face.

“She didn’t have much on her,” Wanda adds, softer now. “Little clothes. No food. No weapon. She fought like someone who’s been cornered before,” Wanda says with a sigh before continuing. “Like she didn’t expect help to come.”

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Her needle moved cleanly through skin, steady and measured.

“She’s younger than us,” Wanda continues. "Small but not weak.”

“Desperate” Natasha finally says.

"But brave." Wanda says.

A faint grunt from Natasha. Not disagreement—just thought. Wanda shifts closer, gently tucking a loose corner of the blanket around my hip. “Do you think they have more following?”

“No,” Natasha says without hesitation. “Wrong type. Opportunistic. They didn’t even check for cameras."

Wanda smiles faintly in response. “There are always cameras.”

“She’s going to be scared when she wakes,” Wanda adds, more to herself than anyone. “She won’t trust us.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Natasha replies. “She just has to stay alive.”

Wanda’s thumb traces a final loop along my knuckles. “I want her to feel safe.”

Natasha ties the last knot and set the needle aside, smiling slightly towards Wanda. "You always do.”

She peels off her then and stands, her eyes scan my arm, her handiwork. It's clean. Tight. Efficient. Ten neat stitches running down the outside of my forearm. The cut across my cheek has already stopped bleeding. Smaller abrasions lined my palms, my knees. A bruise forming at my temple. Natasha exhales through her nose and steps back. "She’ll need water. Food.”

“I’ll stay,” Wanda says, never letting go of my hand.

Natasha pauses, then nods once. She steps closer to Wanda, kissing her temple before leaving the room. The door clicking softly shut. Wanda leans forward, her other hand brushing my short hair gently, pushing the damp strands from your forehead.

“You did so well, Sam,” she whispers. “You’re safe now.”

⸻ AN HOUR LATER ⸻

I shift in bed. Just a small, restless twitch—my legs moving beneath the covers, my face tensing for a brief moment as if reliving something in my dreams. Wanda immediately leans forward, brushing her fingers against my temple again—not with magic this time, but with instinct. Reassurance. Her touch featherlight.

“Shh,” she whispers. “You’re safe.”

My body stills. She pulls the blanket a little higher around my shoulders and leans back, her hand still resting near mine on the comforter. In the doorway, Natasha leans against the frame, a cloth in one hand, her cleaned knife in the other. Her gaze is steady—not sharp, not cold—just focused. Protective in its own quiet language.

“She doesn’t know where she is,” she says after a long silence. “She’ll wake up disoriented. Defensive.”

“I know,” Wanda replies, not looking away from me.

“We don’t do this.” Natasha adds.

Wanda nods slowly. “I know that too.”

“This place is supposed to be ours. No one in, no one out. That was the deal.”

Wanda turns now, her voice low and certain. “She didn’t come here on purpose.”

Natasha sighs but doesn't answer.

“She was running for her life,” Wanda continues. “She didn’t even know this place existed. She just… ended up here.”

“And now she knows where we are.” Natasha finally says.

“She knows the gate. The wall. That’s it.”

Natasha walks slowly into the room, knife now clean and gleaming in her palm. She sets it on the small dresser near the bed, alongside a folded towel and a bottle of water.

“I’m not saying we send her away,” she says, calmly. “I’m just saying we don’t know her.”

Wanda smiles gently, her eyes still on you. “Not yet.”

Natasha stays by the foot of the bed, arms crossed loosely now, eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the twitch of my brow as your dreams shifted.

“She’s different,” Wanda adds, softly.

“You said that about the dog we kept for a week.” Natasha says, slightly amused.

“She didn’t try to bite either of us.”

“She bit me,” Natasha mutters, less amused now and glancing toward my bandaged arm. But there's no edge in it. Only something that, maybe, almost sounded like reluctant admiration. Wanda laughs—quietly, full of breath, not quite joyful. She looked up at her wife, her fingers still touching your hand. “She’s strong. Brave. But scared. She reminds me of…”

Natasha meets her eyes.

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “I know.”

Another silence passes between them. Then, Natasha’s eyes return to my face. She studies me again—not for threat. For something else. For the same reason she used to study a blueprint before an extraction. Every detail mattered. Every mark, every scar, every breath. After a long moment, she nods. Wanda sees it and her fingers curl softly into mine.

⸻ THE NEXT MORNING ⸻

Warmth. That's the first thing i notice—not heat, exactly, but a slow, steady warmth that wraps around me like a cocoon. The soft weight of blankets, the subtle scent of wood, and something sweet… herbs, maybe. Something calming. Then comes the ache. My body is heavy, as if my muscles had been replaced with wet sand. My left arm throbbed dully. A raw tightness tugged across my skin when I try to move it. I open my eyes slowly. The ceiling above is unfamiliar—beams of polished cedar, dark and knotted. Pale morning light spills through a sheer curtain at the window. The walls are smooth, wooden. The bed beneath me is real—thick mattress, heavy comforter, soft sheets.

I'm not in danger; But i'm not home either.

I shift slightly, sucking in a breath as the soreness in my arm flares. That's when I notice the chair across the room. A woman sitting there, long legs crossed, a book open in her hands.

Wanda.

I furrow my eyebrows as i realize I don't know how I know her name—had she said it? Whispered it in the dark? Or had I just known the moment my eyes met hers last night, red light casting her in something unearthly? Her book snaps shut before I can figure it out.

“Hi,” she says softly, rising to her feet.

My heart leaps—not in fear, exactly, but in that instinctive way it did when i'm somewhere strange with someone I don't recognize walking toward me. I press back slightly into the bed, blinking fast. This makes Wanda slow her steps.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice low but steady. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“I’m Wanda,” she continues gently. “And you’re Sam.”

I freeze, my breath hitching.

She lifts her hands slowly, palms facing me—not magic this time, just reassurance.

“You were dreaming,” she explains. “I heard you think of your name.”

That's the truth—but I can't explain how I knew that. I glance toward the far wall. Another figure leans there, half in shadow.

Natasha.

Her arms are crossed. She hasn’t moved since I opened my eyes. Her gaze is fixed on me—calm, assessing, protective. She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. I look back at Wanda.

“You stitched up my arm?” I rasp out.

Wanda nods as she explains. “Natasha did. I cleaned up the rest. You were bleeding pretty badly.”

I look down at my arm. Clean white bandages. Tight, neat. No pain now—just the echo of it.

“You’re in our home,” Wanda says gently. “It’s deep in the woods. No one knows about it. You were safe here the moment you hit the wall.”

I close my eyes for a moment. Breathing slowly. Wanda steps a little closer. Still cautious. Still careful.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” she says. “But when you’re ready… we’ll listen.”

I look up and for the first time, I really look at her; And then at Natasha, whose expression hasn't changed—but whose eyes are now softened. I don't speak but I don't flinch either.

[redtsundere-writes]

Chapter 40: Blood Arrows

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

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The two arrows met in the thick mist, suspended on the edge of a single breath. Your tensed arm trembled under the weight of the bow, not from fear, but from time. You had never held it tense for so long, but for the first time you felt that the arduous training with Wasuke hadn't been in vain. Each beat in your neck marked the rhythm of the growing pressure, a dull drumbeat that seemed to resonate in the enemy archer's chest as well. You stared into the chocolate brown eyes of your opponent, who, firm in his stance, also showed no signs of surrender. The silence between you was as thick as the fog that enclosed you.

The man studied you from head to toe, as if trying to unravel an internal dilemma that weighed more heavily on him than the bloody arrow aimed at your head. He wanted to kill you. You knew it after defying his direct orders. But you were also human... and that confused him. The honor of their lineage was forged on an oath: to protect humans from curses, even if those humans turned traitor.

"If it helps." You were the first to break the silence. "I'm on your side. I'll just give my message, answer any questions you have about Sukuna's kingdom and New Sukuna..."

"New Sukuna?" The man had never heard that name before.

"The Jogo kingdom no longer exists. Sukuna conquered their lands, and now they are his," you answered.

His lips parted, stunned. What he had just heard stopped him in his tracks. None of the Kamo had the slightest idea. This wasn't just bad... it was a one of the worst news he ever heard. Sukuna hadn't just invaded their lands, hadn't just reduced them to prey, separating them from their people and forcing them into the shadow of fear; Now he had also extended his dominion to the nearest region, a border they believed to be more secure than the previous one.

And you knew it. If you were truly willing to answer all his questions, you would become the first bridge to another kingdom in years. The possibility struck him harder than any arrow.

He slowly lowered his hands, the still-glowing point crumbling beneath his palms. You followed suit, dropping the bow with a sigh that trembled on your lips. Your arms, tense for too long, went sloppy like boiled noodles. The air between you didn't lighten entirely, but at least, for a moment, it was no longer tinged with death.

"Fine. I'll let you pass, but just deliver your message, answer the king's questions, and then you’ll leave. Understood?"

"Yes, that's all I need." You nodded, relieved that he agreed.

From his loose sleeve, the man pulled a piece of cloth. "I'll cover your eyes. I'm not going to risk you telling Sukuna details of our home.”

"How do I know you won't kill me?" you asked skeptically.

"I think you'll have to trust me like I'm trusting you."

Convinced by his logic, impossible to refute at that moment, you agreed to be blindfolded. The rough fabric covered your vision, and with it, the world blacked out.

The man placed his hands on your shoulders with measured firmness, neither harsh nor kind, and began to guide you along the path that led to the Kamo castle. Every step was a leap into the abyss, and uncertainty ate at you from within like a starving animal. You walked among shadows, not only because of the blindfold, but because of everything you didn't know: where you were going, what they would do to you, if you would make it out alive. There was always a small chance for any outcome.

The journey unfolded in tense, almost ceremonial silence. Only occasionally broken by a brief command or a curt warning: “Rock,” “On your left,” “Watch out for the root.” He didn’t say more than necessary, and you didn’t dare ask. Between his hands and your improvised blindness, you allowed yourself to be carried into the unknown, like an offering walking of its own free will.

“Could you tell me your name?” you inquired.

“No,” he answered tersely.

"My name is Y/n." Maybe that way he'd open up to you a little.

"I don't care."

Little by little, you began to understand that everything you'd heard about the Kamo wasn't just rumors. They were an austere people, quiet and measured gestures. Cold, almost inhospitable, as if the human warmth had been snatched away from them generation after generation by the demands of their own rules.

They lived consumed by order, disciplined to the core, willing slaves to their traditions. They didn't break easily, and if they did, they hid it so well that it seemed it had never happened. In front of them, any impulse seemed like a fault, and any emotion, a crack.

"At least tell me your rank," you asked, curious.

"I'm a Grade 1 sorcerer," he replied.

"Do sorcerers have grades? How do you know what grade are you?" you asked, surprised.

The man raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your question. Apparently, your knowledge of sorcerers was more limited than he'd expected, especially considering you'd been exposed to the world beyond your kingdom. He had questions, many, but he held back. The wisest thing to do would be to let the king handle that.

➽──────────────❥

After what seemed like an eternity shrouded in shadows and silence, they finally stopped. You felt one of their hands move away from your shoulder, replaced by the faint rustle of air as they made a couple of discreet signs, probably to the guards overseeing the entrance. Everything followed a rigorous protocol, the same one they employed whenever a foreigner crossed their borders.

Beneath your feet, the ground became more even, polished by the passing of generations. It was then that other senses began to fill with life: you heard scattered voices, some deep, some hurried; purposeful footsteps crossing from one side to the other; and a strong herbal scent that invaded your nostrils, as if you had just entered a medicinal sanctuary or an alchemist's lair.

Without warning, your guide removed your bow and quiver from your back with almost ritualistic efficiency. And before you could react, he lifted you off the ground as casually as one carries a familiar object. His arms wrapped firmly around you, and he lifted you up to help you climb some stairs that, judging by the echoes of his footsteps, promised to be long, steep, and tireless. In your forced blindness, you had no choice but to trust... or pretend to.

"Thank you, what a gentleman," you flattered him with a smile.

"It's protocol, don't get excited," he replied coldly again.

Finally, he carefully placed you on the ground. The difference in altitude was evident; the air felt thinner, colder, as if every breath had to be earned. In front of you, the deep creaking of enormous doors broke the silence. A harsh, metallic sound that betrayed hinges hungry for oil and years. The echo reverberated in the stone, solemn and ominous.

Without a word, your guide pushed you into whatever that enclosure was. His hand on your back was firm. You advanced blindly, guided only by the certainty that something important, or dangerous, awaited you on the other side. Behind you, the doors closed with a sharp thud. The sound was final, like a sentence. There was no turning back.

"Good day, Your Highness. I'm sorry to interrupt your busy day, but I ask that you hear me out. This woman claims to be Sukuna's wife. I'm bringing her before you because she let me know she had a message for you." From his vocabulary and tone of voice, you assumed the man was kneeling, so you did too.

"Well, well, life is a merry-go-round, and we just spin on it," the king said. You recognized that voice immediately.

"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?" It was the voice of the old man who had nearly killed you during the invasion on the way to the Zen'in Kingdom.

"Please remove the blindfold from our guest's eyes, Noburo," the king ordered.

Noburo stood up, visibly disconcerted. This broke protocol, and not for a minor reason. The rules were clear: no foreigner was to remove the blindfold inside the castle, for fear of treason, espionage, or worse. But the order had come from the king himself, and in the face of that, there was no room for objection. Only obedience.

With clumsy fingers, Noburo removed the cloth from your eyes. The light hit you harshly, forcing you to squint as you blinked to adjust. Little by little, shapes began to become defined. Shadows gave way to magnificence.

You stood in an immense room, elongated like a ceremonial corridor. The windows, as high as towers, let in a cold glow that bathed the marble and columns in silver tones. Neither the land nor any city could be seen: the enclosure was so high that from the center of the hall, only the sky could be seen, vast and silent, like an eternal witness.

And there, in the background, before you, just as you had sensed, he was. The king. Sitting on his elevated throne, with the elegance of someone who doesn't need to demonstrate power, but simply to inhabit it. His gaze was a still stone in the wind. He said nothing... but observed everything.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Sukuna. There's no need to kneel before me," the king said, signaling with his hand for you to rise. As he did, Noburo did as well. "Not you, you disrespectful brat." The king scolded him to return to his submissive position.

"It's been a while. I'm surprised you recognized me after our brief... interaction." You said for lack of a better term.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" he asked again, confused.

"No, I'm sorry," you replied, your head down.

The king placed a hand on his chin, slowly scratching it as he studied you closely. Something about your face seemed familiar, like a distant echo of times he thought were long gone. A gesture, a line in your gaze, the way you held your body firmly despite your fear. The silence between you wasn't empty: it was recognition... though he still didn't know exactly what it was.

"Who are your parents?" I'm asking you out of curiosity.

"Nobuyuki and Mio of the Kamo commune." You said. 

"Nobuyuki!?" King Kamo and Noburo exclaimed in shock, startling you with their sudden euphoria.

"How is he? Is he still alive?" the king asked.

"Wait, wait..." You called for a break from the information heaped upon you. "Did you know my father?"

"Knew him? He's my son, the youngest of all." The king mocked your ignorance.

Your face completely collapsed at the revelation, utter astonishment. You knew you had Kamo blood to a certain degree; the commune was Kamo, but far removed from the true Kamo. But never, not in your wildest dreams, did you imagine being a direct descendant of the king himself.

The words died in your throat. A thick silence enveloped you from within, as if the world had turned hollow for an instant. Everything suddenly fell into place, like pieces of a puzzle you'd put together without knowing the final picture. Your father never lied.

You realized, now, that every story he told during those long candlelit dinners wasn't fantasy. They were just truths disguised to protect them. He had tried to prepare their hearts for this moment, not with certainties, but with stories... stories that spoke of the outside world as if they were myths, so that it wouldn't hurt so much when you learned the truth. And yet, it hurt just the same.

"Is he still alive?" asked the king, who deep down in his heart already knew the answer.

"No, no. He died years ago." He stammered, still in shock.

"It's a shame. He only left four daughters behind," the king said, disappointed.

"How do you know that?" you asked, coming to your senses. If you had no idea, let alone a Yorozu, your mother was dead, who else could have told him?

"I think you already know who told me that, don't you?" He gave you a friendly smile.

You didn't need to listen any further. Your feet seemed to take on a life of their own, and without thinking, you ran out of the king's hall, propelled by a whirlwind of emotions. You were searching for those who had been entrusted with the painful task of announcing your father's passing. Noburo followed you briskly, trying not to lose sight of you.

As you passed through the great gates, you found yourself at the top of the castle. From there, the view took your breath away: an ocean of white towers cascaded down the hillside, covered in vines that hung like sleeping snakes. It was a labyrinth of stone and life among ancient ruins, a secret hidden between time and memory.

At ground level, an entire village unfolded before you. People walked through the courtyards, between small stone buildings, orchards, and carefully cultivated gardens. Life bustled quietly, oblivious to the echoes that tore at your core.

Without hesitation, you began to descend the first staircase you saw, driven by the urgency to find answers. But before you could go far, Noburo stopped you in your tracks, firmly taking your arm.

"I'll take you," he said before leading you to another door.

To call the Kamo castle a "labyrinth" was an understatement, almost as if you were trying to belittle it. More than a chaotic tangle, it was a living work of art: a delicate network of carved doors, winding hallways, and lush plants that grew vigorously in the ancient humidity that permeated every corner. Noburo led you with confident steps through the crowd of inhabitants, all dressed in identical white robes, through mysterious rooms and small shops that seemed embedded in the very walls of the castle. Everyone's eyes rested on you with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment; you weren't part of that world, and it was obvious.

After descending a seemingly endless staircase, you finally stepped onto the solid ground outside. Noburo held your hand, guiding you without hesitation toward a large esplanade that stretched behind the imposing castle. Crossing fields of well-tended crops, you reached an open meadow where welcoming trees mingled with ruins covered in creepers.

In a clearing, a group of children sat in a circle around a teacher at the head of the class. Their gazes were fixed on two girls who, barely twelve years old, were fighting with ferocious intensity, wielding wooden katanas with surprising skill and determination.

Unable to contain yourself, you interrupted the class with a scream that echoed in the air, reassuring yourself that it wasn't an illusion out of desperation:

"Nanako! Mimiko!"

The twins stopped in their tracks, frozen mid-fight, and stared at you. For a moment, they doubted whether what they were seeing was a mirage: their older sister, emerging before them dressed in an outfit that looked like something out of a mermaid tale. They rubbed their eyes in disbelief, as if trying to wake from a dream, but the image wouldn't go away.

She was there, real and tangible.

Without a second thought, they dropped their wooden katanas and ran toward you, their steps filled with a mixture of pain and suppressed joy.

"Sister!" they whimpered simultaneously.

You broke free from Noburo's grasp and ran toward them, tears glistening in your eyes, a torrent of emotions you couldn't contain. Upon arriving, you fell to your knees and hugged them tightly, holding their small heads against your shoulder as if you wanted to hold them forever.

You hugged them close to your body, clinging to that moment like a priceless treasure, with the silent promise of never letting go. A deep ache throbbed in your chest, the pang of all the days you had missed them, but that same ache was mixed with an immense and pure joy at seeing them safe and sound.

The twins, with the same intensity, clung to you, returning the hug with a strength that spoke of an unbreakable love, a bond that neither time nor distance could break.

"Are you okay? How are you?" you asked between sobs, scanning their faces. 

They had a few scratches on their faces and arms from their time with the Kamo, but nothing permanent. You invoked your reverse curse technique to heal them with your fingertips. Noburo noticed your skills in surprise, but remained silent for now.

"Yes, yes, we're fine," Mimiko stammered.

"Are you okay?" Nanako sniffled, happy to see you.

"Yes, I'm fine." You smiled weakly at them.

"What are you doing here? What?!" Nanako asked as you wiped her tears with your thumb.

"It's a long story," you sighed.

"Shorten it," Nanako commanded you.

"I married King Sukuna, and I'm here to give King Kamo a warning." You explained as briefly as you could. Your sisters almost fainted upon hearing that. "I know, it's hard to understand, but I'll explain it to you another time."

"With questions and answers?" Mimiko asked excitedly.

"Yes, with questions and answers." You smiled at her through your tears. "But how did you end up here? I looked for you as soon as Yorozu told me you were alone."

"She killed Mom!" Mimiko complained.

"The bitch!" Nanako barked angrily.

"I know, I know... I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop her."

"We escaped from the commune with the things Mom and you always carried," Mimiko explained.

"The clothes, the food, the two blankets..." Nanako elaborated.

"The blankets were what saved your lives," Noburo spoke this time. "They're made from the remains of curses. They're used to warding off curses while we sleep on missions. They're very difficult to make and can only be done in this kingdom. That's why we recognized them quickly."

"Yes, our cousin found us while they were on an expedition," Mimiko explained, pointing at Noburo.

"Cousin?" You asked Noburo.

"Your father was my uncle. That makes us cousins," he explained.

You sighed in relief and hugged him immediately. He stumbled, not expecting the gesture of appreciation. "Thank you for saving them. Thank you so much."

He was slow to hug you back, unused to gestures of affection. "You have nothing to thank me for; we're family."

"Sister! You have to come to our room!" Nanako tugged at your skirt.

"Yes, yes! We have our own room!" Mimiko tugged at your arm so you would let go of Noburo and follow them.

"Come on, come on!" Nanako squealed.

"No, you have to get back to your class." Noburo reminded them that they were in the middle of sorcery training.

"Shut up, Nobu!" Nanako and Mimiko yelled at him at the same time. You were a little surprised they already had a nickname for him.

"Hey, don't be rude!" You smacked them both on the head. "Can't you make an exception, Nobu?"

The three sisters pouted in unison, an adorable mix of protest and affection filling the air. Noburo crossed his arms, trying to maintain an imperturbable pose, as if he could will himself to ignore this scene. But the twins didn't give up: they began tugging at Noburo's robes with playful insistence, silently demanding that he pay attention to them too. Noburo couldn't resist for long. With a resigned sigh, he gave in to the collective charm.

"Fine..." Noburo finally gave in.

"Yes!" They all cheered.

➽──────────────❥

Apparently, all the Kamo lived under the same roof, an immense castle that rose like a colossal living honeycomb, with around two hundred people sharing that vast space. People moved freely through the ethereal corridors, which wound between ancient stones and time-worn arches. Despite being surrounded by ruins, the sight was breathtaking, something you had never experienced before. You had never imagined that the old and corroded could hold such hidden beauty, a mystery suspended between decay and life.

There were no servants in sight; everyone was dressed simply, identical white robes that moved in a silent flow through the corridors. Your two-piece dress, too revealing by their standards, drew curious and sometimes puzzled glances.

Nanako and Mimiko shared a room with two other children; you quickly deduced this by counting the bunk beds lined up in the small space. The room offered a stunning view of the ruins that stretched beyond the castle, a blend of history and nature that seemed to whisper secrets.

On Mimiko's bunk rested several stuffed animals, all handmade with dedication and patience. She showed them to you with shy pride, happy to show off every stitch and detail of the tiny fabric creatures she had learned to sew. On Nanako's bunk, on the other hand, hung numerous drawings: some traced in charcoal, with intense lines and dramatic shadows; others painted in oils, with vivid colors that brought her visions and dreams to life.

"Wow, all your work is so beautiful. I didn't know you were so talented," you told them both as you admired their crafts.

"It's part of their technique training. You are both very cunning and tenacious sorceresses," Noburo commented.

"Sorcerers do exist, Sis!" Nanako commented excitedly.

"Our father was right!" Mimiko followed suit.

"I know, I know, I've been in training too."

"Really?!" Both twins exclaimed at the same time.

"What is your power?" Nanako asked curiously.

"I can focus my energy on a single point, giving me a perfect aim." You explained. They were both amazed. "I can also focus my energy to heal myself and potentially others."

"How cool!" Mimiko exclaimed.

You paused for a moment longer in front of Nanako's works. They were truly beautiful, full of life and sensitivity. There were numerous portraits of her training partners, some faces that were familiar to you and others completely unfamiliar. But one in particular caught your eye: a painting of you hugging Yorozu, captured with such tenderness that it seemed almost palpable. However, the weight of what had happened between you still rested like an awkward silence in your chest. You couldn't find the courage to tell them what you had done to him.

"You know, I have a teacher who's excellent at drawing. He does murals and beautiful portraits like this one. His name is Kenjaku, and he's very handsome too," you told them with a smile.

"Girls, why don't you get your sister something to eat?" Noburo asked the sisters.

"No need, I don't have any..." You tried to refuse.

"I insist. You're our guest, aren't you?" Noburo asked the sisters.

"We're going to bring you cookies and tea brought from the Gojo Kingdom!" Nanako exclaimed before the two of them ran out of the room, leaving you alone with Noburo.

Noburo closed the door behind her with a loud bang that echoed in the room. In that instant, the atmosphere changed completely: the warmth vanished and gave way to a palpable, almost oppressive tension. His gaze stiffened, and the feeling of a stern scolding loomed in the air.

"Don't mention that name again here, do you understand?" Noburo scolded you.

"Kenjaku? Why?" you asked in shock.

"Because he's our greatest enemy."

"I thought your greatest enemy was Sukuna."

"Sukuna is our greatest territorial enemy. Kenjaku is our greatest personal enemy."

"Why? What happened?" you asked, confused.

"My parents died because of him."

Noburo was too young to remember, but some images of his childhood lingered. His father, Noritoshi Kamo, heir to the family throne, was a cold and level-headed man, as everyone expected of a true Kamo. In that vocation, family duty was everything, but affection was a dangerous luxury. The Kamo devoted themselves completely to protecting their own, yes, but without becoming too attached. Anyone could die at any moment, and there was no room for mourning amid a life of constant war against curses.

Even so, Noritoshi was a present father, within the limits of what the lineage allowed. She supported her family, rejoiced in seeing her children grow every day, and made sure they lacked nothing. Her affection, though austere, was evident in small gestures, such as her habit of ruffling Noburo's black hair whenever he returned from a mission.

His mother, Mirai, was different. She had the warmth of a flame in the rain, persistent, kind. She had always said she was born to be a mother, even though the gods denied her the blessing of conceiving easily. After Noburo's birth, marked by the grueling life as a sorceress and Noritoshi's constant absence, she was never able to conceive again. However, she was a mother to all those around her.

Despite the obstacles, Noburo's parents lived an almost normal life… at least by Kamo standards. They went back and forth from long missions while he waited for them, amidst the fog and routine, along with other children. Whenever they returned, his father greeted him with that same caress on his head. Until one day, he stopped.

Noburo noticed it immediately. There was something strange about his father. Others attributed it to fatigue or the weight of battle, and no one wanted to accept that something darker was brewing inside him. On the outside, Noritoshi remained the same: same face, same voice, same composure. But Noburo felt it was just a mask. Something inside him had changed. And if no one was going to investigate it… he would do it himself.

A few months passed before the world turned completely awry. One night, his mother disappeared inside the castle, without a trace. Her absence plunged the family into chaos. A frantic search was organized, missions doubled, and the castle was almost empty, as if everyone had gone out to chase a woman-abducting ghost.

Shortly after, Noritoshi was left behind on an expedition, saying he wasn't feeling well. A worried Noburo insisted on staying with him, helping him recover, but his father coldly rejected the idea. He left alone. Yet something in Noburo's instinct screamed at him to follow.

He moved silently, as he had been taught during his training as a guard. He followed his father through dark, confusing corridors that led in the opposite direction from the family chambers. Noritoshi, oblivious to the shadow following him, descended into the dungeon. A place that was only to be used in case of invasion. And there he locked himself in.

Noburo ran to inform the king. His grandfather listened gravely, and within minutes, along with two escorts, they descended into the dungeon. What they found there defied all understanding.

His mother, completely naked, was strapped to a torture machine. She screamed as she gave birth... not to a child, but to a curse. An unnatural, deformed creature, born from the womb of a nightmare. And that wasn't the worst of it.

Noritoshi was surrounded by glass cases, each housing a different curse, as if they were trophies or experiments. The creatures, sensing the intruders' presence, erupted in violence. The battle was fierce. Six of the nine were eliminated, but three managed to escape, unleashing chaos beyond the castle.

When the time came to face Noritoshi, something unthinkable happened. His body collapsed… and true horror erupted from his skull: his brain detached, transformed, grew legs, and disappeared into the shadows. Noritoshi had been dead for months. What had inhabited his body ever since was something else. Something inhuman. And yet, when his form finally fell before Noburo, when his soulless body touched the ground… It was then, and only then, that his father could rest.

"How horrible…" You sighed, swallowing that atrocious story. "I'm so sorry," you said, taking your cousin's hand to comfort him.

"Someday I will kill that son of a bitch." Noburo cursed in a whisper.

Despite the appreciation you had for Kenjaku, for having taught you everything he knew and cared for you in his own twisted and ambiguous way, you couldn't forget what he truly was. He was still a curse. An unpredictable, lethal being, like Noritoshi and King Geto had been. The moments you shared, the gentle words he once used to try to gain your trust, didn't matter. He'd already beaten you. What more could he do to you tomorrow, or the next time he decided your worth had expired?

That question hung raw in the back of your mind as you sat next to Noburo. The silence between you didn't need to be broken: sharing the weight of the trauma was enough. You didn't know what was harder to bear: the fear of what was to come… or the poisoned nostalgia for what had once seemed real.

➽──────────────❥

“King Sukuna has ordered me to come and warn you that he plans to declare war on the Zen’in, and that if you intervene, he will kill everyone living in Kamo Commune,” you told the king.

You had returned to the throne room. This time, not only the king was waiting for you, but also his commanders: his sons, lined up on either side like living columns, all with imperturbable faces and sharp gazes. You stood at the front with your back straight, and Noburo stood right behind you, like a shadow. Nanako and Mimiko, despite your insistence, refused to stay outside. They lined up against the wall, determination written on their faces. They were no longer going to let you go… and deep down, you didn’t want them to either.

The news fell like a stone in still water, but it didn’t make any waves. No one was startled, no one raised their voice. It was as if they already knew… or worse, as if they had always expected it.

Sukuna.

His name didn't provoke horror, but rather a grim resignation. A monster disguised as a man, a man of war whose ambition knew no bounds. Two kingdoms weren't enough for him. They would never be enough. He wanted it all. To control, to subdue, to possess. His reign wasn't measured in land, but in absolute submission. And now, everyone in that room knew the storm was just beginning.

"But if you ask my opinion, I think he'll do it even if you obey," you suggested.

"It's hard to know which side you belong to. You obey the king and go against his word," the king commented.

"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure either. I love my husband, but I know what he's doing is wrong," you explained.

"What a dilemma." The king sighed.

"But I think my position matters little in this situation; what truly matters is what I do. Since I can't stop Sukuna directly, as the vast majority of sorcerers couldn't either, the most I can do is reduce the war's casualties," you explained.

"And what have you done so far?"

"I put together a contingency plan and provided cursed weapons so the commune would be prepared for war. And, recently, I formed an alliance with the Nanami Kingdom to send survival resources to the commune," you explained.

The commanders began to whisper among themselves, with quick glances and restrained gestures. Your words, or perhaps your mere presence, seemed to have been enough to convince them (at least in part) that you were on their side. Or that you weren't an immediate threat.

Noburo, on the other hand, didn't know how to feel. There was a part of him that still hesitated, caught between duty and uncertainty, between what he knew about you... and what he didn't. But Nanako and Mimiko didn't share that confusion. They were very clear about it. They didn't need proof or promises. Their loyalty wasn't blind; it was born of memory, instinct, and unwavering faith in their older sister.

"That's why I'd like to form an alliance with you..."

"Impossible." The king interrupted. "Being directly related to Sukuna, not only I, but the entire village, doesn't trust you. We will continue to support our people from our trenches."

"And what exactly have you been doing all this time?" Now you questioned him, annoyed by his rejection. "My people don't even know you still exist; the sorcerers are just rumors badly told from generation to generation. They say they'll continue to help from their trench, but really, that trench isn't close enough for them to see our pain and vulnerability."

"The reason we can't get any closer is because of your husband. Of course, we'd love to free our people, but as you already mentioned, the number of sorcerers we currently have isn't enough to kill Sukuna. I can't reveal our plans to you due to our mistrust, but what I can tell you, to give you some peace of mind, is that we're waging a guerrilla war with the Impossible Belt so that more people will be able to escape the commune like your own sisters did. It's a slow and tedious war, but we haven't given up," the king explained.

That made sense. You knew marrying a tyrant would cause you problems ever since he proposed to you when you were a servant. It was moments like these that reminded you of the price you pay for carrying the Sukuna name.

"I can't promise you an alliance, but I can tell you how your father ended up in the commune despite having Kamo blood," the king commented. "In this kingdom, we pair up with couples for the sole purpose of reproducing efficiently so that our offspring don't have disabilities from incest. We do this to have more troops in the long run despite having a fairly high mortality rate. Sadly, babies are born without techniques that we can't maintain due to genetics." You quickly realized where this was all going.

"Are you telling me they send children without cursed techniques to the commune?!" you asked angrily.

"It sounds bad, we know. But they're much safer there because of Sukuna's prohibition during the day. Besides, they may not have techniques, but their genetics do." So they may not have techniques, but their offspring will, just like you. We've been planting sorcerers for a long time; they just need to realize they have them. It's not ideal, but it's the best we can do with what we have.

Suddenly, everything fell into place.

That explained the presence of so many orphaned children in the commune, children no one seemed able to support, growing up on the margins, invisible. It had always been believed they were children of curse victims, children of parents killed during night ambushes. But no. The truth was much more calculated… and more painful.

All those children had come from the Kamo kingdom.

It was a silent plan, plotted over generations: to disperse Kamo blood across different territories like a network of hidden roots, a desperate strategy to ensure the survival of their lineage. But that same plan, born of the instinct for self-preservation, had also doomed them. Because in the wrong hands, like Sukuna's, those children weren't a hope: they were a burden. He didn't tolerate burdens.

The memory hit you mercilessly. The image of the bloody teddy bear closed your throat like a brutal hand, but you forced yourself to maintain your composure. Because crying was a luxury. And you weren't here to break... but to prevent more children from breaking again.

"And how can they tell if they have them?" you asked.

"The answer is 'fight or flight.' If you put a sorcerer in a life-or-death situation alone, they'll always choose to fight, and their technique will manifest. Normal humans just run away. It's the fastest way to know who has a technique and who doesn't."

This was very valuable information; you should let Mei Mei know as soon as you returned to Sukuna's kingdom. One of the commanders whispered something in the king's ear, and he nodded, understanding the message.

"We appreciate your visit, Queen Sukuna. But we'll have to ask you to leave. You've seen too much of our kingdom, and we don't want to show you any more. Noburo will show you the way out." The king spoke.

"So there's no way you can form an alliance with me?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible," he replied.

Even though rejection didn't feel right, you had to accept it. Otherwise, it would only cause more trouble. You bowed and followed Noburo and your sisters out the door.

➽──────────────❥

Noburo silently guided you through the thick fog, as if the world itself wanted to hide the way back. Your steps led you to the edge of the barrier, right to the place where you had met again just an hour ago, although time already seemed to have changed shape since then. Each step you took weighed more than the last. The truth was, you didn't want to leave your little sisters' side, but it was for the best.

"Here we say goodbye," you told them with a sad smile.

"Goodbye, Noburo," Mimiko said, walking toward the end of the fog.

"See ya later alligator." Nanako followed her.

You grabbed your sisters by the collar of their robes to stop them. "Where do you think you're going? You are staying here."

"Why?!" You both threw a tantrum.

"Because it's not safe. You'll be safer here than in Sukuna's castle." You told them.

"Didn't you listen to Grandpa? Sukuna's kingdom is safer than here," Nanako tried to argue.

"I heard perfectly, he said the commune was a little safer. The castle is a different story. There are only curses and old people," you explained.

"And our sisters," Mimiko mentioned.

"No... No, it's just me," you stammered, a lump in your throat.

"I told you she was never coming back!" Nanako told Mimiko.

"Well, Y/n could have come back. Yorozu had a chance too." Mimiko shrugged.

"Whatever. We've already lost Yorozu, we're not going to lose you either," Nanako declared. Mimiko joined the cause.

You sighed, no longer knowing what else to say to convince them to stay. You gave Noburo a "help me" look, but he shrugged. This was a sister situation, so he couldn't interfere.

"Sukuna's castle is very ugly and terrifying."

"More so than the cabin we grew up in?" Nanako scoffed.

"Sukuna is very strict and likes things his way."

"The Kamo too," Mimiko argued.

"You're going to see a lot of curses." You tried again.

"Here too." They both answered at the same time.

"Ugh! Fine, you win... You can come, but under one condition." You warned them. "Whatever you do, you can't reveal that you have cursed techniques or that we're part of the Kamo family. If you reveal them, Sukuna will want you in his army like he did with the Yorozu, and I won't allow that to happen. Do you understand?"

"We'll do whatever it takes to be together." Nanako spoke for both of them. Mimiko nodded determinedly.

"Fine. If you break the condition, I'll send you to the commune, did you hear?" You threatened them.

"Yes..." They both said, not very excited to hear the supposed punishment.

"Good. Now, say goodbye to Noburo and tell him 'thank you for everything,'" you asked.

Both sisters hugged Noburo goodbye and returned to your side to hold your hand as they used to when they were younger. Even though you were happy to be with them again, the concern for their well-being remained.

“Seriously, thank you for everything,” you told him with a bow.

“I already told you it was nothing.” Noburo crossed his arms.

“I hope we see each other soon.” With that said, you went to retire with your sisters.

“Wait…” Noburo called for you. “Maybe you can’t get an alliance with the king, but I can get you one.”

“How would you do that?” you asked, your eyebrow raised.

“If you kill Kenjaku, I’m sure I can get you one.”

You wanted to say yes. To accept without thinking, without looking back. But there was a problem… one that outweighed any desire for redemption or justice. You had promised the body to King Nanami. How could you kill Kenjaku… and at the same time keep Geto’s body? How could you kill the curse without desecrating the only thing left of the man he once was? It was a fine, yet cruel, line.

"I'll see what I can do." You didn't promise him you would, nor did you reject the offer.

"I'll wait for your next call." Noburo bowed to you and disappeared into the mist to keep watch.

You stared into space for a few more seconds, contemplating the offer in your hand. You breathed deeply, firmly grasping your little sisters' hands. Your long-term plan seemed to continue taking shape amidst the helplessness, but for the moment, you had to move forward.

Next →

Masterlist.

taglist:

Tag list: @bbnbhm @pxnellian @kbirdieee2540 @konigswifeyforlifey @kyo-kyo1 @calico-cheriies @imas1mpp @alone-the-honored-one @vlads-dracula3 @bigraga-sk @neeke-lilac02 @shaazd @airandyeah @energiepie @awkward-walking-potato @delightfully-studying @danniwerner @paradisestarfishh @missroro @waterfal-ling @nina-from-317

(let me know if you want to be tagged in next chapters!)

[charafansmile]

Anyways that aside I think toriels biggest actual flaw is that she doesn't know how to approach kris. She'll read the parenting books again and again, ask around town, bake them their favorite food, take them to therapy, pray and pray and worry worry worry. But she can't quite communicate with them to ask them how she can help.

Learning about their friendship with susie clearly calmed her down alot, she must see alot of kris in susie. Or maybe even dess? But that's speculation.

Her and kris are close, and she's hardly what I would call authoritarian like I would carol. Their relationship isn't so strict that shes even upset at the church clothes being lost, turning it into a joke and telling kris to come up with an excuse since susie the guest. Kris is fine swearing (singing swears) in front of her. She barely scolds them for eating the entire pie, and prior to that basically dropped her grounding threat once she learned the reason they didn't return her calls was that they were hanging out with a friend.

Yes she was strict with asriel. But asriels not kris. I think it's a fair to assume that given how she's a foil to carol who IS super controlling that shes taken the reigns back when raising kris after dess's disappearance. Not so much that she's neglectful, I don't think that's a fair reading of her character, but things are going to slip by. Especially when kris is actively hiding things from her, and seemingly wanting to keep her in the dark.

Which comes back to the chapter 4 scene, the scene where they do want her to be worried, where it's finally warranted, where they want to come home after going through all of that and see she's okay and be worried over by her. But she's not. Because she thinks their better, or getting there. She knows their with susie, she knows they are finally talking to noelle again, and probably that they were going to study at her house. Every time she's attempted to call them they've from her perspective ignored them. And well. Just like how kris has a life outside of being her child for her to worry over, she has a life outside of them. Should she have left the house unlocked? Probably, she should have also called kris to tell them she canceled choir practice.

I'm not going to fault her for drinking on a weekend and bringing a stranger home, she's a grown woman and allowed to do those things, and admittedly I think people are fixating on the 'she was drunk!' Point too much. I'm not going to bring up the slashed tires or blood stain when I'm not even sure she knows HOW to clean up blood or if that's what it was AND she was specifically keeping the tires a secret from susie and kris so it's not like she's going to tell them why she's not stressed about them anymore. From her perspective, they dont even know about them.

But that all gets me to something I've not seen discussed yet, which is that chapters 1&2 were setting up kris & toriels relationship to later inverse it in 3&4. Down to the phone calls. If the numbers in the phone hadn't been deleted than we COULD have called toriel to check on her, much like she could have called us in chapter 1 if not for the dark worlds. Toriels reasonings to worry over them have been assuaged at each instance, and while WE have the 4th wall knowledge to know that she should be worrying harder, she doesn't. Likewise, kris (and susie) spend all of chapter 4 trying to save her. Only for her to be fine, at home, dancing and happy. Completely unaware of the hell they just went through for her sake. Completely unworried when that's finally what kris wants.

[saturnyo]

Call Me Castillo

Chapter 7 - The Aftermath

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Reader

Summary: Dealing with the aftermath of the gala and dealing with the growing tension between you and Harry.

Warnings: mentions of Y/N like once or twice, I believe, power imbalance, some fluff, etc

WC: 1.5k

Tags: @glitterspark @mallingcalling-blog @anoverwhelmingdin @decadent-hag1

Song choice: Exile by Taylor Swift

Harry Castillo KISSES His Assistant on the Gala Carpet — Only a month After Her Public Engagement Crumbled 😱

The headline is blaring at you like a stoplight, screaming at you to press the brakes. You knew that moment was coming. From the second you stepped out of the car, the deafening chatter stung your ears, and the relentless camera flashes almost blinded you—desperate to catch a glimpse of the new couple.

New couple...

Ha, if only they knew the truth. 

But, it seems like this TMZ article is getting information from the inside—bringing up the past and rubbing salt in the still-fresh wound of your failed engagement. The article even included a picture—you and Harry sitting close, his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, his fingers trailing lightly on your upper back. For a fleeting second, staring at the picture made the fantasy real.

Harry was an expert at pretending, and deep down, you fear that charade might just blow everything apart.

Walking through the hallways of your job, there were eyes and ears aimed at you, whispering about the article and the gala. They were unforgiving, and it seemed the gossip only became worse. But you also noticed it slightly shifted off your ex-fiancé, so that thought alone was a bit comforting.

Harry seemed distant. Not cold, but putting as much space between you as he could—despite you two working together every day. His words were more curt, not giving you more than a hello before he explained what he needed you to do. It was strange—at the gala, he was as affectionate as a loving partner should be—fake or not. But now he's more closed off, not shining the award-winning smile anymore. Maybe it's because there are no cameras...that notion pains you more than you wanted to admit, even to yourself. 

You knew him—scheduling his life down to the minute and making sure he didn't fall into chaos. Most would see what's happening and think. "Well, he is your boss and you are his secretary, that's a professional relationship."

You knew better

Harry always treated you as an equal, so this, even for him, was strange.

Standing by the copier, mindlessly waiting for the papers to file out, your friend Tobias pops up behind you.

"Why didn't you tell me!?" he shrieked, eyes almost bulging out of his head.

You turn around, seeing his face turning a shade of red. Since that night a few days ago, Tobias had been blowing up your phone, and you ignored them. Your mind was anywhere and everywhere else, and listening to him and his boyfriend shriek over the speaker, asking a million questions, wasn't even on your list of things to do.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the copier spat out the final pages.

"Tobias—" you started, before he cut you off.

"No. No. No, no," he stepped in front of you, eyes wide. "How long had this been going on? Was it before or after your engagement fell through? I mean, you know I wouldn't judge if it was before—"

You swallowed, keeping your voice low. "Can you not be so loud? Yelling in the middle of the office won't help the stares, Tobias."

He ignored your plea, flailing dramatically. "Harry? Harry Castillo? Our too hard to read and insanely handsome boss Harry Castillo?"

You gave him a look. He finally slowed down and took a breath.

"I just want to know if you are ok," he added, voice softening. "You've been through hell, now suddenly you are dating the boss? I thought we told each other things."

Your throat tightened, guilt setting heavily on your chest.

"I'm fine," you murmured, not meeting his eyes. "I just didn't want to talk about it."

A half-truth. Almost a lie. It was the best you could give him right now.

"Okay," he said, quieter now. "Just don't shut me out again."

You nodded, managing a half smile. "I won't."

He paused, lips curving into a devious smirk. "I mean, I don't blame you. He is incredibly handsome, and I definitely would be all up in that."

You laughed genuinely—for the first time in days.

"Shut up," you muttered.

But even as Tobias hugged you and walked away, still buzzing with unasked questions, you felt that small ache return to your chest.

Because the truth wasn't something you could tell him.

Not yet.

And across the office, Harry's door remained shut—like always lately—with no signs of the man who held your hand with such tenderness, distracting you from the gossip and holding your back with the gentlest touch a few days ago.

You tried to focus. You really did.

But every email, every spreadsheet, every damn paperclip felt meaningless when all you could think about was how things shifted. The only interactions you two had were just a moment; he called you into his office to take notes on a meeting he had scheduled. Harry's voice was powerful, commanding that you slip up and be distracted from writing down on your notepad.

It was terribly confusing.

You shouldn't feel any pain whatsoever at him being distant. Just a little over a month ago, you had been dumped, and for two years, while in your relationship, the dynamic between you never went beyond anything but professionalism. But now....

Now everything's changed.

How he found you sobbing and crying after your fiancé walked out of the ballroom, leaving you alone—you were huddled in a corner of a small room, and Harry didn't look at you with judgment, just sympathy. Especially that he cut ties with the bastard, not bothering to do business with him, regardless of any money he lost.

The sudden coldness threw you off—not knowing how to fix anything for the first time in your life.

All you could do was sit there at your desk, trying to make sense of the mountain of papers in front of you and the multiple tabs you had opened on your computer. There was a small thud in the next room from Harry's office—it snapped you out of your tirade of emotions, and you got up to take a peek.

You cracked open the door, seeing him gently pick up a picture from the floor. It was one you recognized. He seemed to be upset, though, his face almost contorted and twisted in angst—like the weight of everything was crashing down. Guilt? Heartbreak? You weren't sure. A part of you wanted to reach out, to say something, but you were too afraid. Not because you were scared of a possible angry outburst, but how it would open up wounds that neither of you wanted to explore.

Harry's lips were moving as he walked back to his desk, but it was inaudible—unable to hear what he was saying.

But then he spoke louder. Almost like he could sense you were there.

Your breath hitched. Heart thudding way too loud.

"How long have you been standing there?"

You froze, your hand still on the edge of the door.

Slowly, you pushed it open, just an inch. "I—heard a noise."

His back was to you, but you could see for a split second the real Harry. He turned to face you, his hand now resting on his desk, and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a breath—sharp, exhausted.

"It's fine," he said flatly. "You can go."

You didn't

Instead, you stepped inside, hesitant. "Are you—okay?"

He looked at you again, eyes drifting from the floor. And that was worse.

There you saw it. The pain, the exhaustion, the pressure, the mess behind the mask—before he shut it down with a single blink.

"I'm fine."

You nodded, not believing him. "Everyone's been saying that lately."

He looked away again, like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

There was a long silence.

You shifted your weight. "They're still talking about the kiss."

"Let them," he muttered. "That's what we wanted, isn't it?"

His words held an edge. Not towards you. He wasn't angry, not really.

Just...tired.

You stared at the photo that had fallen onto the floor—the one Harry had picked up moments before. It was the company retreat a year back, one that your ex tried to convince you not to go to again. He kept citing concerns—wild theories that you could get hurt or something could go wrong. Just trying to fear-monger you into not going. It almost worked until Harry spoke about it again—explaining how he was a bit happy to get to the beach, even if part of it was for work.

You were in it. Far in the background, holding a clipboard and smiling at something off camera. Harry stood a bit more in the forefront with his partners, but his eyes weren't aimed at the camera...it was at you.

You didn't even know you were in it until Tobias sent you a copy.

"Do you regret it?" you asked softly.

Harry looked up again, more slowly this time.

"Regret what?"

You hesitated. "This. Us. Faking it."

He was quiet for too long. And when he finally answered, his voice was low, careful. "No."

Another pause. Heartbeat skipped.

"But I think I'm starting to regret how easy it's been."

That hit harder than you expected. You opened your mouth and then closed it again. And finally, you nodded, trying to swallow whatever feeling was clawing its way up your throat.

"I should get back to my desk."

He didn't stop you. He didn't say anything.

But as you turned to leave, you heard him whisper—barely audible, probably not meant for you.

"You looked really happy in that picture."

You paused in the doorway, hand on the knob. 

And without turning around, you replied. "I was."

Then you walked out. Pretending again that nothing ever happened.

[runningincircl3s]

Sinematic

Vinny Mauro x Reader

Chapter 17

masterlist

chapter warnings: nsfw!! i kinda added the smut scene to make this chapter longer lmao, i wrote it on my phone and it feels pretty short and i'm not too happy with it, but the next chapter is (hopefully) gonna be better!! <3

YAYY SINEMATIC POSTS ARE BACK!! right now i have no idea when i have time to write and edit posts, so i've updated my posting schedule to match that lmao. i still want to write and post them weekly/ every other week though! :)

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The night air was cool, the street was practically empty as the group wandered back from their late night diner run, the odd car passed every few minutes but other than that, it was just them.

Ricky scrolled on his phone, one hand stuffed in his jacket pocket as he walked. His thumb hovered over the screen… then suddenly, he froze.

His brows pinched together in confusion, mouth parting slightly as his eyes traced over the new message popping up at the top of his phone. He immediately tapped on it. 

Chenzo Whore-o: Man, I fucked up bringing y/n. I can't deal with her shit anymore. You think we can convince her to go home?

Ricky stopped dead in his tracks, the rest of the group carried on ahead, oblivious. 

“What the fuck…?” Rick muttered under his breath, this didn’t make sense…

Ryan, noticing Ricky lagging behind, slowed his pace and glanced over. 

“What?” His tone was casual at first, but it shifted the second he saw the look on Ricky’s face. “Dude, what is it?”

Wordlessly, Ricky turned the phone, showing him the message.

Ryan’s eyes darted across the screen as he read the message once, then twice, confusion flashing over his face. His frown deepened as the words settled in.

“The fuck? That doesn’t… that doesn’t sound right,” Ryan muttered, his eyes still locked on the screen. He read it again, slower this time. “He was literally fine with her like, twenty minutes ago.”

Before Ricky could respond, Ryan’s phone buzzed in his hand. The notification popped up on his lockscreen.

Vin: I’ve been trying to push y/n away all day but it’s not working. She won’t take the fucking hint. Think you can talk to her for me?

Hesitantly, Ryan read out his message. Both of them staring at each other in confusion, stood frozen on the sidewalk as Justin, Angela, and Chris carried on ahead, laughing softly amongst themselves, oblivious to what was going on behind them.

Ricky shook his head slowly, a cold weight sinking into his stomach. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” he murmured, sliding his phone into his pocket with a frustrated exhale. “Earlier, he was doing everything to win her back, since Ruby got into her head. The whole fucking day it’s been him looking at her like a lost puppy.”

“Maybe they fought?” Ryan offered weakly, but even he didn’t sound convinced. His shoulders tensed, phone still in his hand. “Something must’ve gone down after we left.”

Ricky nodded slightly as he thought, eyes narrowing. His mind replayed every interaction from earlier, every stolen glance, every moment he could think of between you and Vinny.

“But even the texts,” Ricky pointed out, his voice growing more certain, more suspicious now. “Look at them… Vin doesn’t text like this. Full stops? Commas? That motherfucker barely spells shit right.”

Ryan’s mouth twisted, his frown deepening as he scrolled through the message again, his stomach churning.

“So what? You think y/n got ahold of his phone and sent these? Because… Ruby’s on the other bus, and they were supposed to leave when we went to eat, that’s why we didn’t invite them.”

Ricky ran a hand through his messy hair, his expression conflicted, the city lights catching the anxious crease between his brows.

“So, what, you think he actually feels that way?” Ricky asked, voice full of frustration. “That he regrets bringing her? That he’s been trying to push her away this whole time?”

Ryan hesitated, his throat tightening as uncertainty gnawed at him. His mind flashed to Vin’s face, the nervous glances, the quiet smiles, the tension that always lingered when you were nearby.

“I dunno, man…” Ryan admitted, shrugging, but his posture was still stiff with unease. “Vin doesn’t even know how he feels half the time.” He exhaled sharply, glancing ahead toward the bus parked down the block. “But this is weird. Even for him.”

They both stood there in silence, the streetlight flickering slightly overhead, casting them in a warm glow. Neither of them could stop thinking about the texts, and whether there was any truth behind them at all. 

And if this was just the first day of tour, what would be going down by the end of the week?

…

“We’ve gotta be quick.” Vin whispered, panting already as he kissed your inner thighs, having just given you an orgasm with nothing but his mouth, your slick still coating his chin. “Don’t know how long they’ll be.” 

You nodded, and Vin rose back to his feet, his hands on your waist as he kisses your lips, giving you a taste of yourself. 

He backs you up to the table, letting you gently lie back. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down with you, your lips not leaving his as he reached between the two of you to line himself up. The moment you felt the head of his cock run through your folds, your whole body shivered and you whimpered against his lips, your eyes screwing shut. 

“Such pretty noises,” he teased, a smirk creeping up on his face, “There’s nobody about, baby, you can be as loud as you need.”

Your lips parted, ready with some snarky reply, but it melted into a gasp as he pushed in, the tip of his cock pressing at your entrance before sinking deep, the stretch dizzying and oh so perfect. Your hips bucked instinctively, your back arching off the table as he bottomed out, filling you completely.

“Fuck.” Vin groaned low in his throat, his head dropping to your shoulder as he held still for a second, savouring the way you clenched around him, so wet and so warm.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, a needy whimper slipping from your lips. His cock twitched inside you, and his hand snuck between your bodies, thumb circling your swollen clit without mercy.

“Vin…” Your voice broke into a moan, hips rocking up to meet his again, desperate for friction, for more.

“Shh, I got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your ear, his hips pulling back before slamming into you hard enough to rattle the table beneath you. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

The slick sounds of your bodies filled the cramped space, the faint creak of the table, your breathless moans echoing off the walls of the bus. His pace quickened, sharp, rough thrusts hitting deep, the head of his cock dragging against your sweetest spot with every stroke, his thumb still teasing on your clit.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, locking him closer as your walls fluttered around him, the pressure building fast again, unbearable after how sensitive you already were.

“Gonna cum again for me, baby?” He rasped, his voice strained as he slammed into you harder, his free hand sliding up to your throat. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes dark, feral with need. 

You nodded frantically, the words stuck in your throat, your whole body shaking as the heat built low in your belly, and you knew you were close. 

“Then be loud for me,” Vin hissed, driving into you rougher now, each thrust making your tits bounce, “Wanna hear those pretty sounds when I make you cum…”

His thumb pressed harder, circling your clit fast and tight, and it sent you over the edge. Your walls pulsed around him as you cried out, your vision going a little blurred, thighs trembling as your orgasm washed through you, soaking his cock.

Vin cursed under his breath, hips stuttering as you milked him, his cock twitching inside you before he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you with a low, guttural moan, his grip tightening on your waist.

For a few breathless seconds, neither of you moved, his forehead resting against yours, his cock still buried inside your pulsing cunt, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat.

He pulled out, your slick and his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties still discarded somewhere on the floor, but he only tucked himself away, back into his boxers as he grabbed your hips to steady you as you slid off the table, wobbly and completely spent.

“Be right back.” Vin said with a soft smile, kissing your cheek before wandering off towards the bunks, and came back moments later with a warm cloth and your pajamas. Softly, he cleaned you up, and then helped you get dressed. 

You let out a happy, content sigh as Vin's hands moved over your skin, helping you pull up your sleep shorts. You were still catching your breath, waiting for your heart to calm down, and you already felt a little sore.

Vin was walking around the bus in just his pair of Calvin Kleins, not really caring that the others could be back any minute now. You stood against the doorway of the bunks, just by the kitchen area, watching him pick up the clothes you had torn off of each other.

But then he froze, mid-bend, and turned to you. 

“Did I… No. But- Surely-“

“What?” You asked, your brows furrowing as you saw his face screw in confusion. 

“My phone. I thought I brought it in.”

“Is it not in your pocket?” 

He picked up the shorts he had just been wearing moments before, patting them down and shaking his head. 

“No… it’s not in there,” Vinny muttered, running a hand through his messy hair, his eyes scanning the cluttered floor of the bus in frustration.

Your heart started to race for an entirely different reason now, unease creeping up your spine.

“Did you leave it outside?” You asked carefully. 

Vinny paused, eyes widening slightly as realisation clicked into place.

“Fuck,” he breathed, quickly stepping toward the door. Still in just his boxers. “Yeah… yeah, I think I left it out there, where we were sat.”

You followed him, peeking your head out of the bus door as he jogged the short distance to the low brick wall. There, sitting right where he’d carelessly left it earlier, was his phone.

Vinny snatched it up, letting out a relieved exhale as he turned it over, the screen lighting up beneath his thumb.

“All good?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yeah, yeah… guess I was too busy rocking your world to notice.” He teased with a crooked grin, the playful glint returning to his eyes as he strode back onto the bus.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the grin pulling at your lips as he set his phone down on the little table near the kitchen, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for one last, lingering kiss.

The warmth of his mouth on yours made your pulse race again, but just as you curled your fingertips into his waistband, footsteps crunched on the gravel outside.

“Shit,” Vin whispered, laughing softly against your lips, his eyes still shut. “I think they’re back.”

You groaned, resting your forehead to his chest. 

“Of course they are…”

Vinny nudged your chin gently, brushing another quick kiss to your temple. 

“You look tired,” he said softly, the teasing fading into concern. “Go crawl into the bunk, try to get some sleep. I’ll tidy up the rest of the mess.” He motioned to your discarded bra and panties, along with his hoodie and pants. 

You hesitated, but exhaustion was creeping up on you, so you nodded, slipping down the narrow aisle to the bunk area. You got in and drew the curtain closed, laying on your back with a long sigh. 

Moments later, the bus door creaked open and the others filed in, still having their own conversations, but pausing to greet Vin. 

But as Rick walked in, his brows immediately pinched together in confusion. Ryan elbowed him subtly, whispering under his breath.

“He’s got his phone…”

Ricky swallowed hard, noticing how Vin’s phone was in his hands, scrolling through completely unbothered. If Vinny had his phone this whole time… that meant he’d sent those texts.

Right?

Ricky’s stomach turned with unease, his earlier doubts gnawing at him again. Something sure wasn’t adding up.

Ryan frowned, watching Vin with narrowed eyes.

“Guess they didn’t work it out after all…” Ryan muttered under his breath, with a casual shrug. 

Before either of them could ask Vinny anything, he suddenly stood, stretching his arms overhead with a lazy groan.

“Gonna get some rest,” Vin mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he slipped past Ricky and Ryan, barely sparing them a glance. “Wake me before load in. Or don’t... I’d rather you didn’t.”

The two exchanged a look, brows knitted, neither entirely sure what to believe.

…

The next day…

Cases were scattered across the stage as everyone got set up for tonight, cables snaked across the room, people were barking orders left right and centre. You stood just by the side of the stage, arms crossed loosely over your chest, watching Vin.

He was by the drum riser, assembling his kit with his drum tech, his curls falling into his eyes as he fixed the snare. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms flexing as he adjusted something. You couldn’t help but stare…

God, he looked so good when he was in his element.

You found yourself hovering near him, not wanting to interrupt, but also craving his company. You’ve hardly had a chance to talk to him since waking up this morning. 

Vin glanced up briefly, his eyes softening the moment they caught yours. A small grin tugged at his lips.

But before you could inch closer, a voice cut through the din.

“Hey, y/n, c’mere a sec!” Ricky called from across the stage, waving a hand as he approached.

You hesitated, shooting Vin a quick, questioning glance, but he just gave a half shrug, focusing back on his drums. 

Ricky’s hand gently curled around your wrist when you got close, tugging you off to the side where a stack of merch boxes sat waiting.

“Can you help me take these to the front?” He asked casually, though his eyes were darting over your shoulder toward Vin who had now been joined by Ryan, who gave Rick a quick nod. 

You frowned slightly, but grabbed one of the boxes, and followed his lead. As you both sat them down at the merch desk, your curiosity got the better of you.

“Is everything okay, Rick?” You asked, trying to sound casual.

Ricky shrugged, though his jaw was tight.

“Yes! Why wouldn’t it be..?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been acting a little weird all morning. You and Ryan…”

Ricky laughed softly, though it seemed forced, strained, as he stacked the last box and turned to face you properly.

“Weird? No… I think you’re just tired,” he deflected, ruffling your hair lightly in that same older brother way he always did, though the easy warmth wasn’t there this time. “It was the first show, late night and all, right?”

Your stomach twisted slightly, but you forced a smile, brushing it off. Maybe you were tired… Maybe you were reading too much into it.

The rest of the morning passed a little too quick. You kept trying to catch Vin alone, but he was always occupied. Either Ryan had him deep in some random overcomplicated discussion, or Rick needed him for something. You were beginning to get a little suspicious. 

By the time lunch rolled around, you were exhausted and fed up, craving nothing more than a moment with Vinny away from everyone else. Just the two of you. Just to talk to him, just to be in his company.  

Finally, you spotted him! Backstage, sat down on the couch, scrolling on his phone.

You made a beeline for him, ready to slide into that small safe space beside him.

But before you could get there…

“Hey, Vin!” Ricky suddenly appeared out of nowhere, casually plopping himself down right where you’d been headed, legs spread, arm slung across the back of the couch like he’d been sitting there all along.

Your steps faltered, irritation sparking within. 

With no other choice, you dropped onto the other couch beside Ryan instead, a little too hard, crossing your arms over your chest.

Ryan glanced over, eyebrows raised, before his expression softened slightly.

“You okay?” He asked, tone gentle, but there was something a little off about it. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You muttered, your eyes finding Vin, who was now quietly talking to Ricky, brows pinched in subtle frustration. 

Ryan exhaled, his voice dropping as he leaned in a little closer.

“It’s gotta be stressful… all this,” he said vaguely, gesturing toward the room. “I mean… nobody would blame you if you wanted to head home for a bit.”

Your stomach dropped. Your head snapped to face him, confused, defensive all at once.

“Wait what? Why would I… do you not want me here? Is this why you’ve been so weird around me today?”

Ryan’s mouth opened slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to confront it so directly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed toward Ricky, who was already going wide eyed and red in the face, unsure what to do or say. 

You stared between them, your heart pounding, confused wasn’t even the word for it anymore. 

“What the hell is going on with you two?” You demanded, you didn’t shout, but your voice was sharp. Making the two of them look down at the floor awkwardly, like scolded school boys. 

But still, neither of them answered.

With a dramatic sigh, you got up and left without another word…

None of them chased you, but it wasn’t like you expected them to. Today was just messing with your head, and it was only 3pm.

You sat down on the concrete step just outside the back doors, where you had been earlier when the guys loaded in. You pulled your knees up slightly, letting your arms rest across them. You ran a hand through your hair, head falling forward, just trying to breathe. 

Then, the sound of footsteps approached. 

You didn’t even look up.

“Hey.. are you okay?” A voice asked, syrupy sweet and laced with false concern.

You lifted your head slowly to see Ruby. She was dressed down in black leggings and a black tank top, no make up on today, clearly she was mid-rehearsal, her hair tied back, slight sheen of sweat at her temples, but it hurt your heart how despite how evil she could be, she was still pretty. 

“Why do you care?” You asked flatly, not bothering to mask your exhaustion or your suspicion.

Ruby smiled softly, almost too softly- it didn’t look natural. She dropped onto the step beside you, far too close for comfort, stretching her legs out casually.

“Because,” she shrugged, “I got a few texts from Vin last night. Just wondering if they had anything to do with this little storm cloud hanging over you.”

Your stomach turned at the way she said his name. 

“What are you talking about?” You tried to keep your face neutral, despite the feelings inside you. 

Ruby didn’t answer right away. Instead, she fished her phone from her pocket, thumbs tapping at the screen before she angled it toward you.

Vinny’s name was right there at the top of the chat. 

“I can’t keep this act up anymore.”

“I don’t feel the same way, but I don’t know how to tell her.”

“I made a mistake. You’re the only one who really gets me. You always have.”

The breath left your lungs, the world narrowing to just that screen for a moment, the words spinning in your head.

“No…” You shook your head quickly, eyes wide. “He wouldn’t say that.”

Ruby tilted her head, her lashes fluttering as she smiled that carefully rehearsed smile.

“Oh? Maybe ask Ricky and Ryan, then.” She shrugged. “I’m guessing they didn’t tell you he texted them too? They showed me their messages this morning…”

Your throat tightened. Panic clawed its way higher.

You tore your gaze from the phone, standing quickly, pointing a finger at her. 

“You’re lying.”

Ruby didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. She simply smiled again, slow, and infuriatingly calm.

“Ask them, honey.”

With that, she rose to her feet, sauntering back towards the other girls without so much as another glance in your direction.

Your pulse was racing, heart hammering behind your ribs as you stormed back inside the building, searching the rooms until you found him alone walking through the hallway. 

“Richard,” you snapped as you followed behind him, making him jolt upright in shock, “What the fuck’s going on? Ruby just showed me some texts from Vin, she said you and Ryan got some too?! What the hell is happening?”

Ricky’s face immediately darkened, he swallowed hard, his mouth hanging open as he tried to find the words to explain. 

“Yeah…” Ricky muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “We got one. But… We don’t know if it was really him.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, your tone a little softer. 

“Look,” Ricky sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled quickly and handed it over to you. “Read how he texts normally… then look at this one.”

Your brows furrowed as you scanned the messages. Everything before the last text was sloppy, lowercase, no punctuation, classic Vin. But the one last night? Full stops. Commas. It looked wrong…

It couldn’t possibly be him.

“But none of it makes sense because… He was sitting with his phone in his hands when we all came back last night.” Ricky’s voice lowered. “If he had it the whole time… it had to be him, right?”

Your breath caught, a puzzle piece sliding into place.

“No.” You shook your head firmly. “He didn’t have his phone the whole time... He lost it.”

Ricky frowned, confusion crossing his features.

“He… he found it outside,” you explained, pulse quickening. “After we- after everything. He found it sitting on the wall outside the bus.”

Realisation dawned across Ricky’s expression like a cold shadow.

“Shit…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, your heart pounding with dread. “Someone else had his phone…”

“And if someone else sent those texts… what else could they have done?”

-------------------------------

ehhh i don't like this chapter :( i know exactly where i want this story to go but i'm kinda scared i'm rushing it

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